Palm Sunday

Palm Sunday in the Minster was as usual a grand event. The visitors, the music, the colour, the choir singing, the priests processing in, all clutching their dried palm branches which were then ceremoniously plunged into a large container of sand, looking not unlike Christmas trees in a strange way except of course, they did not have baubles on or a fairy on the top….by the way, has anyone seen the Easter Crackers you can now buy in Tesco – what is that all about?
The thought occurred to me that when our Lord rode into Jerusalem on a donkey, palm branches would be ‘the’ things that you waved around to mark something spectacular happening –the equivalent of football scarves or even underwear if you are a fan of Tom Jones (I am not suggesting anything here!). ‘What’ I pondered as the Passion was sung, ‘would we greet our Lord with today?’ I was not oblivious to the fact that there were two other ‘waving’ opportunities in the news this week – on the one hand the G20 protests where we have seen those who waved their banners in protest carefully managed or ‘kettled’ I think is the phrase used and hidden away in corrals by those in authority, where they sought solace in each other as they were trapped for hours until later when they allowed to travel on. On the other hand, the funeral of Jade Goody which looked remarkably similar to the funeral of Princess Diana in many respects with flowers being thrown onto the car which carried her body and the service in which last respects were paid and testimony given was relayed to the crowds waiting outside. The crowds there were not ‘kettled’ and neither were they hidden as they sought solace in each other.
I found myself wondering how one could square the circle of grief that overcomes those who feel moved to protest because our world is on the brink of ecological and financial disaster, a world that sustains and nourishes us and yet are silenced and those who grieve so publically about someone they have never met yet, becoming part of some surreal family, the head of which has shared their living and their dying in such a voyeuristic fashion …where in all this would I be waving my palm?

Christmas fast approaches and as I wander through the City streets, I am left pondering on the question of just how many people know who this Christ is that we celebrate with a frenzy of spending and eating and drinking and being merry. How much of the life of Jesus is known to the world beyond the cute nativity scenes played out in schools and churches across the land, where damp eyed parents adoringly watch their offspring place a fluffy lamb or a shiny gold present at the foot of a crib? Are they aware that this is the family forced to flee from their ‘plush’ stable because the security services were after them...that the babe lying in this manger is the same boy who ran away from home to hang out in the company of older men to try and learn a little more about life, God and himself terrifying his mother in the process....and the same man who lived at a time where troops from another country occupied his homeland and where corruption and injustice were a way of life... the same man that had this big religious experience, setting off with a rag-tag group of folk to try and persuade those he met to see with their own eyes what was really happening around them and to seek the way of God once more....the same man who upset local community leaders, particularly the older men he used to hang out with, and caused trouble where ever he went because he befriended the poor and the powerless, encouraging them to challenge the systems they were living under... the same man who caused riots and who was arrested and executed because he was a threat to national security. This babe lying in the manger would grow up and know what it was like to be homeless, lonely, and depressed...know what it was to take a beating, to be without food and the object of ridicule and hatred. But, he also would know that God loved him and because God loved him, he loved others. He loved others so much that it would cost him his life for fighting their corner. As Christians we all know this story well but I still meet those who are disciples of this babe, this man, this Christ child who are not quite able to bring themselves to believe that God loves them so madly, deeply that Jesus died fighting their corner too...those that cannot quite bring themselves to believe that there is nothing they must do to make God love them more, or, that there is nothing that they can do that will make God love them less.

I often say to people ‘I shall stick you on my prayer mat’ from time to time. This is not a passing platitude to bring a pastoral conversation to a neat end nor is it an idle threat! I actually do have a prayer mat – a gift from a Muslim friend in Bradford many years ago and it is similar to many prayer mats found in Mosques or Muslim homes all over the world. I do not actually kneel on it – mine is on the wall of my study and serves as a symbol and a reminder of the need to pray constantly and on it there are post-its with people’s names on or situations that I am holding before God in particular at that time, so when I say ‘I shall stick you on my prayer mat’ that is exactly what happens. Your name goes on a post-it and is stuck on the prayer mat. Each New Year’s Eve, I try to spend the evening in prayer, holding those people and situations that I have encountered over the past year before God, seeking out the times when I have felt God most present and also those times where I felt the presence of God least; giving thanks for those time of abundance and joy and also seeking forgiveness for those time where I have not responded well or behaved in such a way that causes me regret. I also try and pray for others, and my prayer this New Year will be that we can know afresh the deep, passionate love that God has for each one of us and that in turn, that love may release in us not only a love for other, but for ourselves too. So, how can I pray for you? What is it that you would like me to pray for? Drop me a line – it does not have to have your name on it if you would rather not – and let me know how I can pray for you and I shall stick you on my prayer mat.

‘In two thousand years, millions have followed the star, searched for the stable, discovered the newborn child...and yet, from generation to generation across the passing centuries, the joy never dies, the good news never loses its power to bring us to our knees in adoration...for each time a searching heart finds Christ the Saviour, the angels sing, heaven rejoices and Christmas, blessed Christmas come again.’ B.J. Hoff

The beautiful game shamed...

I am the only one left scratching my head in bewilderment as the world of politics and tribal warfare is increasing played out on the football pitch?

Last nights news of another Arab royal family buying a football club, pledging their unlimited wealth to make it the biggest club in the world, immediately signing a player for an unspeakably obscene amount of money was breathtaking in its speed.

Premiership football is arguably one of the biggest world stages and on it we find that battle lines have been drawn for world domination....Arab royal family v's Arab royal family, Arab royal family v's Russian oligarch, Arab royal family v's USA businessmen... Wake up people to what is happening here.

What has happened to the beautiful game...what of your average fan turning up faithfully each Saturday to support their team, squeezed out by corporate 'hospitality'?

The only winners in this seem to be the players who sell themselves to the highest bidder. When women do this they are called prostitutes.

Mixing with prostitutes and accepting hospitality was something that Jesus was famous for. There was always sting in the tail however....prostitutes had to go away and sin no more, ceasing what they were doing because it was devaluing them as human beings. As for hospitality...well, when the rich and the famous were bored or no longer had the time to come to the banquet, the beggars off the street are given pride of place.

New beginnings....

Each August, there is the great Methodist tradition of the annual game of musical chairs, but without the music and involving houses not chairs. It goes like this....the removal van turns up at the Manse (home of the minister and family however one might want to define family) and the residents - minister, family, cats, dogs, etc. all decamp to another Manse somewhere else in the country ready to begin a new appointment and ready to begin the new Methodist year which runs from September to August. This is called ''itinerancy' - another great Methodist tradition in which ministers submit themselves to a process around every five years which could see them working anywhere in the country. When our golden years are upon us, retirement some call it, we cease to be itinerant and seek permission from the Methodist Conference to 'sit-down'.
A quaint tradition which means new beginning are always just around the corner.

I am conscious that the new Methodist year is now upon us...new staff are in place, newly painted homes occupied, new telephone numbers remembered and there is much change afoot as many ministers consider whether they want to remain in their current appointments or travel once more, and other having made that decision wait upon their Lord (and the stationing committee!) to direct and guide them to new appointments.
Yet more wait, anxious because this is the first time they have entered this process and do not know quite what to expect.

I am reading a volume written by the Irish poet John O'Donohue called 'Benedictus' and in it he offers a timely reminder to me, to us all about new beginnings.

He writes...'Beginnings often frighten us because they seem like lonely voyages into the unknown. Yet, in truth, no beginning is empty or isolated. We seem to think that beginning is a setting out from a lonely point along some line of direction into the unknown. This is not the case. Shelter and energy come alive when a beginning is embraced. Goeth says that once the commitment is made, destiny conspires with us to support and realize it. We are never alone in our beginnings as it might seem at the time. A beginning is ultimately an invitation to open toward the gifts and growth that are stored up for us. To refuse to begin can be an act of great self-neglect.'

God bless our endings and our beginnings

Christ have mercy...

I took myself off to Edinburgh for a couple of days, enjoying the atmosphere of the Festival even though the rain came, and then the rain came, and then the rain came again....found myself in the Scottish Parliament (escaping from the rain). If you like your architecture contemporary and brutal, angular and in your face, this is the building for you. It is quite stunning although not sure many of those who have had to pay the bill for this building would agree. However, as you walk into the large foyer, you are greeted by a space which has a low vaulted ceiling - not unlike that you might expect to find in the wine cellar of a large vineyard, made from polished concrete. It had scattered randomly over the ceiling large crosses in relief and to me made made a very clear statement about the Christian influence in Scotland. This was a Christian nation it said.

As this is Festival time in Edinburgh, the Parliament had joined in too and there was a Festival of Politics going on which included amongst other things, an exhibition of the 2008 world Press Photo competition winners. These photographs were stunning and disturbing. Painful to look at yet compulsive viewing. This was not a collection of snaps that you could just glance at then immediately forget. More than once I found myself in front of an image with tears flowing down my cheeks as I engaged with the photograph - 80 year old Thabita carries her cat, the only possession she was able to salvage when her home burned down in Mathone, Nairobi during the recent unrest there; Benazir Bhutto addresses the crowd from her vehicle just as the bomb explores that kills her; Philomena waiting for an abortion having been raped twice...so the captions go on. These images that violated humanity juxtaposed with the crosses cut into the ceiling and I found myself saying 'Christ have mercy...' as I prayed through the image now carved into my soul.

To look at these photos yourself, either jump on a train to the Scottish Parliament or, follow this link.

http://www.worldpressphoto.org/index.php?option=photogallery&task=blogsection&id=18&Itemid=187=bandwidth=high

Lord have Mercy.
Lord have Mercy.
Christ have Mercy.

Corrymeela

It has been a long time since I wrote anything here....life gets in the way and you loose the habit!

Still, back again having just returned from a week's volunteering with the Corrymeela Community in Ballycastle being what is called the 'cover' person. What this involves is basically being responsible for the Health and Safety and hospitality in the Centre. If there's a fire, the Cover sorts it. If there is an accident, the Cover sorts it. If there are visitors to the Centre wanting a guided tour, the Cover sorts it...so on and so forth - a support person who is watchful rather than busy. I say a week's volunteering but what I really mean is a week of listening to some of the most heart rending, love filled, hope inducing stories I have heard in ages...a week of witnessing love in action as teenage boys are shown 'good touching' by being taught to massage their mums; as young children experience gentle care at the hands of men when significant male figures are either missing or are the cause of great pain in their lives...a week of leading and being led in simple acts of worship where the presence of God was palpable even when the name of God was never uttered. What joy - what unspeakable joy and I am left wondering who was the volunteer here...me or the groups that came to Corrymeela. I certainly felt more cared for than caring...and the fire alarm never went off once!

Prayer

'nuff said....

think deeply, speak gently, love much, work hard, give freely and be kind

Someone sent me a chain email today - these are things that I usually do not read but on this occasion I did. Here it is reproduced and adapted in to something more 'Sue shaped'!

'The other day a young person asked me how I felt about being old. I was taken aback, for I do not think of myself as old. Upon seeing my reaction, she was immediately embarrassed, but I explained that it was an interesting question, and I would ponder it, and let her know.
Old age, I decided, is a gift.I am now, probably for the first time in my life, the person I have always wanted to be. I sometimes despair over my body, the wrinkles, the stretch marks and the saggy boobs. And often I am taken aback by that older person that lives in my mirror but I don't agonize over those things for long.I would never trade my amazing friends, my wonderful life, or my loving family for less grey hair or a flatter tum.
As I've aged, I've become kinder to myself, and less critical of myself. I've be come my own friend. I no longer chide myself for an impulse buy or for eating a bar of chocolate, or, for that matter drinking an extra glass of port! I have seen too many dear friends leave this world too soon, before they understood the great freedom that comes with aging.
Whose business is it if I choose to read or play on the computer until 4AM and sleep until noon? I will dance with myself to those wonderful tunes of the 60 & 70s; and if I, at the same time, wish to weep over a lost love... I will. I will walk the beach in a swim suit that is a comfortable fit over a curvaceous body, and will splash about in the waves with abandon if I choose to, despite the pitying glances from the ‘beautiful people’ …they, too, will get old one day.
I know I am sometimes forgetful. But there again, some of life is just as well forgotten. And I eventually remember the import ant things. Yes, over the years my heart has been broken but broken hearts are what give us strength and understanding and compassion. A heart never broken is pristine and sterile and will never know the joy of being imperfect.
I am so blessed to have lived long enough to have my hair turning grey, although you would never know amid the blonde streaks my hairdresser so lovingly put in my hair, and to have my youthful laughs be forever etched into the lines on my face. So many have never laughed, and so many have died before their hair could turn silver.
As you get older, it is easier to be positive. You care less about what other people think. I don't question myself harshly anymore but I do make myself responsible for my own actions. I've even earned the right to be wrong but not to judge others.

So, to answer your question, I like being older. It has set me free and I like the person I have become. I am not going to live forever, but while I am still here, I will not waste time lamenting what could have been, or worrying about what will be. And I shall eat dessert every single day, buy port and chocolate and trashy novels. I shall think deeply, speak gently, love much, work hard, give freely and be kind.'

Sing for Joy

Copied below is a blog by Ruby Beech. http://www.methodist-presandvp.blogspot.com/

Ruby is the Vice President of the Methodist Conference and, more importantly, one of the people whose life Joy had touched. Joy and her husband Philip used to run a Youth Club and Ruby was 'one of their girls' (Philips words not mine!)

Sunday, 10 February 2008

Sing for Joy
Yesterday morning found me back in Mansfield for the funeral of a wonderful godly woman, Joy Johnson. We had visited her back in October when I went “home” to the Nottingham and Derby District and had a lovely few hours with her. Joy had contracted ovarian cancer in 2005 and eventually this spread with the bone cancer giving her the most pain. She died peacefully on Thursday 31st January.We arrived early at Bridge Street Church and this banner on the wall caught my eye. It seemed so appropriate as Joy had been a music teacher and after having her own children had carried on working with children and young people in churches and schools to spread the Christian message through music.For me Joy and Philip had given real support and encouragement in the early years of my Christian life when I was a teenager. Joy was so calm and so loving, a very special person.The funeral was very moving and many a tear was shed. I found that singing “All for Jesus” was particularly poignant for me. I had not sung it for years and then I had sung it twice in a few weeks – the previous time being at the memorial service for Rob Frost. What a lot I owe to so many people who really gave their all for Jesus.My prayers are with Philip and their children Wesley, Iothe and Matthew and grandchildren Isaac and Seth and all those who mourn this amazing woman who gave her All for Jesus.

Joy...

Joy's life with us drew to completion last night.
She slipped away peacefully about 10pm.

I know that we have no need to fear death and this last event in our lives leads us to something richer...but on the other hand, when we have loved deeply and received love, especially when this love has been lasting, the grief and pain felt is extreme.

'If we live, we live for the Lord;

and if we die, we die for the Lord.

Whether therefore we live or die,

we belong to the Lord.'

Romans 14:8

‘Joy’ to the world…

Joy is my sister and she is dying of cancer. She has lived with cancer for some two and a half years but now has a brain tumour that is inoperable. She has come home to be with her family as she waits to ‘go home’ and be with her Lord. She is one of the most gentle, faithful and gracious people I know.

When we are told that someone we love is terminally ill, thoughts seem to drift to the significant moments of our relationship with them – the times of shared joy and shared pain, the disappointments and the successes, the achingly happy moments as well as the achingly sad.

My happiest moments are the girly chats about our respective lives which would include everything from grumbles about our children and our husbands to giggles about the antics of the various livestock we had as pets - hens, ducks, rabbits, dogs, cats – you name it, between us, we had it.

It was Joy that brought me to faith.
It was Joy who gave me money when I was broke, who gave me tissues when I shed tears, who encouraged me when life was tough, who hugged me when I was lonely.
It was Joy that rejoiced with me when she learnt (3 times!) that she was going to be an Aunty.
It was Joy who danced with me when I was accepted for ordination training.
It was Joy that taught me something of the depth of God’s love for everyone and that where ever love was, then that is where you found God.

The sad moments are those when our relationship was strained…when events of life brought pain and a rift… yet still she reached out, always meeting half way, always offering a way back, always displaying grace in such measure that it was to become my yardstick by which I could begin to understand the measure of God’s love for myself.

And she lies in bed… she tells me that nothing is wasted, even in our brokenness, nothing is wasted and we are to be a blessing to each other…even in this seemingly darkest of times, she lies in bed and once more washes my feet… once more offering me a foretaste of the heavenly banquet waiting for all people…
I held her hand, kissed her forehead fully aware that I was in the presence of God…the pain I feel at moment is deep within my being, both bitter and sweet, sweet and bitter. Bitter because of the loss that is not far away now and yet sweet because of the hope of what is ahead is also not far away now…

Joy to the world, the Lord has come.

In the beginning, darkness...

Last week, Becca and I walked between the Corrymeela Centre in Ballycastle and Ronnie's house just up the road...just a few hundred yards. No problem one would have thought...except it was around 8pm and the sky was pitch black, and it was windy, and we could not see a thing, and we heard strange noises, and we clung onto each other in fear as we took each step up the road....it was scary and I do not mind admitting, I was glad to reach the safety of Ronnie's home because this encounter with the darkness had frightened me. It got me thinking about the darkness and how mostly, we are no longer afraid of the dark because most of us literally do not live in literal darkness in this part of the world anymore. The reverse in fact - we complain because we can no longer see the stars at night because of light pollution.

I have recently be reading a small volume by John Hull, a Professor of Religious Education in the University of Birmingham (In the Beginning There was Darkness SCM 2001) who has totally changed the way I read my Bible and think theologically about 'walking in the light'...you see, John is blind after being sighted and so has had to re-think the world through eyes that no longer see as most of us see and also enter into conversation with the Bible in a new way...God created darkness as well as light and that the darkness was part of the day and is not abolished or separated by the light but that there is a relationship between the two - and God saw that it was good.

As we light Advent candles, I wonder how many of us think of the darkness as being blessed by God as something good and therefore not something that is to be feared.

Handbag!

I was in-between appointments so took the opportunity to walk down Regent Street and into Oxford Street in London where I rubbed shoulders with those, who judging by the bags they were now carrying, had very damaged bank accounts and those, who judging by their behaviour had damaged minds and were finding life difficult to cope with without alcohol or drugs. I walked into a very well known department store and witnessed a young woman buying a handbag...no ordinary handbag, but a Louis Vuitton handbag...a bag for which she paid the equivalent of what would have been for me one months' stipend. I heard her comment on the length of time it took her to save for this purchase, so it was not something that was done on a whim, but something that she had longed for and planned for.

Just around the corner from this department store, there was a street trader selling almost identical bags for a smidgen of the price - fake of course.

It got me thinking about what we were 'selling' in terms of church... do we encourage people to desire the gospel so much that they will hunger for it, putting aside other things in order to grasp it, or, are we so frightened of falling church attendance that we sell the gospel cheaply on the market stall equivalent...

Requiem Mass

My eldest daughter, Katie, came home to stay a while which is normally a time for celebration and gravy dinners, of laughter and shopping, of shared secrets and girlie stuff but not this time. She came home for some TLC because she had just said goodbye to her friend at a requiem mass. Her friend had been diagnosed as having leukaemia and three weeks later, she had died. This was a great shock to Katie, who like many of her generation have been brought up with hospital drama's in which almost everyone gets better, and even if they don't, death is managed and beautiful and everyone gets to say goodbye and make up their differences...but this experience of death was not afforded to Katie who carried guilt about the usual things surrounding death...did I do enough...did I visit enough...if only I had done this, that, the other...and to compound the matter, of all my children, Katie is the one who finds the harder side of life difficult to cope with.

As Katie shared her feelings about the service, even though she was upset, she was clearly able to articulate the difference between this funeral service in which most of those attending were Christians from the Roman tradition, and funerals in which those attending did not have any faith. It left her with a sense of hope as well as a sense that death definitely was not the end.

Yet Katie, a child of the Manse, would not describe herself as a committed Christian...not that she has deliberately chosen to rebel against any form of faith commitment. Again like a great many of her generation, faith is something that has just past her by...become an irrelevance...something that Mum does as a job.
I was struck by the great sense of responsibility that I, you, the rest of Christendom, carry in making faith relevant to the 20-somethings of this world. That is a heavy charge to answer if we fail to do so.

Facebook...

I have been recently introduced to the benefits of the social networking sites which have recently become very popular, and have registered with Facebook. Before I knew it, I was launched into a virtual world where people poked each other, threw hot potatoes at you, super-poked you, spanked you, invited you to cocktail parties and a whole host of other 'virtual' activities, some of which have more merit than others if you get my drift. I have had graffiti written on my wall, been spanked several times (deservedly some would say!) and been contacted by people I had forgotten I ever knew. I now have a large network of virtual friends, who clearly do not require as much attention as the real life versions - just a poke every now and then. I have also been pleasantly surprised and intrigued that my daughters friends want to be my friend too and have quickly been blessed with 'Mummy Sue' as a term of endearment. The downside of this is I am now party to Cyber conversations and learning things about my children and their friends that I would be probably safer not knowing!

I have also been utterly amazed and bewildered at some of the things people will publish about themselves...will they live to regret this in a few years I think to myself, particularly as prospective employers are now frequently using these sites to do a little research on applicants. I guess this is the fast moving IT life we now inhabit and in which we shall all have to learn new rules about.

I wonder if Jesus had this problem when he made friends?

I wonder what the theological equivalent is to a 'super-poke'?

I wonder where cyber space actually is and whether or not there is a cyber heaven and a cyber hell?

I wonder if all this wondering is good for me.....

Swing Low - Shosholoza!

Last night I had dinner with two Methodist students and their partners. Nothing strange about that except that these are pre-ordination students training for ministry in the Methodist Church and I am arranging a placement for them in Cape Town, South Africa, one of the most beautiful countries that I have ever visited - except for Yorkshire of course. These students and their partners are very nice people - kind, gentle folk who mind their p's and q's and will be no trouble what so ever to their placement host.

Now, we all know that there is a very important rugby match coming up on Saturday when England take on South Africa in the finals of the world cup.

Having read what their placement host has to say about the this match, particularly his prediction for the result, I am beginning to wonder about the wisdom of sending such innocents half way across the world in the care of a person who clearly lacks sound judgement. I shall enjoy sending him an England rugby shirt as a gift when we win...just as a reminder!

Happy Birthday!

New life has come to this house....on the 8th October, Dora our Patterdale Terrier, presented us with three puppies:

- Abraham (Abe for short, dark velvety black and a real bruiser),

- Polly (the colour of chocolate, quiet and gentle) and

- Peggy (fat as butter with a dark stripe down her back).

I would just like to wish everyone who shares 8th October as their birthday, many happy returns.

Anyone want a puppy....

Travelling

On platform 3 of York Railway station, there is a bench to sit on. Nothing strange about that you might think, as benches are present on all of the platforms, their curvaceous shape inviting the traveller to sit and ponder the meaning of life whilst waiting for a train to arrive...if indeed you are brave enough to sit on them as they are often cold to sit on…the cold metal seat stings the back of your legs, especially in winter, and the wind pokes her fingers through the holes that are part of the design making you feel colder still. However, the bench I am referring to is not one of the usual benches. It is a wooden bench and you could be forgiven for easily passing it by without noticing it as on first glance it is fairly non-descript and plain although to parody the television advert, this is not just an ordinary wooden bench.

To the careful observer, it is instantly recognisable… the golden honey patina of English oak…the adzed finish to the seat and back… the exquisitely crafted joints…and if you needed a final clue, a mouse scuttling up the leg as if to try and hide under the arm away from the curious gaze of passers by. This is a Mousey Thompson bench….a commissioned piece of work from the workshop of Robert Thompson, the famous furniture maker from Kilburn in Yorkshire whose tell-tale signature is a mouse carved somewhere on each piece that leaves the workshop.

The bench carries an inscription, a memorial to Kate Dunphy who died in 2005 at the age of 38, and according to the epitaph, is ‘still travelling’.
I have no idea who Kate Dunphy was but I know that she was loved - the bench is testimony to that.

I am a Methodist and there is no tradition within my denomination of praying for the dead but I do know that in the Islamic tradition, it is said that Allah has special concern for the traveller. So, every time I sit on this bench I trace the letters of her name carved deep into the oak and seek out the little mouse with my fingers, and pray for her as she travels… and I pray for those closest to her, those who loved her and want to share that love through the gracious gift of a bench for other foot-sore and weary travellers needing a place to rest awhile…and for the skills of those who work with wood so lovingly…may we all travel safely to our final destinations on time, enjoying the journey as we go…insha’Allah.

What's in a name...

There has been chaos at the place I work...we have had to have a big change around in offices to make room for new members of staff which means I have for the first time a door with my name on it. Let me explain. For the past four years I have technically had two offices - one in Ushaw College in Durham and one in York St John University. Now I am not being greedy here - it's just that I had until very recently two half-time appointments in different theological education institutions. However, I work from my study at home so did not inhabit either place in any meaningful way so apart from the symbolic meaning of not being named, it was not something that I spent much time considering...until now...

I find myself pondering on what it means to have a name...what it means to be named...what it means to be publicly owned. There is a bit in the Bible that tells us that our names are written on the palm of God's hand and that we will not be forgotton - this is a verse that I use a great deal when I pray for people that are close to my heart for whatever reason...their names too are written on the palm of my hands and when I wash my hands, when I massage them with hand cream, when I examine the lines and the scars of life and living that are on my hands, I am drawn once more into relationship with the Divine and those that I pray for.

Do you need to be prayed for? I have space on the palm of my hand...

Wild weekend in whitby....

I have just returned from the most amazing weekend in Whitby where I have been wined and dined (well, a couple of lagers in the pub and fish and chips on the habourside) and been overwhelmed by an amazing co-incidence.

I have to admit to being a bit of a 'Hilda-babe' in that, St Hilda is one of my personal spiritual favourites, one of the church's spiritual giants, and someone whom I admire for lots of reasons, not least, that as an Abbess, she ordained a few bishops and priests in her time - not that you would get many in the Church acknowledging that particularly at the moment.

Sneaton Castle, home to the sisters of the Holy Order of the Paraclete, has hanging in its Conference Centre five very large paintings depicting the story of St Hilda - her baptism in York in 627 by Paulinus; her gathered community which included King Oswy's daughter Aelfleda; her discovery of Caedmon, the hymn writing goatherd; the Synod of Whitby in 664 she oversaw with King Owsy, for which we now have to thank for the setting of the date of Easter and finally, her death on the 17th November 680. Quite a woman by any account.

These paintings have played a huge part in my own spiritual development and I have spent many an hour meditating on each painting, seduced by the use of rich vibrant colours and drawn in by the use of movement.

Where is the co-incidence here you might ask? Well, I was in Whitby to receive a gift from friends and collegues at the North East Oecumenical Course (NEOC) in Durham. I have just left there after four years service as their Director of Residential Learning. They all chipped in and bought me an 'experience' as it was badged although I had no-idea what this 'experience' was until a few days ago. I was taken to Stills Photography where I was given the full make-over treatment and photographed - photographed in formal evening dress, casual dress and what the photographer, John, euphemistically called 'romantic shots'....I will leave that to your imagination but suffice to say, I did not have many clothes on! I had a wonderful time and never thought for one moment I would look so nice on celluloid. It was such fun and I would recommend it to anyone, particularly you ladies of a certain age who watch everything heading south day by day.

Still, how is this a co-incidence...? My husband John, would had arranged all this, had also booked us into Brunswick Bed and Breakfast for two nights - an arbitory decision based upon availability via a website. We got there and as I lay in bed that night pondering on my fate at the hands of the photographer the next morning, I was also looking at a painting that hung on the wall opposite. I realised that I knew the signature on the painting...it was the same artist that had painted the St Hilda paintings, Juliet Macmichael. Juliet was also our host offering hospitality through the provision of bed and breakfast.

I was stunned to realise that I was staying with the same artist whose paintings I had so admired and whose paintings I would never have seen had it not been for the fact that NEOC used Sneaton Castle as a venue for some of its residential weekends, and whose students and tutors had all contributed to my 'experience' in Whitby....truly and experience in more ways than one. Co-incidence....God-incidence....does it matter what kind of incidence it was because it clearly was an 'experience' I shall never forget.

You can view all of the St Hilda paintings by logging onto http://www.wilfrid.com/saints/search_of_hilda06.htm

You can view my photographs only be very special arrangement!