For various reasons, most of them good, it has felt of late that I've have at best misplaced, and possibly lost, the plot.  This was epitomised by the realisation that I had planned (?!) to be in two venues, 360 miles apart, simultaneously...  In the noise of the gaudy quiz show 'uh-err'; in the noise of a former radio programme 'quack quack oops.'

As I have said to various of my lovely Gatherers, I you find a plot lying around somewhere let me know, it just might be mine...!

Just now and again little miracles happen - well that is to say, we notice them when they do.

Just now and again we glimpse the mystery of how God works in, through, with and despite us.

Yesterday was one such day.

I always worry if my work mobile phone rings after 10p.m. - who is dead or dying!  But this was someone who is sufficiently otherworldly that the hour would not even have been noticed, it was, thankfully only 10:30, and, because I had some visitors, I was still up!

A haitus had been overcome through the grace of three angels, and a person who every now and then undergoes radical shifts of opinion had made one.

As the title of a song I never learned because the grammar appalled me would express it, 'ain't God good'.

I had an 'interesting' conversation today about all age worship with someone who isn't keen on the idea.  All of which got me wondering how the gospels might have looked if Jesus hadn't been so keen either...

And immediately it came to pass that, after these things, people were bringing their children to Jesus for him to bless them.  Some of the babies were hungry so they cried; some of the toddlers were tired, so they grizzled; some of the parents were at their wits' end so they snapped at their little ones.  And Jesus was much miffed at the interruption to the (three chapters long) sermon he was preaching and glowered at parents and children alike.  His voice rose in volume and pitch as he uttered 'let the little ones come unto to me for a maximum of fifteen minutes then take them away for age-appropriate entertainment so that the adults get their turn uninterrupted by grizzles and wails and, heaven forbid, breast-feeding.'  And the parents' faces spoke volumes, and the toddlers wept because they had been promised stories, and the babies sensed the atmosphere and wailed all the louder.  And it came to pass that, after these things, upon the green grass where the multitude had gathered, there were no children, and no parents and the crowd grew ever quieter and smaller - but at least Jesus could be heard by those who remained...

Thank goodness it wasn't like that.

I do appreciate that wails and grizzles can be distracting, that children do need to learn that worship is not play time (though hopefully it can be fun) and that some people are embarrassed by 'mothers of today' who feed in public.  But what really winds me up isn't any of the above - it's the fifty-pluses who chatter all through the service, root through their bags for their offering during the intercessions and moan about the hymn choices.  So now you know!

Next challenge - how to explain this graciously....!

I know this is very much a minority voice, and I do want to respond kindly, but it's not so easy when I am convinced that the way we have collectively agreed to go in this respect is so utterly right and so utterly gospel.

OK. Rant over.

17th century Baptists weren't much into singing; they weren't even keen on metrical psalms or, indeed, anything liturgical written after the Bible.  Benjamin Keach liked singing it seems (though what he wrote made the worst of contemporary praise songs look good) and became embroiled in a long and sophisticated theological debate with one Isaac Marlow over the legitimacy not merely of singing, but of using 'pre-printed formes'.  Mr Marlow was of the opinion that singing was an inner experience, that at most one person might be permitted to sing aloud, provided his (it must be a 'he') faith was certain and his theology sound as a pound, and he wasn't reading from a book...

So he'd approve of this coming Sunday evening we we aren't singing at all in our service... though whether he'd approve of my other musical choices I very much doubt!  We will end with a recording of a convicts' choir singing a celtic-style blessing...

One of our overseas young people yesterday returned from a two week visit home with this gift for me.  I've never before seen commerical gifts for the pastor (though I've had one or two 'pastor' Christmas cards) and I was really touched by his thoughtfulness.  I think it's a intriguing comment on how 'pastors' are viewed in another country/culture.