Way back when, there was a hymn we sang at church (Awake, awake to love and work) that had the line with which I have titled this post.  It seems today I have seen something of what this means and elicits.

This afternoon we had our quarterly songs of praise service at the local sheltered complex followed by tea.  As usual we took no collection and tea was free.  As usual we gave people left over cake to take home.  But slowly things are changing in a good way.  Someone offered to make a dozen book marks for our charity coffee morning (on Wednesday) and someone else offered ten hand made cards.  Someone asked if they could come to our normal service next week.  We took tea to three people who hadn't been well enough to come down to the service and someone complained that she wanted to give to give some money!

When we began doing stuff for free, and no collection, people looked at me as if I was mad, thought I'd lost the plot and that we'd be taken advantage of.  Now we simply give and give and give again - and it rubs off, a tray of cakes arrives, a pound coin is slipped to the organiser to buy the milk or bread, the spare sandwiches are sent to a homeless project rather than being greedily grabbed by someone for tomorrow's packed lunch.  Freely you have received, freely give.  I almost skipped home in the sunshine, I was so delighted with the change these years have wrought.

Someone in church told me about the woman on 'Britain's Got Talent' with the stunning voice.  Several people have posted links to You Tube copies of the performance and commented on the tension of human obsession with the body beautiful and disparagement of those who don't fit our preconceived notions.  I admire Susan Boyle's courage in entering the competition, enduring the insults and patronising comments and I also admire what seems to me to be some sense of admission by two of three judges that they had been guilty of  dismissing her based on appearance and nervous gaucheness (though some commentators say even these comments were patronising).  Today I was really annoyed to hear a news report refer to her as 'the singing spinster' in a way that suggested something odd and pitiable.  Maybe it just pressed my own buttons - Susan is a 47 year old single woman and I'm a 46 year old single woman - but I don't why someone should be defined by those details (this information was, in any case, elicited from questions the judges asked her).  So, for the record, anyone who dares to refer to me as a preaching spinster may discover the entire set of Barth's Church Dogmatics engaging with their cranium from great height!  (Granted I'd have to purchase it first!)

Why can't we just say 'newly discovered singer Susan Boyle' and value her for who she is rather than insult her (and all the other single woman past an undefined 'certain age') by making her marital status in to a veiled insult?  I can't quite work out why to be young, stereotypically gorgeous and single is good but to be middle aged, average looking and single is to be pitied, but such comments make me more than a little bit mad (in case you had failed to notice).

As I type away I find myself recalling a some words of Isaiah about the LORD's servant who was not much to look at (no stately form, no majesty, marred appearance, etc).  Which is interesting to ponder.  Would Jesus have been equally patronised in a society obsessed by the body beautiful and the apparent necessity of a significant other?.  Hmm.

Finally the sale of our church building  has been accomplished.  As it actually happened on Maundy Thursday (though the solicitor told us yesterday!) I think I can be permitted my Johannine acclamation.  Worth interrupting my break to tell the world I think.

Had a pleasant three day walk across the midlands despite some abysmal way marking (or lack thereof) and faulty directions in the guidebook (on entering the field, walk straight ahead for 100m then bear slightly left to the stile...er no; on entering the field turn hard right to walk to the far (diagonal) corner and at the last moment slightly left to find the stile hidden in the bushes...)  Still, that was all accomplished too and justified some rather large meals on the way.

This morning's service was a delight to lead - we had to get out extra chairs as there were 30 of us, despite several being absent, including one or two infrequent folk.  I had 30 plastic eggs containing mini-eggs to give away - I must have known!

At the start of the service we had the opportunity to express our thoughts and feelings on white paper eggs that were gathered with the money offering and laid at the foot of a life-height cross in the centre of the circle of chairs.  Some named people on their hearts, some wrote expressions of praise, several expressed the tensions that they felt.  Here are some of the pairings, some slightly rephrased.

Anxiety and optimism

Worry and contentment

Fear and gratitude

Spiritual fulfilment and physical unwellness

Fear and trust

Numbness and hopefulness

Had I read these before I had preached, I wouldn't have needed to, for they say all that is needful to hear: resurrection joy is what allows us to hold these tensions knowing that God is with us in the struggles and ahead of us in the promise.

I hope my sermon engaged these people in their need and vulnerability, honesty and strength; I hope that their resurrection joy will sustain them on the path ahead.

Christ is risen - we believe, Lord help our unbelief.

Easter Saturday, Holy Saturday, call it what you will, it is the day of the Easter weekend that Christians don't know what to do with.  (I know that's abysmal sentence structure but you know what I mean).  My own best/worst Holy Saturday was in 2001 when I worked with an RC church and actually experienced something of its real desolation.  Yet, lest we be too hard on ourselves, part of the problem is that we know the happy ending and can't pretend otherwise - Holy Saturday can only be truly experienced in our own places of not knowing.

This year, Holy Saturday is significant in my little church in at least two ways.

I have one family in the waiting phase - a loved one has died but the funeral cannot take place until 'after the feast.'  This may have been an elderly relative whose life was drawing imperceptibly closer to its end, but the helplessness and enforced waiting are no less than had a young person been snatched in the prime of life.

I also have a scattering of ashes service to take around midday.  We will gather underneath a leaden sky in a graveyard first used almost three centuries ago to plant a tree and liberate the ashes of someone who died last year.  There has been a long wait for this, a searching for a 'right time' when those who wish to share can be present, a searching for how to release the last tangible link with a wife and mother who was indeed snatched away at a fairly young age.

Today will be a holy Saturday, a God-space for these two families.  For one there is the knowledge that, symbolically anyway, the Marys wait with them; for the other there is the moment of 'it is finished' as they release the past, trust in the future promises of God and live the present.

For neither family will Holy Saturday be the same as before - nor will it for me.  As I add more layers of experience and, hopefully, understanding, this day becomes more not less significant and its confusing silence more profound.