These are the days of Miracle & Wonder!

Greed, and How to Eat Less

I like food.  Under the approving eye of my pseudo-Epicurean wife, I have been moving from the category of 'trencherman' to that of 'connoisseur', but nevertheless, among the Deadly Sins, greed is an issue for me.

And, as with all sins, I don't want to be enslaved to it.

How can I be free?

Don't know about your motives, but I eat for several reasons, including nutrition, enjoyment, communion, escapism ('comfort-eating'), and boredom.  The first three are decent motives, and the last two probably not - eating for the good of the body, the good of the soul, and the good of community is clearly the way to go.  But none of these motives are greed itself.  Greed is the unsated, never-truly-satisfied use of food (or anything) to fill us up, to make us feel whole.  It's a vain pursuit, and commonly (but not always) leads to addiction.  

The Roundhead in me wants to evade greed by chaste pietism and asceticism - mortifying the flesh - while the Cavalier wants to affirm that every good gift is from God, and that to avoid enjoying them is ungratefulness and heresy.  Both are right.

So that's my theology sorted.  But I'm still eating too much.

And it's at this point that I realise that in my right-brained desire to have a thoughtful, contemplative discussion about everything, I've forgotten some basic nuts-and-bolts.  Whilst thinking through the concept of greed, I have omitted the fact that I never set out to eat or drink excessively - I just get nibbly, and one nibble leads to another.  Rather than focus on my fallen, sinful gluttony, I need to go to a physiological level and stop my nibblyness.

These are my resulting conclusions, helping me, in the last few weeks, to eat less:

i. Eat Eggs for Breakfast.
If I choose, say, porridge in the morning, my desire for a little smackerel of something at 11ish is overwhelming.  But if I eat eggs, I don't get nibbly until early-afternoon.  It's to do with the absorption of leptin, but you knew that.

ii. Snack on Meat.
If I open a bag of crisps, I pretty much always finish it, and still feel nibbly afterwards, and reach for something else.  But if I nibble dried meat (I like chorizo myself), this spiral is avoided.

iii. Drink Rather than Eat.
A lot of 'hunger' is actually thirst; so drink.  And drink good stuff: ale, cider, water, wine, tea. 

iv. Avoid moreish stuff.
Biscuits, popcorn, crisps, chips, bombay mix, chocolate. Sidestep that blood-sugar spike etc.etc.

That's where I've got to so far.

When Football Prays

I grew up loving glamorous football stars - Lee Sharpe, Chris Waddle, Jeremy Goss - these were my favourite people in the world.  As a young Christian who loved football, it was pretty demoralising to accept that these two sides of my life were never destined to find a meeting point.  That's just how it was: Football didn't do God - Maradona excepting - and God seemed to be alright about it.

So it's been quite a mind-bending few years, since Maria has dragged me back into the Beautiful Game: Hernandez on his knees before kickoff; pre-match prayer meetings at several clubs; Berbatov reading his Bible in the dressing room etc.  I mean, for Heaven's sake, the last thing Wayne Rooney does before going on the pitch is to go into the massage room to pray!

And this week it has spilled over in a much more public way.  Fabrice Muamba (another Christian, before you ask), had a heart-attack during Bolton's game with Spurs last Saturday.

Within seconds, players were praying, and after a few hours, as the magnitude of the situation struck home, I was reading tweets like these:

Jack Wilshere: 'Everyone keep praying!'
Wayne Rooney: 'Praying for him and his family.'
Kyle Walker: 'Doesn't matter who you support. Doesn't matter if you aren't a football fan. Doesn't matter if you aren't religious. Pray for Fabrice Muamba.'

The outpouring of support was so explicit in its constant references to prayer that I found myself halfway between continuing to pray for Muamba, and being overwhelmed by the fact that in the middle of a tragic event the footballers of the nations have been leading us in prayer.

These last two photos: Ronaldo & Messi, neither of whom know Muamba, passing on best wishes.  This is how we - the Church, and Humanity - should react to suffering. 'When one part suffers, we all suffer,' and when we 'bear each others burdens, we fulfil the law of Christ.'

Jesus explains Lent to the disciples

He knows the score.

"So what," I hear you ask, "is the Shahid-Rowe household doing for Lent?"

Well (replied Mr Rowe), we've effectively been fasting for 3 weeks already, due to our Paleo Month, which explains the lack of pancakes yesterday.  Therefore, the idea of giving up even more than grains, sugars, pulses and other non-hunter-gatherer-type* foods is not exactly on our radar, especially since Maria is barely getting enough into her to stay alive anyway.

But I like Lent, and I want to 'do it'.

So what we've decided is to give up the 'giving up' side of the Fast, to sidestep it and instead use this period of the Church calendar to instil certain otherwise-lacking disciplines into our lives.  I won't give you the whole list, but for example, every day until Easter I am going to be spending 20 minutes sitting in silence.  Something I've always planned/wanted to have a go at, but never got round to.

And may God use the season to transform our hearts and lives.  Amen.

*TRIPLE HYPHENED WORD - I WIN!!!

loves

Why I like David de Gea

Reason 1 - He's BRILLIANT.

Reason 2 - He's AWFUL.

Brief explanation.

There is beauty in brilliance tarnished (or emphasised?) by frailty.  Knowing who we are at our best and at our worst - being humble when successful, strong when screwing up - is at the heart of making the most of our time on Earth.

a caveat to prefix any sermon of worth

If by grace what I say has in any respect any validity,
it is, of course, only one facet of a truth incalculably rich.

JRR TOLKIEN, 'On Fairy Stories', 1939.

Spring

I was out for a walk this morning - probably about 11 miles of Cornwall passed under (or stuck to) my boots.  After about an hour and a half of being oblivious, I started to notice that nature is busy having babies: daffodils (some out, most not), buds appearing on the hawthorn, catkins on the hazel.  As you can see.

Usually we think that Spring begins when leaves start to unfold, but it's not true: the new life of the new season is poking through now, whether or not we spot it.

Theological application: many of the things we have been hoping for, praying for, acheing for have already begun.  They are already here.  Don't be overwhelmed by the absence, keep your eyes open for the presence.

But Seriously ...

The following is a quote from Ayatollah Khomeini.  I'm not quoting him to claim that his words are somehow representative of Islam - that's not my point (and I don't know anyway).

I want to share the quote because of its unbelievably defective view of the nature of God, and because often it's easier to see what is good and true by contrast.  Read on:

Allah did not create man so that he could have fun.
The aim of creation was for mankind to be put to the test through hardship and prayer.
An Islamic regime must be serious in every field.
There are no jokes in Islam.
There is no humour in Islam.
There is no fun in Islam.
There can be no fun and joy in whatever is serious.
AYATOLLAH KHOMEINI

If you wish, you could (and probably should) compare with this:

It is the test of a good religion whether you can joke about it.
GK CHESTERTON

Quoting John Stott

John Stott died last summer: a man with huge influence and authority - the present healthy state of evangelicalism within the CofE is in no small part down to him - and someone of whom I was naturally suspicious, mainly due to the people who claimed him as their leader.  Plus he really didn't get postmodernism.

But when you actually get to read the guy, he was clearly a brilliant, original and orthodox believer; the kind of person, in short, who is worth following.  Chris Wright said, 'He was, for all of us who knew him, a walking embodiment of the simple beauty of Jesus, whom he loved above all else.'

Here are some examples of his thoughts:

'Christianity is not primarily a theological system, an ethical system, a ritual system, a social system or an ecclesiastical system – it is a person: it’s Jesus Christ, and to be a Christian is to know Him and to follow Him and believe Him.'

'To become Christian is in a real sense to become human... But to assert joyfully that salvation includes humanisation is not at all the same thing as saying that humanisation (rescuing men from the dehumanising process of modern society) equals salvation.'

'The debate about the rival merits of evangelism and social responsibility is never necessary. It expresses an unbiblical dualism between body and soul, this world and the next.'

'Every Church should be engaged in continuous self-reformation.'

'Before Christ sent the Church into the world he sent the Spirit into the Church. The same order must be observed today.  Without the Spirit, the Word is a lifeless and dead letter.'

'What people want is an easy-going syncretism, a truce in inter-religious competition, a mishmash of the best from all religions. But we Christians cannot surrender either the finality or the uniqueness of Jesus Christ. There is simply nobody else like him; his incarnation, atonement and resurrection have no parallels. In consequence, he is the one and only mediator between God and the human race. This exclusive affirmation is strongly, even bitterly, resented. It is regarded by many as intolerably intolerant. Yet the claims of truth compel us to maintain it.'

'The devil hates the gospel and uses all his strength and cunning to obstruct its progress, now by perverting it in the mouths of those who preach it, now by frightening them into silence through persecution or ridicule, now by persuading them to advance beyond it into some fancy novelty, now by making them so busy with defending the gospel that they have no time to proclaim it.'

'We have the means to evangelise our country; but they are slumbering in the pews of our churches.'

'Listen to the world’s many discordant voices: the cries of the poor and oppressed, the questions of the bewildered, the sighs of the hurting... We are called to double listen. We listen to the Word of God to believe and obey it and we listen to the modern world to sensitively understand it.'

Vaclav Havel: Wonder as an end in itself

The recently-deceased Vaclav Havel, the Czech playwright-philosopher who became liberator and president, is worth listening to.  He thought our greatest shortcoming was pride in our own understanding:

'Strange things are happening and will happen. Not to bring oneself to admit it is the path to hell. Strangeness, unnaturalness, mystery, inconceivability... Until they are released and allowed to return to our minds things will not go well.

'Wonder... is, after all, the first impulse to the question: "What purpose does it all have?" "Why does it all exist?" "Why does anything exist at all?" We don’t know and we will never find it out. It is quite possible that everything is here in order for us to have something to wonder at. And that we are here simply so that there is someone to wonder...

'In all events, I am certain that our civilisation is heading for catastrophe unless present-day humankind comes to its senses. And it can only come to its senses if it grapples with its short-sightedness, its stupid conviction of its omniscience and its swollen pride, which have been so deeply anchored in its thinking and actions.'

[quote pinched from Archbishop Cranmer]

The Aroma of Literature

A Theology of Dusty Springfield

This post has two purposes:
i. To make a slightly vulnerable autobiographical confession.
ii. To make more people listen to this song.  It may be the best in all history.

 

Question:  How would you feel if your best friend abruptly stopped talking to you?  And even when you asked them what was up, they still basically blanked you - acknowledging your existence, but not doing a whole lot more?  How would that feel?  Maybe you know already; I do.

My life used to be so so different, for one primary reason: God & I were on good terms.  I would talk to Him, and He would talk back.  I'm not really one for recalling whole conversations, but I distinctly remember being out walking (this was in New Zealand) and God telling me a joke.  We both laughed.

And then it stopped.  It stopped because He stopped; not just stopped talking, but stopped being - as if He withdrew all the tangibles of our relationship, all the 'presentness'.

It was very much a turning-point chapter in my life anyway.  Mid-2006: I had just left NZ, was in America, and Maria & I were in the midst of deciding to relocate our lives to be in the same place together.  So to suddenly go through that (and everything that came after) without my friend/guide/confidant was both weird and hard.  And that's how it's been ever since.

Point 1:  I totally respect God's right to be different to how I want Him to be, and even to change from one 'persona' to another.  As I've said before, He's my King, not my butler.
Point 2:  It hurts, very very much.

Dusty Springfield

[Have you listened to the song yet?  The following will make little sense unless you do ...]

Dusty in Memphis is one of those albums I have intentionally waited before buying - other examples are Astral Weeks, Blonde On Blonde, and Dark Side of the Moon.  Not sure if other people do this, but I do; it's kind of like leaving some of the best bits of the meal to the end rather than gorging yourself straight away.  Anyway, I finally got around to buying it about 6 weeks ago.

I had never heard 'Just One Smile' before, and it instantly stood out for me - a brilliant, brilliant song.  And then, about a fortnight ago, I was listening to it again and realised that I was welling up.  Why?

I don't ask for much; a look, a smile, a touch...

Just one smile - the pain's forgiven

I had tears in my eyes because these words say what I want to say to God.  It's not that I want everything to be exactly as it was (although that'd be nice) but that sometimes, all I long for is a nod or a smile from God to remind me that He still likes me, and that it'll be alright in the end.  I could endure virtually anything then.

Agnostics: Wimpy or Wise?

On Monday, God provided.

I had phoned up about seeing Ed Byne at lunchtime and was told that there were no pairs of seats available, but that I could pop in before the show and check for returns.  I did, and Maria & I got pretty much the best seats in the house.  Amen.  And happy birthday darling :)

Ed Byrne is one of the multitude of cradle-Catholics on the comedy circuit (Billy Connelly, Johnny Vegas, Peter Kay, Jimmy Carr, Frankie Boyle, Dara O'Briain, and many, many more) and isn't backward in coming forward on The God Issue.

But on Monday, the only real point he made on the matter was this [paraphrase]:

'I don't mind if you're a Christian or whatever; the ones I can't stand are the AGNOSTICS.  I mean, come on: if you've got to the age of forty and still aren't sure if you believe in God or not, sort it out!  Sit down and have a think!  Come to a fricking CONCLUSION!'

ie. Agnostics are fence-sitting, bet-hedging wimps.

Are they?

Or is the only true wisdom found in knowing that you know nothing?

Which jobs actually make you HAPPY?

CareerBliss.com conducted 200,000 employee questionaires in nine areas that affect job satisfaction: relationship with boss/co-workers; work environment; job resources; compensation/salary; growth opportunities; company culture; company reputation; daily tasks; and degree of control over work.

The result?  Look away now, you office-bound wage-slaving Dilberts ...

TOP 10 WORST/UNHAPPIEST JOBS

1. Director of Information Technology
2. Director of Sales and Marketing
3. Product Manager
4. Senior Web Developer
5. Technical Specialist
6. Electronics Technician
7. Law Clerk
8. Technical Support Analyst
9. CNC Machinist [factory operative]
10. Marketing Manager

TOP 10 BEST/HAPPIEST JOBS

1. Clergy
2. Firefighters
3. Physical therapists
4. Authors
5. Special Education Teachers
6. Teachers
7. Artists
8. Psychologists
9. Financial services sales agents
10. Operating engineers

And, if you include amateur focuses, I am 1, 4, 5, 6, 7 and 8 on the happy list!  Yay clergy!  Yay creative, people-centred living!

Hooker is my Homeboy

I've been given 'Being Anglican' to read, and never has a book with such an unpromising title been such a pleasure.  It's basically a survey of the thoughts of people who have made significant contributions to Anglican tradition: William Laud, Josephine Butler, George Herbert etc.  Great stuff.

But Richard Hooker is my favourite (and not just because I've walked past his statue at Exeter Cathedral hundreds of times).  His doctrine of participation; the interplay of scripture, reason and tradition; the steering clear of all claims to infallibility; the concept of tradition as a developing story - it all makes me relax and feel released and encouraged.  Well done him.

The Divine Jeeves

We all love Jeeves.

Obviously, no one is legally permitted to fail to admire someone publicly approved of by Stephen Fry, but this is more than that: we love him.  Jeeves is the superhero without an ego; the unfailing saviour of the situation; the grown-up we all long to have hovering thoughtfully in the background, so that we can continue being children-in-adult-form, a la Bertie.

"You'd better consult Jeeves," I said.
"A hot and by not means unripe idea! Where is he?"
"Gone back to the kitchen, I suppose."
"I'll smite the good old bell, shall I? Yes? No?"
"Right-o."
Jeeves poured silently in.
"Oh I say, Jeeves," began Cyril, "I just wanted to have a syllable or two with you. It's this way..."

It should have been obvious to me long ago, but I'm afraid I've only just realised:
Jeeves is Jesus.

Think about it!  He is the king of servants - the Servant King; he is the selfless righter of wrongs; he is the all-knowing encyclopaedia; he arrives when needed, saves the day, then shimmers off to do something we don't need to know about behind the scenes.  'Jeeves,' as Bertie often remarked, 'You stand alone!'

But let me correct myself.  When I say Jeeves is Jesus, I'm not saying that he is actually the Real Jesus or even a allegorical reflection of Him.  No.  Jeeves is the fake Jesus - the one the Christians believe in.

This is the Jesus who will find me a parking space but not step in to provide food for starving refugees; the Jesus who will grace my job application with a supernatural anointing but doesn't care too much what I do with the salary.  This is the Jesus whose world revolves around me: answering my pleas, sorting out my problems, then bringing me a whisky-and-soda.

Christians have been very attached to this Jesus for such a long while because that's what we wish He was like - the fairy godmother, the genie in the lamp, Father Christmas - and it's often the process of discovering that He's not really like that which makes us lose our faith.  Rather than the long, often-lonely pilgrimage to wherever-it-is that the Real Jesus has got to, we prefer to stick to our domesticated God, who will fetch and carry and recommend the correct tweed sports jacket for the occasion.

How many of my prayers are really requests for a butler to come along and do it for me?  How much of my worship is in response to the times when He has?  How much of my life is lived as if God Almighty is my employee, rather than I his?

Jeeves has been my Jesus for too long.

LIVING THE DREAM

I spent this afternoon playing cricket.  We had drinks breaks every 10 overs (due to the INTENSE heat), and our tea-break included bread pudding, scones, sandwiches, ginger beer, chocolate cake etc.  The gorgeous ground has nestled in Perranarworthal for 120 years and Maria came along to sun-bathe and do her knitting.   The fact that one team won and the other one didn't is basically incidental - cricket is more a complex metaphor than a sport in any case - because the truth is, in our quiet way, we were living out the fantasies of countless caged urbanites.

Whenever we tell people we live in Cornwall (eg. last weekend, in SE London and Kent) we are generally greeted with jealous sighs and 'oh lucky you's.  They, doubtless, are remembering halcyon childhood holidays pottering around in rock pools and on bodyboards, or maybe just episodes of Coast or Countryfile.  Living here is not really like that - frankly, it's often difficult, limiting or boring - but there are occasions, like this weekend, when it would be foolish not to stop and recognise the Holy Grail while you're drinking from it.  So many people long for what we have, often working their whole lives in the forlorn hope of maybe someday retiring down here.

Yesterday morning, Maria taught an exercise class while I walked on the beach.  Later, we sat out on the grass in front of Epiphany House eating a celebratory (free) lunch due to our friend's ordination.  Then we went to another fabulous home to eat a cream tea (plus wine, plus cake, plus raffle in which we won some Prosecco) in order to raise money for our friend Georgie working with orphans in Kenya (the fact that the house over-looked a creek on which a 100 year old regatta was taking place is just just by-the-by).  In between we walked in the fields, talked to the horses, and generally communed with creation.

It's idyllic, it's wonderful.  Nature is glorious, the gentle peace is epic, and the food is worth writing lengthy mouth-watering descriptions of.  Not a bad life.  And yet we are also (effectively) homeless, and severely lacking in income; life is often so stressful that we don't know what to do with ourselves.  This little blog-post is an attempt to wallow in the goodness, milking it rather than rushing on to the next important, anxiety-inducing thing.

But why does it make me CRY?

We don't have a TV - it protects us from bad stuff, like watching TV - and so I generally miss out on whatever's fantastically au courant or unmissable or whatever.  And so it is via youtube (or, very occasionally, iPlayer) that I discover what everybody else knows about already.

 


I have never watched a whole episode of Britain's Got Talent, but have managed to discover (all on my own!) Paul Potts, Andrew Johnston, Susan Boyle and all the other ugly ducklings who have come to light.  This morning (through a Facebook link from an American in New Zealand) I watched a song from Korea's Got Talent - Choi Sung Bong doing Nella Fantasia - and cried the whole way through it, just like I cried (and still cry) through Andrew Johnston et al.  Why does that always happen to me?

This is what I think at the moment:

Man judges by outward appearance, but God looks at the heart.  Our society says that looking good is better than being good, so when that deception is shown up for what it is (and in front of the Pop Idol judges, no less) there is a breath of wonder that blows into the room.

Because these are the ugly ducklings - the mobile-phone seller, the bullied choirboy, the middle-aged spinster - who have never been told how good they are, or had the chance to grow into what they could be.  They are the beauty rejected, the hidden treasure, the pearl of great price, and had started to believe the whispers of the Enemy that they are worth no more than a crap job, a dull existence, and contributing little of worth.

And then, there they are - on the stage, being themselves at last.  Rewatch Paul Potts first audition, and he spits out the words.  You can almost see the bile and bitterness, built up over years of being thought of as nothing very much, streaming out of his mouth.  It's an amazing cathartic experience, more punk than punk: spiritual warfare against the Accuser.

Because God knows us, and knows what He's made us to be.  I've always loved the reactions of the loved ones to these performances, because these (the spouses, parents etc.) have probably been the sole, lonely, barely-convinced believer - they have been the voice of God, saying "You're amazing - don't give up."  So when the world notices that their beloved is as brilliant as they have always thought, they almost burst with joy and pride and relief.

And in amongst all that, it just makes me cry - it cuts straight through my tired, cynical brain and fills my heart again.  The glory of God is man fully alive, and I've just seen the Glory.

Practise makes... Practice

Problem:  Everyone (esp the Church) feeing under pressure to excel and be perfect at everything and never being free to be themselves (ie. not-that-great-but-trying-to-be-better) and thereby living in double guilt of failure and dishonesty/mask-wearing.

Solution:  Be a permanent practiser.  Practise until you can consider yourself 'in practise'; your life and community being a Disciple's Practice just like a Doctor's Practice.   If nothing else it'll teach you which word needs a C and which an S.  And once you've learned that, keep practising - achieving perfection is not required, and not going to happen anyway.

Poop-Poop!

Glorious, stirring sight! The poetry of motion!
The real way to travel! The only way to travel!
Here today - in next week tomorrow!
Villages skipped, towns and cities jumped - always somebody else's horizon!
O bliss! O poop-poop! O my! O my!

Ah, the famous Toad: he knew a thing or two.  And tomorrow I shall be joining his noble vision, traversing our fine nation by road, and all at the cost of the public purse too!

Explanation: as a shortly-to-become marker of the youth of today's GCSE papers, I have been summoned up to the Midlands for a day's training in how to correctly do a tick (we will be doing the downstroke in the morning, the upstroke in the afternoon).  My expenses (inclusing meals) will be paid, and my wage will be over double my normal.  But that's not the best part ...

I get to drive up my favourite road of all: the Fosse Way.

I LOVE Roman Roads - they are beautiful, cracking to drive on, and join up all the prettiest (ie. pre-industrial) towns in Albion.

The Fosse Way starts near my parents' house (originally it linked Exeter and Lincoln) and will take me all the way to my B&B (in a chicken farm with its own water wheel) just by Leamington Spa.

And on the way I get to pass through some of the pearls of English nomenclature and quaintness: Stow-on-the-Wold, Cirencester, Moreton-in-Marsh, The Shoe, and Bath.

And here is my point: if I went by motorway, I would miss these.  The journey would consume less time, yes, but what are the accumulated riches of the motorway?  Tarmac, Burger King and brisk monotony.  I prefer the Roman way.

Learning from an Arch Bish

As part of my ordination candidature (or whatever I am attempting to call it this week) I've been given a few books to read.  One is by Michael Ramsey, who was Archbishop of Canterbury back in the sixties, and is a collection of addresses given to men about to be ordained.

The book is in twelve sections, and I found the first seven pretty dull, to be honest.  And then, halfway through the eighth ('Christ's Doctrine and Discipline' - for Heaven's sake!) it suddenly became alive.  Here are a few bits that have got me all meditative:

Study gets very irksome if you think of it as adding more and more items of knowledge to your bag.  Think of study rather as being refreshed from the deep, sparkling well of truth which is Christ himself.

Let those who are glad to be Catholics or Evangelicals or Liberals set themselves to learn all they can from one another, for the partisan can soon become a person who loves his own apprehension of the truth rather than Christ who is the truth, and himself more than either.

There is only one kind of person who makes God known and realized by other people, and that is the person who is humble because he knows God and knows God because he is humble.  There is no substitute for this.  It is only a humble priest who is authoritativelt a man of God.

Presiding Over Easter

We all live in the hustle and bustle of our work... And I admit that my plate has been full as well. (Laughter.) The inbox keeps on accumulating. (Laughter.)

But then comes Holy Week. The triumph of Palm Sunday. The humility of Jesus washing the disciples’ feet. His slow march up that hill, and the pain and the scorn and the shame of the cross.

And we’re reminded that in that moment, he took on the sins of the world - past, present and future - and he extended to us that unfathomable gift of grace and salvation through his death and resurrection.

In the words of the book Isaiah: ‘But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.’

This magnificent grace, this expansive grace, this ‘Amazing Grace’ calls me to reflect. And it calls me to pray. It calls me to ask God for forgiveness for the times that I’ve not shown grace to others, those times that I’ve fallen short. It calls me to praise God for the gift of the son — his Son and our Saviour.

President Obama, April 19, 2011

RUGBY IS BEST

I'm enjoying Rugby a fair bit just now - not just because England are winning, but that is certainly a part of it.

Sport has always been a pretty big bit of me, starting off with athletics and the Tour de France in the mid-eighties, through years of obsessive football-fandom and the desolation inherent in years of supporting England's worst ever cricket team (1992-1998). 

Then, when I was 16, Saracens moved to nearby Watford and, due to trying to 'build up local support', offered season tickets at £60 for an adult (my Dad) and £30 for me.  Every week we put on our collective fez and watched Philippe Sella, Michael Lynagh, Richard Hill, Francois Pienaar et al.  A proper education.

The centrality of rugby in my world was then established when I moved to NZ and had to put up with being an Englishman in a nation that checks the All Blacks' score before deciding on its mood.  I was there (at 1.30 in the morning) when we won the World Cup.

But anyway, that's all a preambling way of saying 'I love Rugby, and here are some reasons':

- Fat, thin, tall or short, there's room for all in the 1st XV.
- Driving mauls on a wet day.
- Players who are more articulate (after 80mins of hell) than their post-match interviewer.
- Tonga vs Georgia, Argentina vs Australia, Samoa vs Scotland.  Where else can you find these?
- Old clips with Bill McLaren or Cliff Morgan commentating.
- Lions tours.
- Scrums (when they're a proper battle, or when the Aussies are getting battered).
- The little jinky players: Barry John, Jason Robinson, Shane Williams etc.
- 'Ireland's Call' - might be the best national anthem of all, if only it didn't lack a country.
- Ways to skin a cat #1: tries, penalties, conversions, drop-goals, penalty-tries ...
- Ways to skin a cat #2: dominating up front, slick handling, solid set-pieces, diamond-hard defence, kicking for territory, subterfuge in the front-row, pace and power ...

To me, sports like football, basketball or rugby league struggle to get anywhere near the depth and variety of rugby union, and while cricket has variety in spades, they are spread over five days (which is never going to inspire mass-singalongs down the pub).  Plus there is always something gladiatorial and warrior-like seeing mud-covered men nobly wrestling in front of 80,000 people.

see no evil, hear no evil

Has not God chosen those who are poor in the eyes of the world
to be rich in faith and to inherit the kingdom?  James 2:5

Today, I met a guy who is both blind and deaf.  I won't say a whole bunch about him - I don't want to abuse his right to privacy etc. - but I'm struck with the privilege of the experience.  I'm really lucky.  Most of us will never meet someone like him; someone for whom the whole range of human normality (especially in terms of communication, building relationships and so on) means so little.  I would call it 'eye-opening' if that didn't show up how even our language is limited to those with a similar 'normal' to me.

So I am grateful, but I am also struck with the need for other people to have this kind of opportunity, or at least to know that it would be an utter privilege if they did have it.

If you want to know more, a good place to start would be to read this, written by my brother-in-law Matt (before he was my brother-in-law) about a similar experience of his.  Click HERE.

Why Not (Old) Women?!

The Church in Britain is at a fascinating juncture - the ending of many things, and the starting of many more.  It feels like a changing of the guard; the turning of the seasons.

Some things that are striking me: in general, I see more and more believers becoming more committed to following God in The Real World than ever; we are becoming more creative and mission-minded; we are discovering that God has not yet been destroyed.  And yet, in spite of this burgeoning vision, we are incredibly disheartened.

Why?  Because the Church is an ageing church.  Our average age advances with every year, and it embarrasses us.  We are scared that, being old, tired, out-of-date, we have let God down - because surely the world has proved that to be exciting and world-changing, you have also got to be young, ultra-contemporary, and wildly cool.  The Church is none of those things, and we feel defeated.  We think we are dying.

If we followed the methods of the modern world, the Church would attempt a radical image overhaul; to re-present itself as youthful and funky and full of mojo.  After all, congregations like Hillsong London are like that, and they are huge and growing.

But what if God has chosen the aged things of this world to shame the young, the retired to shame the employed, the crinkly to shame the contemporary?  God is not a respecter of funkiness - he chose Abram aged 75, Moses aged 80.

Here are some facts about the retired:
 - they are living longer than ever (80 is the new 60, you know)
 - they are more financially secure than any other age-group
 - they have a more developed skill-set than any age-group
 - they have more free time available than any age-group
 - they are more community-minded than other age-group

Basically, if you wanted to build a church on 'the perfect demograph' (affluent, skilled, compassionate, available), you wouldn't need to look anywhere else.  God has given us that perfect demograph, and it has made us feel defeated, because the world knows that you are finished by the age of thirty.  The world is wrong.

My congregation (and in many places, the Church at large) has ideas and vision up to our eye-balls, talent shooting out of our ears, a heart to love God and serve our community, and the resources and available man-hours to put it into action.  But only if the old people are returned from the scrapheap to their proper place at the centre of our mission.