Blubbing in church

Today I cried in church. It's not a normal occurrence, despite the emotional "lability" symptom of PLS. It was awkward because I was at the front with Jane, and the church was going to pray for us. We've been with them for three years and they've been like an oasis to our weary selves. Coincidentally or not the church is called Elim (Numbers 33.^{9: "}And they set out from Marah and came to Elim; at Elim there were twelve springs of water and seventy palm trees, and they camped there.") Now we believe it's time to be journeying on.


The trouble was, I looked up at the people who had welcomed us and received into their family, and who'd become deeper than friends to us. And it cracked me up. It was a bit embarrassing all round. Jane told me afterwards she hadn't seen it coming! But everyone waited patiently for me to pull myself together. Actually I have a feeling quite a number were praying. And I tried to remember to take deep breaths. Eventually I was able, by dint of keeping my eye on the ground, to articulate some of what I wanted to say, which included "Thank you" and "You haven't seen the last of us". We are, after all, still remaining here in Grove, and do feel free to worship with them whenever. As someone said, God's Church is in reality one Church; our divisions are man-made and artificial. 


However, I reflected, as I sat there and as I'd sat in another church over three years ago, how real and deep is the love that God creates within his family. "Faith, hope and love abide, but the greatest of these is love." 


Incidentally, to be honest, I can think of no better place to cry, even to howl with pain, than in the presence of God. Sometimes we think we must present a smiling face to him, as if "I'm fine" deceives him for a nanosecond. One of the lovely things this morning was our friends' willingness to share in our pain, if it was pain. Perhaps it was a confusion of emotions. But share it they did; deny it they did not. Bless them.

The King's Blog

This week I received an email out of the blue from Melbourne, Australia. It was from a Jesuit priest, Geoff King, who was diagnosed with another rare form of MND last July. He writes beautifully clearly and without self-pity, about his experience of PMA, in particular "flail limb". The technical difference is that different sets of motor neurones are affected, but as he comments the symptoms are not so very different. He has begun a blog which I think is beautiful and helpful, The King's Blog. It's a mixture of matter-of-fact recording of experiences and reflections arising from them. Unlike me, he avoids rambling!

Yes, I'm recommending it!

He posted an entry on the 25th headed "Patient Transport" which reflected on the patience people learn from disability - whether those who are disabled or those who surround them. It ends like this:
"I close with a quotation from Tomas Halik, who visited Australia last year, a quotation that means more and more to me as the muscular atrophy progresses. 'Patience with others is love. Patience with oneself is hope. Patience with God is faith.'"

Attitude of gratitude

At church this week we began a series of sermons on the Ten Commandments. (I wonder how well they're known now, particularly the first four.... Go on! Test yourself: Exodus chapter 20, verses 3-11.) Anyway, we started at No 10 (not the address, the command): "You shall not covet...", which means not wanting what we cannot have.

It's a very modern commandment, isn't it? So much of the advertising industry makes us want what we don't need or can't afford. Lotteries make us spend in order to gain impossible riches which cannot bring happiness. Credit, which is debt in sheep's clothing, is dangled in front of us to "take the waiting out of wanting".

There were a lot of memorable phrases in Paul's sermon, but a couple I really liked were "People live in one of two tents: con-tent and discon-tent", about which I thought that's it's true that it's a choice we make, where we set up camp mentally. The other was the well-known "an attitude of gratitude". I didn't see much of the London marathon yesterday but I was struck by an interview with a young woman soldier who'd had her leg blown off in Iraq (which is such an easy thing to type, such an unimaginable thing to experience). She wasn't dwelling on her plight. She was actually about to run the marathon (over 26 miles) in aid of limbless servicemen. So positive.

It's very easy to feel sorry for oneself. How quickly the forecasters have taken to talking about "another miserable day/week"! I admit I don't enjoy being stranded in my tantalisingly slow electric wheelchair even under the protection of my poncho when the heavens open, especially when it's hailing on my bald pate! But I recall my father telling of a saintly old man emerging into a deluge from a Cambridge church. When his younger companion complained, his reply went something like, "No, no, my boy. Glorious rain, God's rain!" And in fact, what an answer to prayer all this rain is! As I see another low pressure system with its blue rain smudges sweeping across the country on the weather map day after day I reflect on how lucky we are to leave in a well-watered "green and pleasant land", while most of Africa has its water deep in inaccessible aquifers. There we were a few weeks ago bemoaning droughts and hosepipe bans, and now the lawn is lush green and the farmers can scarcely believe their blessings.

Finally, I thought I'd share this for lovers of the Where's Wally books. If you don't know, they have pages of intricately drawn, densely populated pictures, in which somewhere will be the distinctive Wally in his red-and-white striped jumper. They're a good way to occupy children on wet afternoons. I suppose the cartoon's about how we tend to forget that others are people, with feelings and needs, just like us. Do we really want to know, when we ask, "How are you?" Do we wait for an answer?

Collar doves and the cross

I hope you had a good Easter. I must say that I have. It was lovely having all but one of our family with us (though we did miss him). Our grandchildren had great fun hunting for Easter eggs in the garden on Sunday morning. In Stanford we used to have them hidden round the graveyard and the children would hunt for them while the adults had a reading and sermon. It used to remind me of the angels on the first Easter morning, saying, "Why are you looking for the living among the dead? He is not here. He is risen."

Today we had Café Church, which is another family-sort of occasion. We'd moved on from the Easter theme. But not entirely. When we came out, we were met with a striking symbol. Sadly we didn't have a camera or iPhone to capture it, and when Jane cycled back with the camera they were gone. So I'll have to try and describe it.

On Good Friday in Grove we have an open-air service with all the churches together, at which there's a tall, rather flimsy cross. It's just a reminder of the cruel Roman means of execution to which Jesus was subjected. Afterwards it's put up in front of the parish church, by the roadside. It's still there - an empty cross. Today as we walked out of church (or at least Jane did and I chugged in my wheelchair), we noticed two dusky collar doves settled right down on the arms of the cross, one on each side, in the sun. It reminded me that the Easter story, and its meaning, doesn't end with the empty cross and the empty tomb. It doesn't even end with the risen Jesus appearing to the first disciples. It goes on to his ascension to be with God the Father - and to Pentecost, or Whitsun, when the Holy Spirit, the "promise of the Father", was given to the Church in order to enable it to live as the Kingdom of God and to share the good news of Jesus' love for everyone of all colours, languages, orientations and social status. One symbol of the Holy Spirit, of course, a dove. And so, there together were the signs of Jesus' sacrificial love for the world and his gift of his presence, strengthening, guiding and encouraging. The whole story of Easter.


I've learned that the Spirit likes to be welcomed in us, - he doesn't force himself on us -, and that it's possible to "grieve" him. I once read that a difference between pigeons and doves was that doves alight but are easily scared into flight, whereas pigeons are more phlegmatic. So it's not surprising the collar-doves had flown when Jane returned to photograph them. The writer noted that when Jesus was baptised the Spirit like a dove came and "settled" on him; in other words the Spirit was at home with him. You'll gather that I love George Herbert's poems, one of which is Whitsunday, which is a great prayer, starting:

"Listen sweet Dove unto my song 

And spread thy golden wings in me; 

Hatching my tender heart so long, 

Till it get wing, and flie away with thee."  We need to invite him to come and then continually cherish his presence in us.

Easter good news

I do enjoy reading the iBenedictine blog. This may be a bit lazy of me (well, it is lazy), but there was a post there yesterday, which really touched me - partly because it contains an insight I'd never had before and partly because of its whole message, and I'd like to reproduce it in full here. It's about Easter, and is entitled Forgiveness.

"Many of the Resurrection appearances of Jesus include a showing of the wounds in his body. I used to think that they were intended to elicit or confirm faith. A prime example would be the showing to Thomas, but reading today’s gospel, Luke 24. 35–48, made me think again. Could it be that these showings have another purpose, one that the disciples found even more necessary — an assurance of forgiveness?

"You’ll notice that Jesus never finds it necessary to show the women his wounds. As far as we can tell from the gospel narratives, they never abandoned Jesus and were never afraid when they met him again after the Resurrection. When Mary Magdalene met him in the garden she wept, but for her supposed loss rather than consciousness of any sin or betrayal. The men do not get off so lightly, especially when they are gathered together in a group. There is consternation when Jesus appears among them, doubt, disbelief, a whole gamut of emotions, including fear. Jesus reassures them and shows them his wounds. This showing not only demonstrates who he is but also what he has done: ‘God in Christ has reconciled the world to himself’.

"Just in case any of my female readers is quietly congratulating herself, I had better point out that we are all among the male disciples now. We are all in need of God’s mercy and forgiveness which come to us through Christ our Lord. Those wounds on his body are there for all eternity as a sign of his love and forgiveness. We are each one of us ‘graven on the palm of his hand’."

The Isenheim Good Friday

I've been aware of one of the great masterpieces of the Renaissance, the Isenheim Altarpiece for a long time. One of my regrets is that we didn't go and see it, when we went for a holiday with our young family in the Jura region of France - though they might have been too young to appreciate the expedition. My interest was rekindled by reading an essay by our friend, Margaret Williams, recently. She explained the background. It was commissioned in the early 1500s by Guy Guers, preceptor of the Isenheim monastery, near Colmar in Alsace.

Established around 1300, the Isenheim monastery belonged to Saint Anthony’s order, which had been founded in the Dauphiné region of France in the 11th century. The monks of the Antonite order ministered to victims of Saint Anthony’s fire, a horrible illness that was common in the Middle Ages. This calamity’s cause is now known to be poisoning from a fungus (ergot) that grows on rye grass, thus contaminating the rye flour used in making bread. Ergot contains a chemical that drives its victims mad and results in gangrene of the hands and feet due to constriction in blood flow to the extremities. To care for the sick, the Antonites served them good quality bread and had them drink a concoction called saint vinage, a holy fortified wine, in which the monks had first macerated a special blend of herbs and then soaked the relics of Saint Anthony. They also produced a salve from herbs possessing anti-inflammatory properties. (from Musée d'UnterLinden, Colmar, where the altarpiece is now)

The two-sided polyptych (as it's called, meaning painting on many panels) was placed in the hospital chapel. Margaret pointed out, as I recall, the artist, Mathis Gothart Nithart (Matthias Grünewald), had painted the agony of the crucified Christ with stark realism, previously not depicted, so that hands are contorted in pain, the body torturously twisted. And so, the victims would be reminded, as they meditated looking at it, that Jesus understood their pain. They weren't on their own. Not only that, when the side panels were opened, they would have seen the resurrection portrayed on the right-hand side - reminding them of the hope awaiting them beyond death. In a sense, the paintings depict the whole gospel for sufferers of a incurable and disfiguring disease: God entered this world of humanity. He suffered in our place and shared the experience of suffering with us. He died, but rose to life, drawing death's sting and giving us hope for future life with him.
It's not that Jesus' suffering makes ours easier. Far from it. But it does mean we can share it with him. As the writer to the Hebrews put it somewhere, "We don't have a High Priest (i.e. Jesus) who is unable to sympathise with our weaknesses, but one who in every respected has been tempted (or tested) as we are, yet without sin." As a modern song a friend of mine sent me yesterday puts it, "Jesus walked this lonesome valley". The temptations undoubtedly included self-pity and anxiety about dying. He understands. And he's done something radical about our case. 


We call it Easter. I hope you well and truly enjoy it - whatever your circumstances. He is risen indeed!

Praying through pain

A couple of weeks ago I was asked what prayers I'd suggest for someone enduring terminal illness. The prayers which I suggested were the final prayers from Compline, the ancient night-time service. For many of us, much of the experience is dark and like night, waiting for the dawning of the new day. In my old church we used to say Compline, with reading the Gospel accounts of Christ's passion, in Holy Week. The church would mainly be in darkness, with just enough light for the few of us to listen and pray together. The readings would always end with Jesus dying. We would wait for the dawn to come.

These are the prayers:

Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night; for the love of thy only Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ. Amen.

Be present, O merciful God, and protect us through the silent hours of this night, so that we, who are wearied by the changes and chances of this fleeting world, may repose upon thy eternal changelessness; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Look down, O Lord, from thy heavenly throne, illuminate the darkness of this night with thy celestial brightness, and from the children of light banish the deeds of darkness; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, who at this evening hour didst rest in the sepulchre, and didst thereby sanctify the grave to be a bed of hope to thy people: make us so to abound in sorrow for our sins, which were the cause of thy passion, that when our bodies lie in the dust, our souls may live with thee: who livest and reignest with the Father and the Holy Spirit, one God world without end. Amen.

Visit, we beseech thee, O Lord, this place, and drive far from it all the snares of the enemy; let thy holy angels dwell herein to preserve us in peace; and may thy blessing be upon us evermore; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Then comes a response which is from Psalm 4.8, which, when we were children, we used to hear every night when my mother tucked us in bed. 

We will lay us down in peace and take our rest;
For it is thou, Lord, only, that makest us dwell in safety.

This is a good week (as good as any can be!) to be ill, I think, because we're especially aware of how Jesus shared our human nature in all its weakness, and even in excruciating pain. He knows absolutely how dark the night can be - even more than us, because it was blacker for him. And his promise is, "I will never leave or abandon you." The best thing about the week, of course, is that its end turns into Easter Sunday. Pow! Morning comes. "Christ is risen. Hallelujah." "Hallelujah. He is risen indeed!"

Jane and I, last weekend, went down to see her parents in South Devon. On the way, we stopped to put flowers on my parents' and aunts' grave in Wiltshire. I'd forgotten the inscription at the foot of the stone: "Awaiting a joyful resurrection". The grave has become "a bed of hope to thy people" - because of Jesus. Thank you, God.