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The View from the Window, R. S. Thomas

Like a painting it is set before one,
But less brittle, ageless; these colours
Are renewed daily with variations
Of light and distance that no painter
Achieves or suggests.  Then there is movement,
Change, as slowly the cloud bruises
Are healed by sunlight, or snow caps
A black mood; but gold at evening
To cheer the heart.  All through history
The great brush has not rested,
Nor the paint dried; yet what eye,
Looking coolly, or, as we now,
through the tears' lenses, ever saw
This work and it was not finished?

R S Thomas, Collected Poems, 1945-1990, (London: Dent, 1993, page 81)

God the artist is ceaselessly at work, and the poet is reflecting on his worldview through the limited standpoint of a familiar window. Every time the poet looks the scene has changed, the colours renewed, and the work displaying a subtlety and technique beyond the reach of any human artist. There is, in this poem, a deeply reverential acknowledgement of the cost and unending discipline of the artist persevering in continued work on the same canvas. This tireless artist  is painting not only the fluid, elusive landscape visible as topography under the sky, but with the same deft knowing of the subject, he is painting the changing movements of the inner landscape of the viewer / reader. "Cloud bruises/are healed by sunlight", "white snow" contrasts with a "black mood", and "sunset gold" brings cheer to a heart at times more aware of the bruise than the sunlight.

Creation as continuous, the world as an unfinished masterpiece, the constant expenditure of the Creator's energy and emotional investment, enables Thomas to convey the soul of this artist poured out on his work: "All through history / The great brush has not rested, / Nor the paint dried…". It isn't often that Thomas's readers are given such a clear and genuine articulation of the poet's sympathy for the work and works of God. But in this poem the juxtaposition of a constantly moving landscape and a continuously working painter evokes in the reader a sense of a work in progress, and the artist's commitment to bringing it to completion.   

What I find intriguing in all this is the theological reticence of Thomas in dealing with creation and Creator. There is no creation by fiat, none of the "God spoke and it was so". The refrain of Genesis that God spoke, it was so, and it was good, is absent. Instead there is the presumed presence of the painter, working away every day, renewing colours, adjusting light and shadow.

And as the painter works, the viewer looking through the window, watches, and then there is a moment of vision, a fusion of outward scenery and inner feeling, as the painter's deft touches, over the years of watching, build up the colours of light and shadow, on landscape and soul. 

"All through history
The great brush has not rested,
Nor the paint dried…

The Creator Artist is at work, and the view through the window is of a work in process, with as yet no deadline for completion. The artist is fully engaged, continuously working away at it, "all through history", bringing towards completion a vision that is dynamic not static, a work of artistic self expenditure that is, quite literally, his life's work.

This poem has made me wonder, along with other aspects of Thomas's theological poetics, whether he read the Process philosophical theologians of the 1960's and 70's (e.g. Whitehead and Hartshorne). Their emphases on God's involvement in the fate of the world, God as one who interpenetrates and animates all that exists (panentheism), the world as held within God creative purposes, and God as the lure of Divine Love, preferring persuasion to coercion, acting in the vulnerability of love rather than inscrutable sovereign power, shaping all that is towards future consummation and fulfilment.

Such a God risks the act of creating creatures with freedom, placing them in a world that is contingent and made for such creaturely freedom, creativity and potential, a world and universe where things can and do go badly wrong. Much of the central concerns of Process theism is hinted at in the image of the artist persisting towards perfection with no guaranteed outcome, such as is woven through 'The View from the Window.' 

Thomas finishes with a question that opens up the entire range of human emotion, from cool detachment to tearful wonder. To human eyes the work is finished; yet look again and the artist is still at work, building up the texture, adjusting tone and colour, recalling the words of Jesus about the unrelenting demands of God's work: "As long as it is day, we must do the works of him who sent me." (John 9.4)

So the artist works ceaselessly and patiently. God works, and waits, with all eternity to work in. "The activity of creating includes the passivity of waiting….of waiting upon one's workmanship to see what emerges from it." (W H Vanstone, Love's Endeavour, Love's Expense, (London, DLT,1977, p.33.) The God portrayed here is solicitous, patient, persistent, invested in the outcome, restlessly intentional in actualising potential by giving fullest expression to his vision. 

It is a hallmark of Thomas's spirituality that the pressing questions of human existence, our varied and oscillating experiences of faith, and our incessant longing for beauty, truth and goodness, set up a force field of tensions that an earlier, simpler age might have called hunger for God.

"The tears' lenses" is a phrase of studied ambiguity – like the changing landscape of sunlight and shadow, now bright then dark, Looking at the view from the window, through our tears they refract as a rainbow spectrum, tears of sorrow or joy, wonder or regret, or ultimately trustful surrender. This is R S Thomas the priest poet at his most poignant.

"These colours are renewed daily". In writing those words, I wonder if Thomas was alluding to the one sunlit verse in the bruised clouds that brood over the Book of Lamentations 3.22-23:

"Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
    for his compassions never fail.
 They are new every morning;
    great is your faithfulness." 

Sometimes our hunger for innovation, over-concern with relevance, insistence that hymns reflect personal experience rather than objective affirmation of faith in God, all combine to dull our awareness of that world out there, and the realities that have to be encountered and navigated every day.

Fosdick’s hymn is an unflinching confession of the mess of things, its recurring prayer to be granted wisdom and courage for living this hour, these days, at this time.

Praying this hymn brings before the God of grace, the state of our world, our country, and confesses the troubled heart and mind of contemporary culture.

 

1 God of grace and God of glory,
on thy people pour thy power;
crown thine ancient church's story,
bring its bud to glorious flower.
Grant us wisdom, grant us courage
for the facing of this hour.

2 Lo! the hosts of evil round us
scorn thy Christ, assail his ways!
From the fears that long have bound us
free our hearts to faith and praise.
Grant us wisdom, grant us courage
for the living of these days.

3 Cure thy children's warring madness;
bend our pride to your control;
shame our wanton, selfish gladness,
rich in things and poor in soul.
Grant us wisdom, grant us courage,
lest we miss your kingdom's goal.

4 Save us from weak resignation
to the evils we deplore;
let the gift of thy salvation
be our glory evermore.
Grant us wisdom, grant us courage,
serving you whom we adore.

 

 

Those first two lines are breathed out like a long sigh of longing, the first verse a prayer for a different way of seeing the world and being in the world.

In a world of earthquake, wind and fire, both natural and contrived by foolish human ways, this is a prayer for simple trust, love interpreted, noiseless blessing, and ordered lives confessing the beauty of peace.

Replacing suspicion with trust, hate with love, loud cursing with noiseless blessing, and life ordered, reconfigured to peace; if you sing this hymn, that's what you're asking for, longing for, wanting for our world.

 

 

Dear Lord and Father of mankind,
Forgive our foolish ways!
Reclothe us in our rightful mind,
In purer lives Thy service find,
In deeper reverence, praise.

In simple trust like theirs who heard
Beside the Syrian sea
The gracious calling of the Lord,
Let us, like them, without a word
Rise up and follow Thee.

O Sabbath rest by Galilee!
O calm of hills above,
Where Jesus knelt to share with Thee
The silence of eternity
Interpreted by love!

With that deep hush subduing all
Our words and works that drown
The tender whisper of Thy call,
As noiseless let Thy blessing fall
As fell Thy manna down.

Drop Thy still dews of quietness,
Till all our strivings cease;
Take from our souls the strain and stress,
And let our ordered lives confess
The beauty of Thy peace.

Breathe through the heats of our desire
Thy coolness and Thy balm;
Let sense be dumb, let flesh retire;
Speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire,
O still, small voice of calm.

Children's Song

We live in our own world,
A world that is too small
For you to stoop and enter
Even on hands and knees,
The adult subterfuge.

And though you probe and pry
With analytic eye,
And eavesdrop all our talk
With an amused look,
You cannot find the centre
Where we dance, where we play,
Where life is still asleep
Under the closed flower,
Under the smooth shell
Of eggs in the cupped nest
That mock the faded blue
Of your remoter heaven.

R S Thomas, (Collected Poems, 1945-1990, page 56.)

In around 80 words Thomas deconstructs adulthood as a different planet, a different discourse, a lost capacity for imaginative immediacy, a diminshed sense of life's vivid colours and wondering mindset. When Jesus said unless you become as children you cannot see the Kingdom of God, perhaps amongst other things he meant that unless you retain the power to see, somehow or other prevent an occlusion of vision, resist the seductive power of the analytic in order to see the reality of what just is, unless you can do that, you will never see the miracle of mustard seed, the marvel of yeast, the outrageous humanity of the Samaritan para-medic.

No wonder Jesus told the adult disciples whose description and behaviour match some of the above paragraph, to "let the children come and don't chase them away – they are the true heirs of the Kingdom". And likewise little wonder he took a child and placed her in the midst of them and delivered the first children's address – to a group of obtuse adults, far too serious for their own good, and addicted to conclusions too quickly jumped to!

And R S Thomas was too good a priest not to know that though hands and knees are an adult trick to make children think we are just like them, the children aren't fooled. Neither is God. Amongst the things we put away when we grow up is that innocent take it for grantedness, that looks on the world and wonders, and never even realises that wonder is a gift you use or lose.

Oh Lord of mystery and miracle,

redeem our so grown up view of the world,

and renew our old minds to think new thoughts.

Help us

   to notice the extraordinary ordinariess of our lives,

      to pay attention to the wonder of things,

         to recover the fun and freedom of play,

            and to take what is given us for granted,

               but also with gratitude.

Holy Spirit

   renew our imagination,

      refresh our emotions,

         reset our ambitions,

            revive our hopes,

               restore our energy,

                  release our laughter,

                     recreate our world,

                        resurrect our lives,

                           in the power of the Risen Lord, 

                                                                          Amen. ( J Gordon)

 

During lock down I took photographs of paths. The ones I like are the well worn ones, the ground shaped and the landscape etched by thousands of footsteps over who knows how many years. With so many people walking for their hour's exercise it becomes clear that they discover short cuts, and so new paths are made.

I read somewhere that an architect designing new housing developments suggested putting grass down and only designing one or two obvious paths. After six months it becomes obvious the walking routes people use to the shops, the bus stop and navigating between streets. The paths were then laid where people were already used to walking. Something like that happened on some of the common ground where we live – people's walking had created new paths.

Two of the most familiar texts in the Bible are about paths. "He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake." Sung at weddings and funerals, in Psalm 23 there are deep resonant images of life as a journey and the importance of taking the right path. "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and do not lean on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him and he will make your paths straight." The book of Proverbs is about wisdom, good choices, moral integrity, ethical relationships, honesty with money, care and truthfulness in speech – these are the paths of life, that lead to life. This verse distils all that into one maxim, "Trust in the Lord…he will direct your paths." (Prov. 3.6 KJV)

So I like paths, I'm comfortable and content walking a known way; known at least by those who have gone before me, countless times. But one of the realities of lock down and living with the ambiguities and disruption of a pandemic is that many of the known paths seem to have disappeared; there is disorientation, a sense of displacement, a strangely unsettling loss of confidence that we know where we are, and where we are going.

Sheila and I walk a lot, have done all our time together. Often as she walks ahead, I'm aware of the journey we share, the companionship of a lifetime, the sense of moving forward together. The sunlit path, but with shadows and light, and life experiences that are likewise variable, changeable, unpredictable and in the end contingent, these are the given material out of which we make of life what we can. But we do so in concert, in step, on the same path which, though at times has been harder than we could know, is the path we have chosen to walk as both intentional journey and shared adventure.  

An old hymn has remained a constant source of inner longing and spiritual sustenance ever since I first sang it as a new Christian convert, still trying to work out what in heaven's name had happened to me! I chose it as my ordination hymn, and at each induction service since.

Christ of the upward way, my Guide divine,
Where Thou hast set Thy feet, may I place mine;
And move and march wherever Thou hast trod,
Keeping face forward up the hill of God.

When I try to define what it means to be a Christian, like the Anabaptist tradition, I use the image of "following faithfully after Christ." Following with faith in Christ, following the faithful Christ, knowing Christ goes ahead of me, on the path I'm called to walk, faithfully. Those first followers of Jesus were called followers of the Way, people who walked a recognised path, the way of the cross. 

During these past weeks of pandemic lock down there has been time to think. Reviewing the photographs I've taken has been an exercise in self-examination. Not the guilt hunting type, nor the introspective worrying about how I feel and why, nor that inner audit to check if I measure up to my own self-expectations.

A gentler questioning of why certain things interest me enough to want to stop and take a photograph in the first place; a more reflective and non-judgemental exploration of such a world as this, its beauty and significance, its capacity to perplex and fascinate, its evocation of wonder and endless possibility; a deliberate act of pausing, to look and to see, to be present to and to pay attention, to move from such slowed-down taking an interest to the gradual recognition that all of this that we call our lives, takes place in the presence of the God who is before us and behind us. The dynamic movement of the journey, this life of mine that is inextricably linked in love to another, and beyond her to countless others, these moments of encounter and attentive expectation before a flower, a path, a clouded sky, a blue tit, golden gorse, far horizons, these are also moments of praise and prayer, of contentment and longing, of self-discovery and self-forgetting.

To recall the interrogative technique of the wonderful David Frost; It is, is it not, a wonderful world.    

  

The death of George Floyd shocked the world. We all have our views, opinions, and responses. I have been troubled and saddened by the polarisation of adopted positions, the special pleading from various sides of what is now a dangerous divide.

What to say, if anything? Silence allows time to think, right enough. But moral imperatives are rarely fulfilled by silence. A time comes to speak. I trust that I speak humbly, hesitantly, and hopefully.

Regular readers here will know this is a place where I explore what it means to follow Christ faithfully in out times and places. My starting point is how to live well as a Christian in a beautiful, broken, complex and God-loved world. That is expressed in the words of Thomas More, in Bolton's 'A Man for all Seasons', words from which this blog took its name,

"God made the angels to show His splendour – as He made animals for innocence and plants for their simplicity. But men and women He made to serve Him wittily, in the tangle of their minds."

I take "living wittily" to mean faithfully, intelligently, self-critically, with integrity, hopefully, or to use another of my favourite phrases, "to look humanely forth on human life."

What I am offering in this post is three things. A set of suppositions, some "what ifs" that imagine changes in mindset on all sides – by changes of mindset I mean the theological and spiritual reality of repentance. Secondly a text out of context, but capable of standing alone as a call to repentance and change. Thirdly a prayer which acknowledges the intransigence and complexity of racism as a vast multiplex problem, and seeks to be specific in confession and trusting in its prayer for change.

For my part, I see racism as a problem that starts in the human heart, but it never just stops there. It is then inevitably released as a toxin into social structures, causing a festering wound in institutions and systems, and becoming a pervasive offence to the purposes of God for human flourishing in justice, mercy and humility before God. Theologically, racism is sin, and sin is personal, social, structural and systemic. 

All of this set me thinking of what might be possible

if in acknowledging the raw grief caused by racists and racism;

if in witnessing seemingly endless suffering inflicted by racists and racism;

if in hearing voices of righteous anger and protest against racists and racism;

if being alert to the dangers of creeping despair at the seeming intransigence of the racist mindset;

if refusing to give credence to voices of denial that say there is no racism where it is clearly to be seen;

what then might be possible, if our minds were finally and fundamentally changed about racism, and our own part in it?

Supposing all that.        

Supposing, instead of pontificating and daring to instruct others about what racism is, we shut up and for once listen to the voices of those whose experience contradicts our certainties about how right we are and how truthfully we see the world?

Racism is complex, deep, destructive and real.

 

Supposing we took off the earphones that pump into our minds only the playlist we have chosen, playing only the music we like, reflecting only the view of the world we agree with, drowning out other voices we do not want to hear, or think we do not need to hear?

Racism thrives on excluding the noise of other people's pain.

 

Supposing instead of defending our own certainties with our prejudiced arguments, we made enough time and space for truth to be spoken that may question those certainties and prejudices?

Racism is deep untruth about the worth and rights of others.

 

Supposing instead of shooting off about what we think, and telling others where they are wrong we first, possibly breaking the habit of a lifetime, consider we may ourselves be wrong, and in desperate moral need to stand corrected?

Racism is a form of moral, because wilful blindness.

 

Supposing we were more intellectually humble, more righteous in our thinking, more merciful in our judgements, more careful with our words, more reticent about our opinions, and more open to that revision of thought which is repentance, a willingness to be taught to think and act differently?

Racism is an offence against Who God is and what God requires of us.

 

Supposing then, we repent of our own complicity in the institutional systems, national histories, ingrained attitudes, intentional social structures, embedded language, and personal involvement in the continuation of cultures which enable and sustain the complex wiring of the racist mindset?

Racism can be at one and the same time, personal, social, institutional, cultural, structural and systemic.

 

Supposing then, we were to begin to show proper humility of heart, an enacted righteousness in how we live, seeking embodied justice in our systems, promoting mercy by our words and actions, creating a culture of genuine justice for all people, in obedience to God in whose image every human being is created?

Supposing? 

Supposing this text, and that huge conditional starting, and startling "If"? 

"If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and I will forgive their sin and will heal their land." (2 Chronicles 7.14)

The prayer below is from Chris Hall, President of Renovare, a Christian renewal group founded by the Quaker, Richard Foster. The context of the prayer is the United States; its relevance reaches beyond national boundaries to the human family wherever we happen to live. 

“Lord, have mercy.”

• We have refused to lis­ten atten­tive­ly to our black and brown broth­ers’ and sis­ters’ cry for jus­tice. Lord, have mercy.

• We have been deaf to the prophet’s call: ​“And he looked for jus­tice, but saw blood­shed; for right­eous­ness, but heard cries of dis­tress.” (Isa­iah 5:7b). Lord, have mer­cy.

• We have been intel­lec­tu­al­ly lazy and moral­ly obtuse.  Our minds and hearts lis­ten only to voic­es that rein­force opin­ions we already hold. Lord, have mercy.

• We have been blind to our com­pla­cen­cy and com­plic­i­ty. Lord, have mercy.

• We have car­i­ca­tured or ignored books, poems, art, and films that chal­lenge our prej­u­dice and rebuke our igno­rance. Lord, have mercy.

• We have been com­plic­it in a cul­ture that delights in false­hood and dis­re­gards the truth. Lord, have mercy.

• We have expect­ed applause for our fee­ble thoughts and tot­ter­ing steps toward your pre­cious image bear­ers who dai­ly expe­ri­ence the hatred and vio­lence of racism. Lord, have mercy.

• We have been self-absorbed and self-deceived. Lord, have mercy.

• We have pre­ferred teach­ing rather than being taught. Lord, have mercy.

• We have manip­u­lat­ed and exploit­ed. Lord, have mercy.

• We have feared los­ing our ​“rights,” while with­hold­ing rights from the gen­uine­ly oppressed and des­per­ate. Lord, have mercy.

• We have lacked steady com­pas­sion and stur­dy courage. Our response to the evil of racism has been short-lived and shal­low. Lord, have mercy.

• We have loved the big deal and shunned hid­den ser­vice. Lord, have mer­cy.

• We have hat­ed our ene­mies and loved those who love us. Lord, have mer­cy.

• We have equat­ed the Unit­ed States of Amer­i­ca with the king­dom of God. Lord, have mercy.

• We have embraced pow­er and ignored the demands of love. Lord, have mercy.

• We have delight­ed in cul­tur­al con­flict and dis­dained the pur­suit of peace and  under­stand­ing. Lord, have mercy.

• We have walled out the alien and the for­eign­er. Lord, have mercy.

• We have enact­ed unjust and oppres­sive laws. Lord, have mercy.

• We have incar­cer­at­ed the poor and released the rich and pow­er­ful. Lord, have mercy.

• We have glad­ly trav­elled the wide and easy road that leads to destruc­tion and avoid­ed the nar­row road that leads to life. Lord, have mercy.

Oh, Lord, we have sinned,
against you and against our neigh­bor,
in the things we have done, and the things we have left undone.
We acknowl­edge our igno­rance and will­ful neglect. 

For­give us. Cleanse us. Renew us.
Reset our moral com­pass.
Fill the wind of our sails with the breath of your Spir­it.
Pro­pel us to the places and peo­ple who can teach us to love in new and unex­pect­ed ways. 

We plead for deep­er courage and com­pas­sion.
We ask for a qui­et, teach­able spirit. 

Give us love and humil­i­ty to erase the bound­ary lines we drew in fear.
Expand our vision to life and flour­ish­ing for all – from the unborn to those liv­ing on death row. We invite you, we wel­come you, to plant new seeds in the gar­den of our minds and hearts.  Amen

Supposing all this?

During the 10 weeks of lock down Aberdeenshire Council has cut no grass. Not only that. They expressly prohibited residents from cutting council grass when some conscientious souls decided to do their civic duty keeping their own area tidy. The result has been an explosion of dandelions, turning central reservations, grass verges and larger areas of grass and woodland into symphonies of yellow. 

Then for weeks the dandelions have been doing what they do; making dandelion clocks, producing millions of seeds equipped with the latest models of parachutes. I've always been fascinated by the sheer ubiquity of seeds on a dandelion plant, which can have half a dozen heads, with more where they came from, continuously sprouting for weeks. One of the first butterflies I spotted proved the wisdom of the advice given by conservation groups like Scottish Wildlife and RSPB and the National Trust for Scotland; leave the dandelions, they are early food for bees and butterflies when not much else is available yet. That by the way is also the rationale for Aberdeenshire Council stopping vigilante flymo raids on their grass – over the years they have reduced the number of cuts in a season. I'm OK with that.

Over the weeks of watching these plants, I began to think about the phenomenon of dandelions producing seeds in such abundance. These flowers, not weeds, ('weed' as a word is a social construction designed to discriminate against!) weren't always designated gardener's enemy number one. Dandelion tea, wine and herbal remedies go back to ancient Chinese, Egyptian, Greek and Roman cultures. Apparently a beautiful pale yellow dye can be made from the petals, and a purple colour from the ribs of the leaves. 

All that said, from the study window we look out on an area of communal Council grass which this year has been festooned in yellow followed by thousands of dandelion clocks each with up to 200 seeds. A breeze is enough to create a summer seed blizzard, and every one of those parachutes a potential plant for next year. A dandelion clock is a wonderful thing, such a concentration of potential, of life ready to disperse and renew the cycle of flower and seed, year on year – apparently they've been around for 30 million years, give or take a week or two. 

In a world scared of the capacity of the Coronavirus to bridge, infect and reproduce, there was something strangely comforting about seeing seeds anchored on the flower, then letting go and floating in the air, and who knows where or whether they will find soil, and water, and the chance of life. The world goes on, and for now, so do we. Throughout this whole pandemic crisis I've been aware of a new and stronger sense of the importance of hope as the foundation for the kind of trust that will keep us  living towards the future 

Sometimes I try to reduce a thought to the disciplined form of Haiku. This is one of them, arising from looking closely at a dandelion clock: 

Acknowledge beauty,
and pay attention to seeds
which hold the future.

All those seeds, ubiquitous, fragile, formed for flight, so well equipped to relocate elsewhere given a good breeze in the right direction, each seed arranged on the flower head with geometric precision; close up it's a glory of creative genius.

Every single seed fecund with possibility, durably delicate, awaiting the right combination of environment, circumstances and whatever else it is that determines if it will be bird food, humus or next year's dandelion.

But each of them is a seed, and I've learned all over again these past weeks to pay attention to seeds; they hold the future.

Jesus said something really sad about seeds: "Very truly I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds."

There is an inbuilt law of life that good futures don't just happen. They have to be built, and there is cost, sacrifice, and even the death of what is, so that what may be can emerge from the scaffolding of the present. Jesus was talking about his own death, and the life that would erupt from the dark hopelessness of a crucified and buried Messiah. "But if it die…….it bears much fruit."

The principle of self-giving love is the beating heart of the Christian gospel. "God so loved the world that he gave his only Son…" The seed must die or it will forever be safe, solitary, unfulfilled. Watching those gossamer light seeds caught up in currents of air they can never control, imagination reaches beyond the physical possibilities of germination and propagation of this or that seed. The life principle, the hope potential, the promise inherent in seeds blown into the future, is not about death, full stop. They are, every one of them, a reminder that the living God is the God of the living. The seed must die….it bears much fruit.

We are a resurrectional people, us Christians. We live in a world where death is not an irrevocable cosmic No to all that life is. Resurrection has happened, and the principle of life through death, demonstrated in Palestine, in a garden doubling as a cemetery, two thousand years ago, is now the pivot point of history, an event of eternally transformative power. And every believer who trusts to the immensity of that resurrectional power, who is drawn into the embrace of cruciform love, becomes one of millions of seeds, fertile with possibility to reproduce in kind, believing, loving trusting followers of Christ, the original and originating seed that died, and bears much fruit.    

I posted this yesterday on my Facebook page. For those here who might be interested: Here's the problem:

An elderly man in M&S, looking a bit confused and uncertain, hovering around the end of the food aisle. He isn't wearing a mask, and absorbed in making up his mind has moved closer to another customer, though still a few feet away.
This customer begins to speak forcefully to him to get back two metres, which puzzles him and I think makes him uncertain what he's doing wrong. She continues to lay down the rule, 'TWO METRES' as if saying it louder makes it clearer, a bit like English speakers abroad thinking their meaning is somehow translated by turning up the volume and speaking slowly.

The life and thought of Dietrich Bonhoeffer persists as an essential and critical voice even seventy five years after his death. There are so many reasons to pay attention to the occasional writings and speakings of Bonhoeffer; but in our time of fractious politics, slow and sometimes blatant power grabs, growing support for right wing populism and uncritical adulation of the strong leader, it is the radically uncompromising call and cost of discipleship in following Jesus that challenges Christian communities to decide where ultimate allegiance lies. This is Bonhoeffer the pastor, preaching a Confirmation sermon in 1938. The date is essential context, and the words are explosive in their political as well as theological and spiritual reverberations:   

"You have only one master now…But with this 'yes' to God belongs just as clear a 'no.' Your 'yes' to God requires your 'no' to all injustice, to all evil, to all lies, to all oppression and violation of the weak and poor, to all ungodliness, and to all mockery of what is holy. Your 'yes' to God requires a 'no' to everything that tries to interfere with your serving God alone, even if that is your job, your possessions, your home, or your honour in the world. Belief means decision."

Preached to young Christians facing what we now know as life in one of the most violent, lethal and merciless regimes in European history. The use of the word "master" is likewise laden with intentional contrast, and implies an either-or from which there can be no compromising third choice. One master. Who is it to be? Yes to God means 'no' to all other powers demanding final loyalty of mind, heart, soul and body. Belief means decision, not only one single decision after which it is business as usual; but a confirming decision that means all other decisions take their direction from that living and central commitment to Jesus Christ.

What makes Bonhoeffer such a necessary discomfort to those who are at ease in Zion is his reiteration of the radical, risk-laden demands of the Gospel of Christ. Earlier translations of his book on discipleship were titled, The Cost of Discipleship.The critical edition is more accurate in the technical sense of the one word title: Discipleship. However commendable that title, it remains the case that Bonhoeffer's relentless emphasis on the nature of Christian following of Jesus focused on the cost of discipleship. That cost was inevitable and the sine qua non of faithfulness to God, and the authenticating hallmark of a life following the way of Jesus Christ, bearing a cross and headed for Calvary.

The words from the confirmation sermon were not intended as comfortable invitation to convenient respectability, but as warning and call to a lifestyle and inner orientation at odds with all that is at odds with the way of Jesus. In other words this ongoing 'yes' compels a recurring 'no' to all that demands a different loyalty to alternative values and competing life goals. The life goal of the disciple is to be faithful to Christ, the values are rooted in the commitment of God in Christ to a reconciled world, and that 'Yes' carries within it a lifelong capacity for saying no; and Bonhoeffer is explicit in what is to be contradicted.

"God requires your 'no' to all injustice, to all evil, to all lies, to all oppression and violation of the weak and poor, to all ungodliness, and to all mockery of what is holy."

Those words are freighted with responsibility for the way we live our lives in the 2020 world of political and social divisions. One of the more easily overlooked features of contemporary life is the mockery of what is holy. That isn't new either, it was a social toxin flowing through the veins of National Socialism and its effect was the weakening of the immune system, making minds and wills less receptive and increasingly resistant to moral values of human worth, dignity and fundamental rights. 

The mockery of what is holy is a theological version of the cliche 'nothing is sacred anymore'. But when that which one group in society reveres and holds as of essential value to their lives is mocked, ignored, or treated as trivial, the result is a dangerous diminishing of human capital and ethical safeguards. Bonhoeffer saw that happening over the years before the 1938 sermon. The mockery of what a society has deemed to be holy, pushes back boundaries and rewrites in coarser and less humane language what is acceptable, decent and for the common good. Eventually people themselves, those who hold on to what is holy and to be respected by consensus, are themselves mocked, diminished, and devalued.

At that point Bonhoeffer could see with prophetic clarity, the fundamental Yes to God which orients the whole of life, demanded a faithful No to all in life that contradicts justice, goodness, truth, freedom, care for the weak and poor, and reverence for the holy. Yes implies No. You cannot serve God wholeheartedly and something else at the same time. The criterion for the Christian is the cross of Christ, a dying to all other claims on our will, conscience, heart, mind and body.

I find these words of Bonhoeffer so uncomfortably apt in 2020 Britain and beyond. But I know of no other way to be faithful to the fundamental Yes I've said to God as a Christian, than to say with continuing conviction, and with relentless faithfulness, No. No to words that are lies; No to policies which humiliate and threaten the poor; No to policies of injustice and callous disregard for refugees and immigrants; No to hostile environments, to racism and antisemitism; No to the abuses of power when it is used to remove the very levers put in place to hold power accountable; No to the rhetoric of division; No to the deifying of capital, money, wealth, stuff and its consequent global inequity; and No to the laying waste of the only planet we have, in pursuit of all the above.

And in all those sayings of No, those who follow Jesus faithfully in the 21st Century do so fully  recognising that the cost of discipleship is stated very plainly. Say Yes to God, and you say No to much else that is taken for granted as the way the world works. 

(The sermon 'The Gift of Faith', was preached on April 9, 1938. See The Collected Sermons of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, (ed) Isabel Best, (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2012, pp. 201-206)   

Smudge has been a source of solace, fun, fascination and sheer pleasure ever since she arrived in our family. They say you're either a dog or cat person, but I'm entirely at home with each or either. Both Sheila and I have had cats around us all our lives, and so no surprise that cats, Smudge included, is her own person, and entirely different in character from Tinker, Bonnet and Gizmo. 

She of course has paid no heed whatsoever to the First Minister's insistence that lock down means lock down. She has come and gone, slept and eaten, sunbathed and hunted, adhered to social distancing and invaded our space, and has been less than impressed by the face masks.

But she has been a source of comfort and distraction through these long and often lonely weeks. There she is bemused by millions of floating dandelion seeds while prowling her marches, and showing us easily bored humans the health benefits of staying curious.

More seriously, the therapeutic effects of pets are well enough known. That story in Genesis when Adam names all the animals is one of those great humanising moments captured in the imagination, and deeply embedded in the human consciousness of our responsibilities towards those creatures who share our planet.

Over these weeks of lock down when it has not been possible to be with family and friends, and social interaction has been minimal and distanced, Smudge has been there. Now cats don't really do the selfless altruistic thing; they tend to know how to push the right buttons for food, doors opened, and the softest warmest seat. Amongst the blessings that enrich our lives are those bonds with animals that grow into a mutual dependency of long established trust, and a sense of home shared. Smudge is all of that. Her capacity for finding soft places in the house and sunny places in the garden is both instinctive and strategic. I swear Smudge is a post-graduate problem solver when it comes to her own personal comfort.

As an example of such innovative selfishness the way she hijacked the foam kneeling pad when I turned my back to go into the garage for pruners, or shears or some other human implement – who cares, he left the mat without a towel on it, it's sunny, so I'm having it. All of this is clearly discernible from the unmistakable body language of indifferent proprietorship, and uncontested ownership adopted by my cat Smudge. 

Like all cats, Smudge is predictable much of the time, but it's those occasional try-ons that make life with a cat a chronic low-key battle of wits. To finish the story, I needed the foam kneeler, which she gave up with that superior nonchalance of the cat whose point has been made with minimal fuss – this time. 

Over nine weeks I only took a few pictures of her, though if I trawl through the years she has been with us an entire album could be compiled. The ones I have taken are reminders that we share our home with a remarkable animal. I don't say that only of Smudge; think about it, the creation of a safe place for an animal that costs money to keep, that claws the stair carpet mercilessly, that has an unerring sense of what can annoy you, and that has woven bonds of affection and loyalty such that you actually care for the blessed thing. And its presence soothes, amuses, gives the day a shape, and its look confers acknowledgement that you exist and that's OK.

There are countless poems about cats. Kit Smart's "For I will consider my cat Jeoffrey" is the all time platinum bestselling poem about a man and his cat. I recently came across 'Magnificat' by the Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa.

The title is very clever. Magnificat. The poet is in a deep place of questioning about his own existence, what he is for, where he is going and why any of this matters anyway?

The cat embodies the enigma of each life drama played out against a cosmic vastness that is by turns threatening and welcoming. The poet's double self-assuring command to smile with which his poem ends, pushes the reader towards the hopeful thought with which we go to sleep, trusting the darkness and hoping for tomorrow – "it will be day."

In the days of a pandemic lock down, that kind of hopefulness is an essential corrective in the face of much that disturbs our peace and disrupts our plans. Sometimes it isn't the cosy and comfortable poems we need, but the more astringent words that face the mysteries without explaining them away, while yet insisting with equal force, "It will be day."     

Magnificat   

When will this inner night – the universe – end
And I – my soul – have my day?
When will I wake up from being awake?
I don't know. The sun shines on high
And cannot be looked at.
The stars coldly blink
And cannot be counted.
The heart beats aloofly
And cannot be heard.
When will this drama without theater
– Or this theater without drama – end
So that I can go home?
Where? How? When?
O cat staring at me with eyes of life, Who lurks in your depths?
It's Him! It's him!
Like Joshua he'll order the sun to stop, and I'll wake up,
And it will be day.
Smile, my soul, in your slumber!
Smile, my soul: it will be day!