On Saturday I was doing a bit of sad narcissistic Googling (I'm everyone does they just have more sense than to admit it) with my name and that of our church.  Most of what popped up was obvious but I found one mention of a website that spoke very negatively of us becuase, shock horror, in my predecessor's time some attention had been given to green issues.  As I explored that site, I discovered that basically anyone who didn't share their exact views was a heretic, so we were in the good company of Rowan Williams, Tony Campolo, Steve Chalke and the Alpha Course to name but four.

According to the website (a blog, it was a couple of comments that referred to us) we are in a state of terminal decline, which is sad really because actually we are growing.  Yesterday during the offering I did a sneaky headcount and there were ~60 adults even though several were out with the children and a lot more were on holiday.  We had the delight of receiving someone into membership - the third since I arrived so around a 5% increase in 'formal' membership in that time, not counting the growing number of attenders.

So, the happy heretics are alive and well and worshipping in Glasgow.  There's always room for one more and the doors are open...

Today's service focussed on the parable of the sower/soils.  A familiar story, and one of the few where the Bible offers us an explanation, so finding something new to say is always something of a challenge.  My new angle came to me one day as I was walking to church, and involves stepping back from the story in order to glimpse a new pespective.

So, I chose to centre on the farmer - someone who knows his trade and knows his land.  He knows that there are weeds at the edge of the field; he knows where the rocks are; he even knows the reality that flocks of birds will arrive on the lookout for an easy meal.  He also knows the value of the seed - saved from a past harvest, packed with potential, incredibly precious and containing his future hope.   So here is his choice: to go out and broadcast the seed - knowing that some will be gobbled by the birds, knowing that some will be trodden under foot, knowing that some will be choked by the weeds - or to keep it safe in a barn and miss out on the hidden potential.  He chooses risk - feeds the birds (and probably the slugs or other garden creatures), watches as the weeds stifle some of the tiny seedlings and hopes for harvest.  And so it happens... full grain in the ear, enough to feed the family, enough to sell to pay the workers and enough for another year's planting.

So, do we keep the seed safe in the store or do we choose the risky option: do we cast it widely, knowing some will never get the chance to germinate let alone reach the harvest?  Perhaps there are two polar dangers we face, one that we cast our seed without the expectation of harvest, the other that fear paralyses our courage to choose risk; in either case we miss reaping the reward that makes possible another season of planting...

We are planning what is technically termed an 'animally' theme at church for part of the summer into early autumn and whilst I have some ideas on where I'd like to go within that very broad remit (some animal images/metaphors used to speak of God; some of the fish-y stories in the gopsels, and so on) I feel there does need to be something looking at ethics.  There is a bit of creation care stuff on the BMS website and some decidely cranky (in most meanings of the word) stuff on the web but I'm not entirely sure where to find something useful.  Any ideas anyone?

There are so many 'animally' stories in the Bible that this is potentially a very exciting strand to explore... but I'm not planning on a pet blessing service, not least as the thought of little Johnnie's gerbil being eaten by Maisie's cat does not bear thinking about...!!  So, to those who thought I had finally really become the Vicar of Dibley, sorry, but no.

Whilst trying to find the music for Fred Kaan's hymn 'The Church is like a Table' (I've now ordered a copy of a book with it in) I stumbled across this alternative version thereof:

“The church is like a table,

a table that is round.”

Its sides defy detection

yet many feel rejection;

the signs of imperfection

are all too clearly found.

The church is like a table

a table sadly square;

with diners often chiding

at who should be presiding,

dogmatically dividing

the one Lord who is there.

The church is like a sideboard,

a sideboard that is stocked

with promises long broken,

apologies unspoken

and souls too long un-woken.

Alas that past is locked.

The church is like a sofa,

a sofa that is old,

with corners holding treasure

discovered at your leisure;

despite these signs of pleasure

there was no age of gold.

The church is like a freezer

attempting to preserve

the memory of years when

the aisles were full of chairs then;

but now they muster scarce ten

with little in reserve.

The church is really people

most probably appalled

at all this gentle slander -

but semper reformanda

we glimpse the vision’s grandeur,

to God’s tomorrow called.

(c) Peter Brain, 2004:

So, what would you add as your verse?

Events in Cumbria this week have given a lot of people pause for thought.  Behind the headlines, the speculations, the accusations and the anger are a lot of grieving people, people who need love and support and space.  For the rest of us there is a reminder both of the fragility of life and the fragility of what is generally termed sanity... but for the grace of God any one of us could be at either end of a lethal weapon, pushed beyond what we can bear, fearing for our lives...

Twice, in as many days, I have travelled through Cumbria by train, enjoying the rolling hills beneath azure blue skies, noting the tiny white dots of sheep and the wiggly lines of dry-stone walls.  Despite the tragedy, it is still a beautiful area in which people live quiet lives in reasonable harmony one with another.

As I sat on a train today, mulling over these events and my time away, I found myself recalling a moment a couple of years back when I was doing some hopsital visiting in Leicester.  Two older men were nearing the end of their lives, and I had spent some time with each offering, as best I could, support and comfort to the families.  Walking back through the long corridors, I passed a young woman clutching a scan photograph in one hand as she talked excitedly about the new life growing inside her.  Joy and sorrow, hope and fear, life and death, always cheek by jowl.  Perspective or somesuch, not a ying-yang balance as if one cancels out the other, because it doesn't, just a reality that extremes and in betweens will always co-exist.

Whenever I visit someone who is sick - especially if the prognosis is poor - and whenever I conduct a funeral I am reminded of my own vulnerability and mortality.  Whenever I see excited children wishing a train journey over so the adventure can begin I am reminded both of life and vitality (is that tautology? probably) and of the cavalier way we treat life (how many times were all of us told off for wishing our lives away when we were younger?).  For the person who wants the day over with, there is always someone who'd love just a few moments more.  I chatted to a few folk on the trains I travelled on, some were on their way back to resume an extended holiday after attending a funeral, others were visiting family, others were returning from work; conversations I overheard ranged from the trivial to the profound... life in all its fullness was, I suspect, on the 08:56 ex-Northampton and the 11:20 ex-Birmingham.

It's corny in extremis to say 'life is a gift, that's what it's called the present' but actually all we do have is 'now' and it does me no harm to reflect on that.