I had an interesting experience a week or two ago. Visiting a church away from home, I was given a questionnaire which invited me to assess the sermon. When the time came, the Vicar wandered off saying “The floor’s yours, Geoff” or words to that effect and the organist came down, perched on the edge of a pew, and preached. I assume it was some sort of training, programme;: I thought he did very well. It set me thinking - how would I manage in that situation? I think I would talk about how I prepare for Holy Communion.
In my mind’s eye I picture the Last Supper; no nonsense about 13 on one side of the table, smiling for the camera - they would be seated six a side with Our Lord at the head. I always picture myself behind Him - it would be disconcerting to have Him looking me in the eyes. I see Him take a loaf, break it in two, give half to the chap on His left and half to the one on his right, and ask them to take a chunk and pass it on. This is My Body. No-one worships it - that would be idolatry as it is bread - but they all do it “in remembrance of Me”. Then they have the meal - shepherds and fishermen, so it might have been lamb stew or fish & chips. I like to think of them chatting as we do at home at family gatherings, with much happiness unless they all realised what lay ahead? Afterwards, Jesus takes the goblet, fills it with wine and it is passed round the table. A problem: did he pass it to the chap on His left so that it went round clockwise, or to the one on His right so it went anti-clockwise? I’m anti anything anti, so in my mind it goes round clockwise.
Now I’m ready to take Communion. The priest, on behalf of Jesus, hands me the Host, saying, “The body of Christ” and I say “Amen” to signify that I really believe that we are replicating what Jesus did at the Last Supper. Like wise the wine - then for a split second I am made whole - until normal thoughts start again.
Thursday 8 October 2015
Wednesday 1 July 2015
Heatwave
Heatwave
Exchange with my daughter:
Haven't seen this for years - so hot the road tar is melting!
So now you're wondering "What's this all about?".
Well here goes: it's a long story but I won't shorten it as it's about me.
My father's father was a journeyman carpenter but very concerned for the welfare of the "working man" - an Arthur Scargill of his day. Eventually he found work difficult to obtain so he emigrated to the USA in about 1880, taking his wife and child with him. My father grew up as a young american, saluting the flag each day and integrating with the new way of life - went to church regularly, joined the Grace Church choir, and so on. When he reached 21 he decided to come back to his homeland but he continued to visit his parents in the United States every three years; one such was 1912 but, alas, his chosen liner was fully booked. (Geddit? 1912?) - but that's another story.
He didn't go back again because the Great War intervened - that's when he lost his faith, but that's yet another story. He married in 1917 and had 10 children: one died at birth during a zeppelin raid on London but most of the others lived into their 80s or 90s - my sister Margaret will be 96 later this month and another significant member hopes to reach 90 in November. Now where was I? Oh, yes.
In 1930 "Grandpa and Grandma in America" got in touch with Dad to say that as they were now nearing the end of their days they longed to return "home" to die - could Dad put them up? Of course he could! I doubt if he consulted Mother, who already had nine boisterous children to cope with, but home they came. First, though, the Home Office had to approve, so a huge policeman - about 10ft by 5ft - was deputed to inspect our home to see if the accommodation was adequate. NOW WE GET TO IT! At this time, the road outside our house was being resurfaced. First a great tanker went along, spewing out hot tar, followed by a gang with shovels spreading granite chips over it and finally the steam roller came along to flatten it. When the workmen had gone home, my brother Colin and I - we were about 4 and five at the time - went out to inspect the handiwork and discovered little rivers of tar trickling in the gutter. Well, we found little bits of dried grass and played with the tar until we got bored, then put the tarred stalks in the nearby post box and off to bed we went.
Next morning, we were horrified to see a HUGE policeman coming up the drive. Crikey - it didn't take them long to track us down. Colin and I hid under the dining room table until we heard him coming, then threw our weight against the door to stop him. As he thrust open the door, my brother and I slid across the floor and out of sight back under the table. The policeman was not interested though: he was satisfied that Grandpa and Grandma would be well cared for and off he went. Colin and I were spared for further adventures.....
Exchange with my daughter:
So now you're wondering "What's this all about?".
Well here goes: it's a long story but I won't shorten it as it's about me.
My father's father was a journeyman carpenter but very concerned for the welfare of the "working man" - an Arthur Scargill of his day. Eventually he found work difficult to obtain so he emigrated to the USA in about 1880, taking his wife and child with him. My father grew up as a young american, saluting the flag each day and integrating with the new way of life - went to church regularly, joined the Grace Church choir, and so on. When he reached 21 he decided to come back to his homeland but he continued to visit his parents in the United States every three years; one such was 1912 but, alas, his chosen liner was fully booked. (Geddit? 1912?) - but that's another story.
He didn't go back again because the Great War intervened - that's when he lost his faith, but that's yet another story. He married in 1917 and had 10 children: one died at birth during a zeppelin raid on London but most of the others lived into their 80s or 90s - my sister Margaret will be 96 later this month and another significant member hopes to reach 90 in November. Now where was I? Oh, yes.
In 1930 "Grandpa and Grandma in America" got in touch with Dad to say that as they were now nearing the end of their days they longed to return "home" to die - could Dad put them up? Of course he could! I doubt if he consulted Mother, who already had nine boisterous children to cope with, but home they came. First, though, the Home Office had to approve, so a huge policeman - about 10ft by 5ft - was deputed to inspect our home to see if the accommodation was adequate. NOW WE GET TO IT! At this time, the road outside our house was being resurfaced. First a great tanker went along, spewing out hot tar, followed by a gang with shovels spreading granite chips over it and finally the steam roller came along to flatten it. When the workmen had gone home, my brother Colin and I - we were about 4 and five at the time - went out to inspect the handiwork and discovered little rivers of tar trickling in the gutter. Well, we found little bits of dried grass and played with the tar until we got bored, then put the tarred stalks in the nearby post box and off to bed we went.
Next morning, we were horrified to see a HUGE policeman coming up the drive. Crikey - it didn't take them long to track us down. Colin and I hid under the dining room table until we heard him coming, then threw our weight against the door to stop him. As he thrust open the door, my brother and I slid across the floor and out of sight back under the table. The policeman was not interested though: he was satisfied that Grandpa and Grandma would be well cared for and off he went. Colin and I were spared for further adventures.....
Saturday 3 January 2015
The power of prayer
I have been hearing the news of the nurse afflicted with ebola as a result of her self sacrificial love, and wondering what will be the effect of my simple prayer for her recovery. I know that at the twinkling of the eye He CAN restore her to perfect health - but why should He? Sometimes, when He cured people, He told them NOT to spread the word around - but the only purpose of curing them was, surely, to show that He had the power? But He doesn't need to show me - I know already; is it to show the wider world? Is it a case of the more the merrier? I often reflect on the war, the way the King on half a dozen occasions called the Nation to prayer, and every occasion was followed by what I call a miracle but which some might call an unnatural happening. Was it because so many people joined together? Probably not - God has said that, if you don't do it for Love it is worthless, so the numbers don't matter, it's the motive that does. All over the World people, out of love, are praying for her - Thy Will be done.
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