Prayer used to introduce a nativity play

Today we praise you father God

in words and in music

and through the creative retelling of

the old familiar Christmas story.

This is a story we have heard from childhood

a story that has become part of us through repetition

It is a very familiar story

yet still we find we wonder and praise God

at the immensity of the story behind the tales of shepherds, angels and kings.

It is the story of the mighty God, the creator of heaven and earth

coming to earth in unbelievable vulnerability

as a baby

born in an insanitary and dangerous place and time

in a borrowed cowshed

where danger lurked in the shadows cast by Herod and Rome.

And as we ponder on this amazing initiative by God

we realise that this is always the way that God works:

coming in seeming weakness

speaking through the small and vulnerable.

God's way is a path that is often difficult for us to follow

for it goes against the accepted ways of the world:

The path following Jesus brings great reward 

but does not promise an easy journey.

(written by me  December 2015)

Image courtesy of seksuwat / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Franciscan prayer

May God bless you with discomfort at easy answers, half-truths, and superficial relationships so that you may live deep within your heart. May God bless you with anger at injustice, oppression and exploitation of people, so that you may work for justice, freedom and peace. May God bless you with tears to shed for those who suffer from pain, rejection, starvation and war so that you may reach out my hand to comfort them and to turn their pain into joy. And may God bless you with enough foolishness to believe that, through your love, you can make a difference in this world so that you can do what others claim cannot be done. Amen. 

(Franciscan Prayer, Author Unknown)

‘The computer is unable' by R S Thomas

The computer is unable
to find God: no code
number, no address.
Technology stalls
without the material
we provide it. There must be
some other way. ‘Try
looking,’ says the eye,
‘Try listening’ the ear
answers. I stare into distance:
nothing but the gantries
where art is crucified in
the cause of new art.
I have heard amid uproar
in London the black redstart
singing among the ruins;
so I strain now amid
the times’ hubbub for fear
the still, small voice should
escape me. ‘Is he dumb?’
Wrong language. ‘Am I
impatient?’ I resort once
again to the word processor.
But where a poem in his honour
should emerge, all in bud
like a birch tree, there is only
the machine’s repetitions,
parallel tramlines of prose
never to come together in praise.

R.S. Thomas, Uncollected Poems (Tarset, Northumberland: Bloodaxe Books: 2013), p.172.

Image courtesy of  jannoon028  /FreeDigitalPhotos.net

A couple of hours in St Paul's Cathedral London

Getting into the cathedral was not easy. The security cordon surrounded all sides and the only entrance was through Temple Bar from Paternoster Square. Under that decorative, Wren designed, stone arch were trestle tables where the police half heartedly searched your bags. It was a case of 'Open the top and lets have a look in' rather than any high tech scanners. The required photo ID was glanced at in a superficial manner by the officer who must have been very short sighted if he thought that I looked anything like the photo on my driving licence.

As I came into the building, I saw that it was full of people in military uniforms or posh frocks and hats. I was told to go to the deans aisle where the clergy were assembling and smart elderly gentlemen in full morning dress were happy to point me in the right direction. In the relative quiet of the deans aisle were the gathered clergy milling around and donning their posh frocks too.

After I had changed into my posh outfit, though not a frock, a guy about my age in a cassock came up to welcome me, shook my hand and asked where I was from and who I was representing. I told him and smiled. He seemed nice and exuded real warmth in his welcome. I thought he looked familiar and realised he was the spitting image of one of my neighbours! A few minutes later I realised who he was – I had just shaken hands with the Archbishop of Canterbury and not recognised him! Is that a mortal sin?

The two others from Scotland were the Primus and the moderator of the General Assembly of the kirk. I had words with both and was introduced to the Bishop of Down from Ireland. We shared some interesting discussions about ecumenism and the role of the “churches together” bodies and some strong opinions were expressed.

It came to time to process in and we lined up. I was next to the RC bishop chaplain to the forces. The canons of the cathedral were all wearing identical robes in what would be nice curtain material!

Protocol and precedence is strange – by the time we processed in the Prime minister, and other political leaders were in their seats, as were the minor royals. After we had taken our seats the Archbishop of Canterbury and Bishop of London with the Dean of the cathedral processed in with the Lord Mayor of London holding a pearl sword aloft followed by the Queen and the major royals.

So what of the service itself? The acoustics were dreadful – there was a reedy echo when anyone spoke. There were readings, prayers, hymns, an address and the dedication of a cross made of shells from camp Bastion. The choir was everything you would expect from a world class cathedral and the organ and trumpeters who played the royal fanfare were fantastic.

It was a great privilege to be at this event to represent ACTS in such an impressive setting. But the service of commemoration of the Afghanistan campaign stirred up many conflicting emotions and thoughts:

- as a pacifist in the midst of so much gold braid and so many spurs (though the instructions did say "no swords"),

-as a Scottish nationalist at the heart of the British establishment,

- on seeing so many individuals left limbless or otherwise disfigured by conflict,

-of the stark reality of the long list of the names of the fallen,

-of sitting close to the Royal family (faces I've been familiar with my whole life) yet separated from them by a huge chasm,

-seeing messrs Cameron, Clegg and Milliband sitting on the same hard cheap wooden chairs that everyone, except the royals, had to sit on, (Looking at those three sitting close together on the front row made me wonder what they really think of each other.  They looked remarkably alike in their smart dark suits!)

-the depth of comradeship seen in some reunions I witnessed of people who had probably been through hell together,

-the sight of marching bands being escorted by police officers with machine guns,

-the thickness of the bullet proof glass in the politicians' cars.

It was a day that I will remember and continue to reflect on for a long time. 

St Patrick's breastplate as re-written by George MacLeod.

Today is St Patrick's day so here is George McLeod's re-wording of Patrick's Breastplate prayer. Rev George McLeod led the rebuilding of Iona Abbey, founded the Iona Community and worked passionately for justice and peace, fuelled by his vision of Christ in all things.

Christ above us, Christ beneath us,

Christ beside us, Christ within us.

Invisible we see you, Christ above us. 

With earthly eyes we see above us,

clouds or sunshine, grey or bright.

But with the eye of faith

we know you reign,

instinct in the sun ray,

speaking in the storm,

warming and moving all creation,

Christ above us....

Invisible we see you, Christ beneath us.

With earthly eyes we see beneath us

stones and dust and dross....

But with the eyes of faith,

we know you uphold.

In you all things consist and hang together.

The very atom is light energy,

the grass is vibrant,

the rocks pulsate.

All is in flux;

turn but a stone and an angel moves.

Underneath are the everlasting arms.

Unknowable we know you, Christ beneath us.

Inapprehensible we know you, Christ beside us.

With earthly eyes we see men and women,

exuberant or dull, tall or small.

But with the eye of faith,

we know you dwell in each.

You are imprisoned in the ... dope fiend and the drunk,

dark in the dungeon, but you are there.

You are released, resplendent,

in the loving mother, . . . the passionate bride,

and in every sacrificial soul.

Inapprehensible we know you, Christ beside us.

Intangible, we touch you, Christ within us.

With earthly eyes we see ourselves,

dust of the dust, earth of the earth....

But with the eye of faith,

we know ourselves all girt about of eternal stuff,

our minds capable of Divinity,

our bodies groaning, waiting for the revealing,

our souls redeemed, renewed.

Intangible we touch you, Christ within us.

Christ above us, beneath us,

beside us, within us,

what need have we for temples made with hands?

My photo of the cross outside Iona Abbey

Fight night - a short story

The autumn had arrived early that year and with it a fierce cold wind from the east. The town seemed almost in the grip of winter as, excited, I left the warm house and headed down to the club. A fight night promised a good evening of entertainment and after the lack of good news since the plant closed, we could all do with a good night out. The lads had gone down earlier and by the time I arrived, the hall was nearly full.

At the door Dolly gladly took my basket and emptied the contents onto the table for the pot-luck. Considering the times we were in there was a good spread. A ring had been erected at the far end of the hall and the chairs set out close by were already full. A local comedian stood in the ring going through his routine to warm up the crowd. Everyone seemed in the mood to laugh at the familiar old jokes. Three hundred sweaty bodies in the already warm room had created an equally familiar odour.

My eldest saw me and moved across to where I stood on the edge of the crowd. His usual greeting was a high-five but that night he just said “There is something you should know Ma.” I waited but he seemed not to know how to continue. His pause was fatal because at that moment a roar went up from the crowd as the MC for the night announced the arrival of the fighters in the ring. 

Conversation now no longer possible, he turned from me and looked at the ring and my eyes followed his gaze. Horrified my legs turned to jelly and I grabbed hold of him to steady myself. Jimmy was being introduced as the first challenger of the night. Jimmy wasn't a boxer. My little Jimmy was strong and a hard grafter and his half naked torso was impressive but he is not a fighter.

I made to push my way to the front but Tom, my eldest, kept my arm in a restraining hold.

“Its what he wants to do Ma.”

They were saying all sorts of nonsense about the forthcoming battle. The announcer, now in overdrive continued, “How will our first young challenger fare against old bruiser Bates here. Has this fine young figure of a man got what it takes? It is for you to judge. Bets now being taken.”

I could take no more. Someone said that having two sons would sooner or later give you heartache; I now knew the truth of that saying. I looked longingly at Tom and shook my head. A stoic grin froze his familiar features from me. I turned and headed for the door, ignoring all in the hall around me.

Exiting I felt the cold hit me like a wall. I made my slowly up the familiar road home, the poorly lit street uninviting in the gloom. All the while my mind a whirl of emotions. I knew anxiety, fear and at the same time annoyance with myself for not being able to stay and watch.

I thought of little Jimmy as an infant. His small hands, his kindness and his gentleness with smaller children. I remembered his early school days. I recalled the day he had come home with a cut on his knee where he had fallen on a cinder path. I remembered how I bathed his injuries and bandaged up the hurt. How it hurt me then to see him hurt. How much I shared his pain.

And now he would be being hurt as I trudged up the hill. His body, so soft and perfect would be bruised and sore.

But I was more than angry. The fight night had not been explained to me as a competition. The last time we had a fight night at the club a couple of professionals put on a great show in the ring. They were good. They had planned the moves and we were caught up in the staged action. Neither of them was hurt. It was show business. Something at the back of my mind hinted that prizefights had been made illegal. Did that happen? Or was that some liberal politician pleading for a lost cause. If it were true then Jimmy could not only get hurt but end up in the dock as well.

When I arrived home I decided to be practical. I emptied the first aid box, such as it was, and looked at the poor assortment of plasters and ointments we owned. How I hoped we would have enough.

Then I had to wait. Tom would bring Jimmy home. Tom looked after his little brother. I should be there to look after them both but I couldn't face having to watch the pain. I stared at the embers of the fire and tried to block from my mind the dire thoughts of what was happening at the hall.

Every minute seemed like an hour and the chimes of my mothers old clock on every quarter seemed hours apart. Perhaps I slept a little or at least dozed but eventually the door opened and I jumped from my chair.

Jimmy was leaning on Tom and he looked exhausted. There were grey rings under his eyes and dried blood on his nose. His face had the beginnings of puffiness and I knew it would look much worse in the morning. But he was standing.

He handed me a bag.
“What is this?” I asked.
He sank into the chair I had recently vacated and muttered through swollen lips, “I won Ma. I won.”
The bag was full of a large bundle of notes.
I was speechless but I have hated all boxing since that night.

RISK

To laugh is to risk appearing the fool,
To weep is to risk being called sentimental.
To reach out to another is to risk involvement.
To expose feelings is to risk showing your true self.
To place your ideas and your dreams before the crowd is to risk being called naive.
To love is to risk not being loved in return,
To live is to risk dying,
To hope is to risk despair,
To try is to risk failure

But risks must be taken, because the greatest risk in life is to risk nothing.
The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing, is nothing, and becomes nothing.
He may avoid suffering and sorrow, but he simply cannot learn, feel, change, grow or love.
Chained by his certitude, he is a slave; he has forfeited his freedom.
Only the person who risks is truly free.

This inspirational piece is often attributed to the poet and thinker, Leo Buscaglia, however, I believe the author was Janet Rand.

My photo from the Hebrides, Scotland.