At the Baptist Assembly we were invited to add names of churches, colleges, Associations, chaplaincy settings etc to one of two large wooden crosses that will, this year, travel across the land.  I *may* have added two churches, but then I have been in pastorate at both in the last twelve months... and the one I no longer serve will always have a very special place in my heart.

Photo by BUGB.

This weekend I was in Telford with a thousand or so other Baptists for the BUGB/BMS Assembly.  I had a good time.  I caught up with a lot of friends.  I sang songs that annoyed me and songs that inspired me.  I listened to wise people speaking gracious words.  I was challenged.  I was encouraged.  I laughed.  I felt sadness.  I felt joy.  And as I left I found myself reminded that these are crazy people - but they are my crazy people, and Iove them.

One of my abiding memories of my first visit to meet the church in Glasgow was the abundance of beautiful rhododendrons in full bloom at the end of April.  For whatever reason, in Glasgow they bloom early... and are always beautiful.

My garden here in Cheshire has a singe rhododendron, and now in mid May it's coming into bloom, and it, too, is beautiful.

So I remember, and I rejoice... so many good memories of so many special times and well-loved people (and yes, there were a few 'moments' of course there were)... and I am grateful.

On Tuesday I was meant to lead worship at college, but Covid stranded me at home.  On Sunday, one way or another, I will leading worship for church.  Both draw on some of the same resources to think about the Ascension, and mostly, what's the 'so what' of it.

I've used the Dali image (above) along with this poem, which I stumbled across whilst looking for the image:

When he levitated toward the sunflower sun
Christ’s toes were perfect. Not a hint of hallux
varus or valgus, not a speck of fungus. His soles
were filthy, of course, like ours. He’d been out
strolling for miles. And we stood stupid. Waved
like he was going on safari or an Aegean cruise.
Still wearing the little loincloth. Nothing else
to weigh him down. No ballast. Hands clutching
everyone, everything, invisible zero G baggage.

Later, when burning seeds rained down and pigeon
feathers bleated fugues, we remembered. All of it.

You can find the original post of the poem here

The one significant 'beef' I have with the Dali is that Jesus doesn't have wounded feet.  They are dusty, but they are unblemished... where are the crucifixion marks?  I won't be majoring on this on Sunday, that's not why I'm showing the image or using the poem, but it matters to me that the resurrected Christ is scarred, wounded, permanently marked by the experience.  Matters because it fits the scriptural record, and matters because we are all wounded, all injured, marked, hurt and vulnerable - and we need a saviour who actually 'gets it'.