Yesterday I attended, via Zoom, a hybrid conference of Baptists doing theology.  There were all sorts of papers and some were of especial interest, relating to Church Meetings and to Preaching.  It was the latter that especially resonated, with its focus on dishonesty in preaching.  Three broad categories of dishonesty were explored, using metaphors...

• Dishonesty as banality: The herd and the preacher as drug-dealer
• Dishonesty as manipulation: The gang and the preacher as propagandist
• Dishonesty as disowning: The innocent and the preacher as beautician

Whether or not anyone likes the analogies (chosen deliberately to be provactive by the speaker) or the categories (derived from literature) the temptation to dishonesty among/by preachers is very real.  In my experience (now more than quarter of a century) it's there in congregations too - honesty can be too challenging (this was noted by the speaker).

So, what are my dishonesties?

When I was a student doing Biblical studies, my tutor pointed out to me that I tended to do all the work then step back from the conclusion... I am certainly guilty of that as a preacher, partly because my own fragile ego, people-pleasing tendencies and need to be liked mean that I have all too often backed away from the challenge, having been accused (a long time ago in another place) of telling people off.  So yes, banality and innocence can be my dishonesties.

It's good to pause and reflect on this  to be reminded that it's easy to fall into these traps not because we are lazy or willfully dishonest, but because we are finite and flawed.

 As preachers - and as those preached to - I wonder what it is that we need to reflect upon if we are to grow and flourish? 

In November I began an experiment that will run for six months, whereby I have an 'open house' drop in thingy on the first Saturday of the month.  The aim is to allow church folk to meet up and chat and/or to share a simple lunch.

I felt 'convicted' to attempt this whilst preparing some serivces thinking about hospitality and, in part, as a response to the cost of living crisis.  I firmly belive that God is calling me to this - and at the same time fully open to it 'failing', if success is measured on how many people come or how often.

The first Souper Saturday no-one came, which I had half expected - it was quite short notice.  But it was still good to set aside the time, make the soup and be present rather than rushing around.

The second Souper Saturday there were half a dozen of us, some calling in for a cuppa, and others for lunch.  Conversation was good and we laughed as we discussed the merits of 'smooth' or 'lumpy' leek and potato soup.

Today was the third Souper Saturday, and the photo shows soup is bubbling away in my slow cooker.  I also had festive goodies donated by a neighbour. As well as folk from church, a friend who is a healthcare chaplain was in the area asked if it was okay to drop in.  A good blether was shared, along with bowls of thick lentil soup.

I don't know how this experiment will work out, and that's fine.  It's just important to me to follow what I believe to be God's call at this time.

It's been interesting reading posts on social media, and listene=ing to/watching broadcast media, as people have reflected on 2022.  For some it has been charactersied by joy, happpiness, success and vitality.  For others is has been sadness, loss, disappointment and regret.  For most, I suspect, it's been just another year, with some highs, some lows and a lot of nothing much.

For me it has been very mixed - the good bits better and the bad bits worse than I might have imagined.  And not just in terms of ministry, but in life as a whole.

I find myself strangely reticent to name any of the specifics.

Today I caught the end of the film of C S Lewis 'Shadowlands' and was reminded of these words:

'Why love if losing hurts so much? I have no answers any more. Only the life I have lived. Twice in that life I’ve been given the choice: as a boy and as a man. The boy chose safety, the man chooses suffering. The pain now is part of the happiness then. That’s the deal.'

In one of his books, 'The Four Loves' he wrote

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

This year has been characersied by a lot of loss as well as a lot of love... the two are inter-related.

I chose the photo here because it's a sunrise at or around thewinter solstice - even in the darkest days the sun rises and hope is born anew.

As we slip into 2023, the sun will rise, and the love of God will be as fresh new as it is every single day - and that's one certain promise to carry with me.

Wishing anyone who reads this a happy, hopeful, peaceful, joyful and above all love-filled New Year.

This poor neglected blog - yet I have discovered that some faithful folk still drop by from time to time, so I have once more renewed my subscription.

The pandemic and the (voluntary and chosen) demands of church social media presence have meant no energy for this, and that’s sad. So I am going to ‘try harder’ in the months ahead to return to blogging. 

The photo is my ‘bus pass’ as we get them at 60 in Scotland! I am officially old and that’s a blessing denied too many people. So, as a somewhat grumpy old woman, I will endeavour to post something regularly if not frequently.

Wishing you a healthy and hopeful 2023 when it arrives.

It's been too long - life took precedence over blogging or even pretty much anything non-essential.  Anyway, here is a poem for Advent, not one I'm using for church, but well worth a read...

In the Days of Ceasar by Waldo William tr. Rown Williams

In the days of Caesar
By Waldo Williams, translated Rowan Williams

In the days of Caesar, when his subjects went to be reckoned,
there was a poem made, too dark for him (naive with power)
      to read
It was a bunch of shepherds who discovered
in Bethlehem of Judah, the great music beyond reason and
      reckoning:
shepherds, the sort of folk who leave the ninety-nine behind
so as to bring the stray back home, dawning toward cock-crow,
the birthday of the Lamb of God, shepherd of mortals.

Well, little people, and my nation, can you see
The secret buried in you, that no Caesar ever captures in his lists?
Will not the shepherd come to fetch us in our desert,
Gathering us in to give us birth again, weaving us into one
In a song heard in the sky over Bethlehem?
He seeks us out as wordhoard for his workmanship, the laureate
     of heaven

May God bless us with poetry and prose to warm our hearts and refresh our souls.