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The painting 'Stilling the Tempest' is a powerful visual exegesis of Mark 4.39 and Jesus' command, "Peace! Be still!" I first came across it in the wonderful volume by Jaroslav Pelikan, Jesus Through the Centuries, a book I used as a text book teaching a module with the same title. This was one of the images a number of students found moving, and it always provoked discussion.

Jesus with a Chinese face, is standing in the place of command at the prow of the boat. Mountainous seas with real mountains on the horizon, the whole scene a cauldron of threat and danger. The desperation of the oarsmen, the loss of control signalled by their lost rhythm, the faces set in expressions of fear or determined resignation, all conveyed with power. In the foreground a massive billow, reminiscent of a tsunami and originating under the boat, heads towards the viewer of the painting.

But the dominating figure of Jesus stands with arms outstretched and hands raised, upright and balanced in a boat tossed by elemental powers doing their utmost to overwhelm. Of course he stands in a cruciform gesture, redemptive and powerful at the same time. His authority over the waves and the wind is emphasised by the disciple clinging to his legs, while another has his arms raised imploring Jesus, and yet another clings to the mast but strains round to fix his eyes on Jesus.

It is an astonishing achievement which captures the full force of the storm just before Jesus speaks. The sea is in full tempest mode, the boat is riding a tsunami, the land is miles behind them, and left on their own, experienced sailors as they are, they are doomed. Except for that dominant cruciform Jesus, about to command stillness. 

Yet Mark says clearly that Jesus was at the back, in the stern of the boat, asleep. In the picture Jesus is shown to be high and lifted up, at the front. This is of course artistic licence, but making its own theological point; the artist's interpretation is supported by the verb Mark uses which is an intensified form of rising, describing Jesus' action as standing up to his full height. And the place of authority and the highest point is the uplifted prow

Perhaps the reason the picture is called 'Stilling the Tempest', a title which uses the present participle, is precisely to convey the urgent authority of Jesus, striding from stern to prow. The picture then becomes a portrait of that moment just as Jesus is about to speak two commands; to the wind, "be quiet!, and to the sea, "be calm!"

The Chinese artist, Monika Liu Ho-Peh, has captured that dramatic split second, when with oars all over the place, sails ripped, bodies exhausted, impending doom is forestalled and frustrated by impending deliverance. And that is exactly how Mark portrays Jesus.

A shell is more than
a discarded home; it tells
of oceans and skies.

On a day of deep thinking, negotiating my way through inner shadows of sorrow in the search for hope and light, I stopped to look at the sky reflected in the sea water inside a mussel shell.

A shell has the capacity to hold in itself the same sand of a million beaches, and the same water of a world's ocean's.

Likewise our human minds and hearts have capax dei, the capacity for God.

Our capacity is that of the shell; God's fullness is that of the ocean.

And from that fullness of purposive love and creative wisdom, come our deepest and furthest reaching hopes.

I heard Jean Vanier speak several times over the years. If you don't know who Jean Vanier is then please read this obituary before reading the rest of this post.

The first time I heard Jean Vanier was in Queen's Cross Church 20 years ago. By then he was around 70, and already walked with his massive frame slightly stooped. He could have played the Big Friendly Giant with a minimum of makeup and coaching. Jean's gentleness was unmistakable, he wore his heart, not so much on his sleeve, more like a high visibility vest. His movements were slow, his face most reposed when smiling which seemed to be his default setting. He looked around at the audience with eyes that saw, and paid attention, and cared about what was going on behind the faces of those in front of him. He saw more than faces. This was a man who looked and loved, who smiled as an intimation of intentional friendship. 

He draped himself languidly over the tall lectern, his long arms and hands moving expressively, occasionally gesturing outwards as if trying to embrace the whole crowd. He spoke of vulnerability and love, of community and forgiveness, about radical gentleness and human woundedness; and he spoke of these things as one who was a lifelong practitioner. His words were compelling, his eyes glinting with hope and conviction, his face not so much animated as responsive to the truth he was telling and the people who were listening. And were we listening. 

This man had abandoned a promising career in the Navy, had become a professor of philosophy and abandoned that path too, and started a small community to share his life with people then described as having intellectual disabilities. Out of that small cottage in Troisly in France, grew what is now a world-wide network of caring and community called L'Arche. It was out of 40 and more years of such community building that Jean spoke that evening. Not a hint of self-promotion, simply a woven pattern of stories about people enabled to be who they are, about acceptance and  belonging, about the love of Jesus becoming embodied in communities of welcome, and about how human growth is rooted in love, forgiveness, service and the gift of ourselves to each other.

In one sense I wasn't hearing anything new; I had read and deeply pondered his best writing for 25 years by then. But to hear him tell it with the quiet authority of one who had walked it, and had helped thousands find their place and their way; to witness a man gently aflame with love and conviction which he framed in stories of suffering and joy, of vulnerability and healing, of brokenness and wholeness; to recognise that in all he was describing he was demonstrating the counter-cultural value system of Jesus, and promoting a way of life that contradicts the most cherished values of a consumer culture; that gave these truths an intensity that was unforgettable – and unignorable.

For the previous 10 years I had been chaplain in a school for children with significant extra support needs. During those years I tried to model some of what I had learned from the life and thought of Jean Vanier, and from the stories of L'Arche as communities where 'each one is special, accepted and loved…' And that night, all those years of class involvement, school assemblies, pastoral engagement with staff, pupils and parents, were validated as exactly what ministry is, and what the vocation of love and grace both demands and confers. 

I heard Jean Vanier a couple of times more, but that first evening remains one of those experiences to which I return in thought and prayer, and like the widow's cruse of oil, it never fails. It never fails to nourish my hope, and to encourage me in the vocation of loving whosoever in Jesus' name. Nor does it fail to remind me that at best, we can only ever be wounded healers, unprofitable servants who have received more than we could ever give.

And this is the thing. Jean Vanier didn't only envision and bring to fruition an international network of L'Arche communities. He also modelled for so many a way of being, and of being together in community, that demonstrated the love of Jesus for the lost and the unwanted, the weak and the afraid, the struggling and the broken. And in that modelling he inspired the kinds of human interchange where sadness is able give way to joy in the sharing of life, where commitment of people to each other in love and responsible reciprocal caring enables everyone to grow, and change, and find their place. Vanier held it as a fundamental observation that all human beings have disabilities, we all struggle, everyone has weaknesses, each one of us suffers and needs friends, love and safety. In that sense in Vanier's worldview, we all have invisible disabilities, and therefore all are in need of compassion, understanding and the freedom to acknowledge our need,

There is deep sadness that Jean Vanier has died. But what a life he has lived! And what light he shone into many, many lives. As a man of profound faith and open armed compassion, he has inspired one of the richest models of what can happen when Christian love, human disability and hopeful vision coalesce into community. May he rest in peace, rise in glory, and be met in heaven with the volumes of laughter and celebration he inspired in the lives he touched to their blessing. 

When I was 11 and 12 my brother and I lived in a railway carriage. The farm cottage was too small for a family of five, and the carriage was the outside supplementary house room. It had a wood fired stove (health and safety and risk assessments were still some way off), it stood a few yards from a burn which could be a gentle stream or a raging torrent, fed from the hills a mile or two behind us. The burn had trout that grew as long as 12-15 inches, and we often guddled for them in the deeper pools.

It was a lot of fun still being at primary school and having that kind of independent space. When the weather was wild the flues of the fire whistled, rain battered the windows and the felted roof, and the burn came up the three foot banks – only a couple of times overflowing. The railway carriage was one of the thousands cut from the rolling stock after the Beecham butchery of the railways in rural Scotland. It smelt of pine and paint, and on top of the stove you could make pancakes!

So a powerful wave of nostalgia swept through me when I came across this old carriage, sitting on moorland backed by sand dunes up at the Ythan nature reserve. It's still standing, but won't for many more years unless someone renovates and restores and makes it watertight. I hope they do. These are now historical artefacts, what's left of a way of life long gone and all but forgotten.

Looking at its dilapidated condition, you can still see the lines and the workmanship of a century ago. Joiners and engineers, upholsterers and welders collaborated in a joint project of skilled craftsmanship by tradesmen proud enough to take pride in their work. Progress is inevitable, but not inevitably benign for everyone affected by it. Work is an essential part of human community, an activity that brings dignity to the worker, and the self-respect of each person as a net contributor to society and to the common good. Such a high view of work is much less valued today, and that too brings its deficits in human fulfilment and community health.

Such thinking about work, labour and skill leads me back to one of my favourite passages, from Ecclesiasticus 38. It is a celebration and thanksgiving for the skills and creativity of various trades and crafts and arts, and their value in 'maintaining the fabric of the world.' And look out for the repeated phrase 'they set their heart on' – that is the clue to good workmanship. The worker embodies skill and energy focused to purpose. This piece of work matters, and so it matters that it is done well. 

You need places where you can think. And when I say think, I don't always mean reasoning things out; I often mean a more desultory form of thinking. Like reflection, when you gaze inwardly and play with ideas, or take memories out to look at them, or ask ourselves how we are feeling. I was once playfully critiqued by an avid sermon listener for my (too) frequent use of the word 'reflect'. John thought a phrase like 'think about' was fine, whereas 'reflect' suggested something more abstract, maybe even verging on the pretentious. I could see what he meant, and I cut it back a bit and found other ways of inviting people to engage, ponder,and yes, think about. But I still like the notion of reflecting, both looking for illumination and gazing inwardly at the thoughts that might shed light.

So, you need places where you can think in that reflective, ruminative way that is open ended but nevertheless wants to explore possibilities, analyse how and why we feel what we do, or take time to listen to our heart. A walk alongside the waves on a beach is a necessary and recurring joy for me. A walk by the sea places me alongside rhythmic movement that, like a metronome, helps my inner world of thought and mood to regain and then sustain an inner rhythm less frantic, more attuned to the harmonies around and within, resetting the beat and timing of life.

Of course, reflection encourages introspection, which is no bad thing in itself. I have a fairly strong introspective strand, and a lifetime of reading, writing, and busy social engagement with people often means the tension between wanting to be alone and wanting to be with people. So the beach is a good place for such relief. Solitude is not loneliness, and spiritual writers have long distinguished between the two. In solitude there is time to listen to our life, and to become reacquainted with who we are becoming

When I walk the wave line I am often focused on the sand, and whatever the sea deposits there. I've learned to pay attention to shells, stones shaped by friction, wood worn smooth and reshaped, and often the happenstance arrangement of such fragments along the edges of the tide. To stop, look, see, gaze, even study this particular randomly placed artefact of the sea is an exercise in pondering the trivial, except that once you start looking and reflecting, something happens. A mind has noticed; an imagination stirs; a coalescence of thought, feeling and present circumstance give this previously unnoticed shell, a significance which may transcend that attended moment.

The photo is one such captured moment. A mussel shell contains sand, seawater and reflected sky. An accidental microcosm which left me with a deep sense of wonder at the casual beauty of something so transient. It provided a moment of gratitude and something hard to describe, but what I might call amazement. The shell had been home to a creature now gone, and was now a useless discard. Except that I saw it, admired its beauty, and felt a surge of gladness for the gift of such random loveliness. 

In a time of great sadness and slow recovery, I've found such immersion in the detail of life around me helps in the hard work of adjustment. They are gentle reminders of the everyday miracle of life, consciousness, and our ability to see and interpret the world. A discarded shell has the power to grant a sabbath from sorrow.  

Late in 2018 I had promised a tapestry to my daughter for her birthday. She would have been 43. She loved Aberdeenshire, especially around Bennachie, and her first employments were in property management for the National Trust for Scotland. Following Aileen's death on Christmas Eve I decided to fulfil my promise and design and complete her tapestry.

The view is of Bennachie. Her favourite view was from Castle Fraser, were she was property manager for a few years; another view she enjoyed was from Garlogie overlooking Loch Skene. The two views are collated in the tapestry, which pictures the shire landscape in summer and autumn. The colours of gorse, bracken and heather, the blue and dusk of a late evening, the loch and the farmed landscape are all reflections of her love for this countryside.

The tapestry is a traditional half cross stitch, worked free hand in stranded cotton. It isn't meant to be a photo; it's more an impressionist celebration of a landmark familiar and loved. The loss of Aileen from our family leaves an unfillable space in our lives. And every view of Bennachie is a reminder of her, the combined ache of loss of our loved lass, and gratitude to God for the place she still holds in our lives and hearts. She would have loved this tapestry.         

Comfort. Solace. Consolation. Each of them a word about the alleviation of woundedness, loneliness and a disconsolate spirit. I think too, comfort, solace and consolation are gifts best delivered personally, that is, in the context of a relationship. All of that sounds a bit abstract, and even enigmatic. So let me make it plain.

Today we had a visit from two of our oldest friends. We met them almost 50 years ago, before we were married. Their daughter and our daughter were born within 24 hours of each other. Throughout nearly half a century we have laughed and cried together, guided and supported each other, entrusted our hopes and fears and shared without calculation whatever we each needed. And all this in a friendship where we can go a year or two without meeting and pick up where we left off.

They are peculiarly well placed to feel and understand how we are feeling as we try each day to come to terms with the loss of our daughter Aileen. Their coming to visit us was an act of unsurprising generosity, the kind of thing close friends do without thinking. The comfort comes from the gift of time, presence and attention, a willingness to listen with neither interruption nor unasked for advice. Then add an unspoken recognition that your grief is embraced in the shared pain of a sorrow that needs no unnecessary words attempting to reduce its unremitting burden; and that is solace, the feeling of being understood as one trying to make sense of an incomprehensible loss.

Consolation is solace rooted i such deep companionship. After lunch out at a favourite place we walked up around and beyond Drum Castle. We talked. Well, I talked a lot, and Jack listened a lot. We walked, often in silence, in the castle grounds and up into the forest. There we heard birdsong, the music of trees moving in the breeze, the sound of footsteps on pine needles, and for a while, no words. Instead a friend walking the path alongside, enacted metaphor of the love of those select few who understand us enough to know that there are some things in each of our lives we will never understand fully; and that's ok. Today consolation was the presence of a friend, who took the trouble to come, now walking alongside, often silent, always attentive, sharing the moment, then the next moment.

At the time I was simply grateful for friends like this friend; thinking about it some hours later, though, I realise that there was an Emmaus feel to this afternoon. In Luke 24 two disciples are walking along disconsolately, grief stricken, and unsure what the future will look like. And though they don't know it, the stranger who joins them is the risen Jesus. Comfort, solace and consolation were mediated through the presence of this new companion on the way. Not very different, the presence today of a friend in whose presence there is the sense of a communion greater than the two of us, and in the fellowship of Christ the sustaining sacrament of a love that has proved itself over decades, and is not only the gift of God, but in its self-giving, gives the love of God a living presence and voice. 

Of course moods change. And though grief is eased by comfort, solace and consolation, the sorrow is still there, the loss is just as real, the ache of sadness has become familiar and isn't going away anytime soon. How could it? Love has its cost, and love pays it with neither complaint nor evasion, because that's what love is; the exposure of the heart to the risks of hurt and loss. God knows, love's worth it. And today, through the visit of our friends, the God who knows this came near. 

(The photo was take by Aileen, one of her favourite views of Bennachie)

Food accessibility, food availability, and food affordability, are major levers of power. Historically, access to food is so crucial to human survival that food, its abundance or scarcity, has been weaponised. I detest that recent addition to our discourse, but it is a word ugly enough to be unambiguous. A siege is about food and water; near starvation diets are the tools of the oppressor, a exercise in power over and against others. On the other hand, provision of adequate food and water, home and heat, are signs of power exercised for and on behalf of others. In an affluent and well resourced country, food shortage and hungry families are largely the result of political choices to do something else with Government revenue from taxes and economic activity. 

Granted even some truth in that argument, food poverty in a country as rich as the UK is a key indicator of political decisions inimical of social justice. The normalisation of the Food Bank is one of the baleful achievements of several Governments in the past decade or two. Food poverty arises out of a failure of political imagination and a constraining of moral and social responsibility amongst those supposed to govern in the interests and for the welfare of every member of our society.

Social justice, and compassion are essential elements of a moral climate in which everyone has a chance to flourish. This article is saying something about a society that tolerates other people's hunger. And the deliberate policies that cause it. Here is a brief extract, but it is worth reading the whole warning about the assault on the dignity of people who live hungry in a land of plenty.

 "at least 480,583, food parcels were distributed by the Trussell Trust and independent food banks during the 18-month period.

The Trussell Trust’s most recent figures on Scottish food bank use, taken from April to September 2018, found a 15% year-on-year increase which it linked directly to the rollout of universal credit. A similar increase was detected across the whole of the UK.

The situation is becoming more and more desperate, and it doesn’t take much imagination to see that this is happening in England and Wales, too,” she said. “We need action that deals with the root causes [of food poverty]. We need a social security system that is fit for purpose, and wages that are related to the cost of living.”

The collision between King Ahab and the prophet Elijah is described in brief stark terms in I Kings 17. Elijah announces a drought.

Three years later he returns from hiding to challenge the prophets of Baal to a religious trial of strength. For Elijah Mount Carmel was exhilarating, self-vindicating, and a very  public demonstration of  God's power. But it was emotionally draining, the cost only felt in delayed shock and an overwhelming sense of vulnerability. (I Kings 18

So he ran away, scared out of his wits by Jezebel.  God's response to Elijah's breakdown began with practical concern for a human body depleted by overworked limbs and overwrought emotions. Rest. Food. Sleep.

Then an interview on the mountainside.

This terrified man, afraid not only of Jezebel, but of the burden of his life, and the expectations of his God, discovers the presence and person of God, not in elemental force, but in the creative whisper that first moved on the chaotic waters and brought peace, life and blessing.

The life of faith has to be lived in the tension between Carmel and Horeb, between judgement and grace, between the high octane self expenditure of obedience and the quiet insistent whisper of the One who restores the soul. (I Kings 19)

Ad the triumphalist praise song 'These are the days of Elijah' should be tempered by the Quaker poet's contrasting hymn, 'Dear Lord and Father of mankind, forgive our foolish ways.' ( J G Whittier)

There are echoes throughout Whittier's hymn of Elijah's overdone passion, burnout and need of renewal – 'take from our souls the strain and stress, and let our ordered lives confess, the beauty of thy peace."

One of the spiritually significant changes in my inner life since our daughter Aileen died, is the effect of grief on my capacity and desire to pray. At first I had neither the ability nor the motivation to pray, or even want to. The reverberations of grief, shock, and sadness so far beyond consolation, drain away so much of what is normal emotional engagement with life and its routines. That's because the routines are disrupted beyond repair; nothing will be the same in the aftermath of the greatest loss of our lives so far.

It takes time to take it in. It takes time to want to even think too much about it. And whatever else prayer is, it makes you think as you search for words. In a time of intense sorrow prayer is a process of taking in, of internalising a reality that cries out for denial and contradiction. Prayer requires engagement at the depths of our being with the God whose personal and interpersonal depths are replete with eternal love, infinite wisdom and redemptive creative purpose. That makes each attempt at prayer an exercise in vulnerability, trust and self-giving. And for the grieving heart, that's sometimes too much to ask. Grief renders us all but defenceless in the face of death, and to survive, much that is inside us shuts down to conserve resources already running out and nearing exhaustion.

It is at such times that the communion of saints stops being a theological idea and becomes a reality to which we are glad to belong. "You are in our prayers" then becomes much more vital and vitalising than the safe cliche of those unsure what else to say. To be conscious that our own silence and felt distance from God is a weight willingly carried by others is part of the comfort that sustains faith in such times. It isn't only that we are prayed for, as objects of prayer. It is also that people pray for us, that is, their faithful prayers are said on our behalf, their words give voice to what has rendered us silent, and their intercession draws us into the circle of a conversation which at the moment is beyond us. 

When those who love and care for us say, "You are in our prayers" or make similar promises to mention our names in the presence of God, they are being companions, intentionally taking into themselves the pain and the plight of the prayed for. That's an interesting, syntactically awkward phrase "the prayed for". These past months I have learned at a level more profound than I could have imagined, the meaning of Gethsemane, and how hard it is to be shattered  by the brute fact of death and loss.  Jesus' grief was exacerbated because no one said, or showed, "You are in our prayers." Quite the opposite; instead of praying with or for him, they were asleep. Jesus' sorrow at the soporific disciples isn't peeved self-concern, it is the cry of a heart needing support, the reflex of a mind tortured by doubt and inner agony.

So there are times when prayer is beyond us, at least for a time. The prayers of others, and the written and stated promises that they will pray for us, are gifts of love that hold us, indeed entangle us, within the communion of saints.  The experience of grief, and the inner adjustments it has imposed, has meant a new understanding of what prayer is, and what it is not. In our sorrow, bewilderment and inner derailment, there have been times when prayer felt impossible; other times when prayer didn't even enter a mind too busy processing a new life-changing reality.

Oh I know. Prayer is supposed to be natural for a Christian; an obvious first resort; an open invitation from God; a habit learned over years of practice. That's just the point. The disorientation of mind and heart, of reason and emotion, have made prayer more difficult, not less. I know that isn't everyone's experience, but it has been mine. And the communion of saints, the struggling for words friends who said, "You are in our prayers" and "We are praying for you" have rewritten the Gethsemane experience. They have watched with us, and they have watched over us. 

Praying is different for now. Tempered by a continuing sorrow it is often "the burden of a sigh"; arising out of loss and the need to reconfigure our world, the mood of every prayer is interrogative;  as someone most at home with words, silent longing may become the new eloquence. And in the grasp of a loss that will be for life, somehow the love and hope and memories of Aileen will be a constant longing which may occasionally find words, but that longing will always be there as love sensing the incompleteness her absence creates.