Clarrie was eccentric. As young and naive as I was, I knew that Clarrie, the viticulturist, was eccentric. Likeable; amiable; quirky. But eccentric. I was a stenographer in the Department of Agriculture in Mudgee, eons ago.

Clarrie’s whimsical personality first became apparent when he’d pop his head, with its untidy mop of hair, into the cramped space of the general office and say `I’d like to dictate some letters please Susan.’

Off I’d go, my standard-issue departmental steno pad and a couple of sharpened pencils in hand, into his Office and we’d face each other across his untidy desk.

Clarrie was unmarried, and his age was an enigma to me. He wasn’t old, but neither was he as young as my 22 years. He dressed old; Trousers; never jeans. Trousers with pockets. Trousers not elegant in style or cut, but not scruffy. Smart… ish but practical. Cool mornings would see him attend the Office in a knitted vest; an old-fashioned Fair Isle one. And in summer, he wore long baggy shorts and long socks with lace-up shoes. But when I tell you the socks were often draped around his ankles, you can see that sartorial elegance was not his strong point. He always wore the `uniform’ of educated Ag blokes of the day – blue oxford shirts with buttoned, pleated breast pockets and little slots for pens; like the shirts coppers wear but without the shoulder badge. In some blokes, these shirts were almost…. alluringly attractive. But Clarrie couldn’t pull it off.

I would look at him expectantly, pencil poised, waiting. He’d clear his throat and give me the name of the person to whom the letter would go. So far, so good. Moments of silence followed. `Dear Sir’, he managed at last. My pencil made the appropriate tiny squiggle. He would launch into a preliminary sentence, and my pencil moved in perfect tandem. `No, that’s not right. Cross that out.’ He’d begin again and another sentence would emerge. Outside I could hear the faint thrum of traffic; the other office lady in the adjacent office was clacking away on her mechanical typewriter. The clock on his wall seemed loud, all of a sudden. `Ahh’ Clarrie seemed to have lost his train of thought.

I remember his appearance because I seemed to spend inordinate amounts of time looking at him, waiting, waiting. I had ample time to take in his choice of tie; a light green and brown check woven affair, with a fringed end. His vest; did his mum knit them for him? His bespectacled eyes (grey) would glance into mine vaguely as he struggled to get on with his task. There were lots of false starts and `No, that’s not right.’ My pencil spent much time crossing out whole lines of squiggles.

His office was little more than a large cubicle, with opaque glass on 2 walls; one facing the entrance passage-way of the building and the other facing the general office. Copious piles of paper resided on filing cabinets and on his desk, in hopeful expectation of his attention. Posters of grapes and wine were haphazardly decorous on the walls.

Finally, it often became apparent to me what he was trying to say, and I would venture a suggestion. `Perhaps you could just put a few notes down, and I will draft out a letter for you?’ After all, I’d topped the Tech Classes in English hadn’t I!? I could compose a simple letter, for goodness sake. It would save all the crossing out and staring at his inelegant clothing, surely.

He would never succumb to my suggestion and we’d spend several more gruelling minutes at our shared task, until, at last… Eureka! The letter was born! I have always been a too-passive person, especially when I was that young, and I never questioned the reason for this behaviour. I took him at face value – he couldn’t seem to put sentences together. It didn’t occur to me that someone with a degree in Viticultural Science should know how to compose sentences.

I’ve taken shorthand for a lot of blokes over the years (until we all became redundant) and some of them were egos, compelled to drone their bulky and inefficient waffle over their steepled fingers, because it gave them a sense of power over the subordinate `girl’ tasked with hanging on his every word. Some were beautifully efficient and I had to use all my 120 wpm to keep up! Clarrie wasn’t either of these.

The best was an old gent; an Agronomist, who was delightfully, politely old-school. He’d come up through the Depression and the war years, with his genuine, deeply-held Catholic faith intact. He was the salt of the earth; always treated me with the greatest respect, though I was just a slip of a girl. The cadence of his gentle, benevolent humour would fall with father-like simplicity and wholesome encouragement on my under-confident self. He referred to blokes as `coves’. That’s a word I’ve never heard used since. He always seemed to be writing about molybdenum levels! (I need to look up the spelling… after all the times I’ve typed it!)

I once accompanied Clarrie out on a field trip, collecting samples of grapevine rust or something. That’s another story…,

 

🚴Cycling is big in Wagga, and we’ve got a shiny new Velodrome to prove it.

I got coffee recently at the French Bakery. Oooh la la the pastries are good! It’s a tiny shop and there’s always a queue like you used to get in the bank at 4pm on a Friday.  So, I’m standing on my `distance’ spot, waiting to give my unvarying order; a half-strength flat white…  I wonder should I live on the edge one day and try a half-strength cappuccino? I stood behind a gentleman wearing lycra, and had the time and the inclination, to ponder his attire. 

He was late 30’s maybe; tall and wiry, with a pleasant, even-featured face. Short, dark, curly hair, cut stylishly and modern, but not like those shaved-sides-of-the-head, and long-on-the-top, styles. I was trying to guess his occupation.  It’s a little game I play sometimes to pass the time in queues.

I was concluding that the gent in front of me was someone in the financial world. He wasn’t particularly muscular, but I bet he was into cycling in a big way. Either that, or he was just starting out and he wanted to look the part. His lycra attire ended about half way down his calf, and on his pedal extremities, were soft, foot-hugging trainers. His socks were iridescent pink.  Psychedelic pink, with little green cacti all over them. He’d pulled them up straight, and between the end of them and the start of his lycra suit, were thin, white legs with very black sparsely-apportioned hairs. Surely if he was serious about cycling, he’d shave them to cut wind-resistance.  Or don’t they do that anymore?

The suit also had silicone padding on the trouser-seat.  Most effective, I’m sure, in avoiding blisters on his bottom. But the view from the back was a little…. curious. I imagined it would be like wearing a full nappy…

He had a gentle persona.  I admired his embracing of such a worthwhile hobby which made him look just a little ridiculous when he was naked of his treadley. I admired his confidence to wear such an outfit in public.  But he didn’t look out of place in a coffee shop, because as I said, cycling is big in Wagga, and coffee and cycling go together like Jeeves and Wooster; like Elizabeth and Mr Darcy; like eggs and bacon. No, he wasn’t going to get stared-at in a coffee place.

But imagine if he’d accidentally been whisked (or perhaps pedalled) into the TARDIS and was transported back to the 1950’s.  He and his lairy socks would be laughed backwards out of the chrome and laminated cafes of the time. No coffee; no lycra.  And men didn’t ride bikes.   They played footy and ate pies.  They wouldn’t have been seen dead in a French bakery.

 Beans; a conflicted tale

I bought beans yesterday because they looked lovely and fresh. They were $13.99/kilo though! Oh well, nice bean salad I thought as I selected a handful.

But when I went to scan my purchases at the self-serve checkout machine, there was no picture on the touch screen button for the beans. It listed them on the docket but it added zero to the tally.

So over I go to the young lady waiting to assist and explained the problem. I’m afraid she was a ‘Madam Imperious’ in training. These older Superior Ladies often worked in Doctors’ Surgeries and would look down their noses at me when I presented myself at the Reception desk. I’d be dismissed to the waiting room with a judgmental sniff. But then, I was a single parent and weren’t they still the dregs of Society in the 90s? That’s when I learned in real life time what was like to live as an obvious Indigenous person. I’m not indigenous, but it was the same kind of thing - judged and dismissed by some inner prejudice of the other.

But back to the beans. This young lady had a bit of an attitude, I thought. Not rude in any obvious way but I could almost hear her thinking ‘silly old lady doesn’t know how to scan a few groceries’. She came over to the newly installed contraption, sitting there smug in its ‘I don’t need a human’ shininess. She voided the incorrect entry, then asked me, in short sharp words, ‘What are they?’

‘Beans,’ I say. I hope my astonishment didn’t show. I know someone that young couldn’t be expected to know every fruit and veg in the shop, but beans? Aren’t they a pretty common vegetable? Is the Pope a Catholic?  Is a bean green? They were ordinary old beans; not broad beans, or exotic runner beans, or those really long ones; snake beans.

‘How much are they?’ was her next question. She looks down on me with her squinty eyes (I’m sorry, they were squinty) and her very black, very fake false eyelashes. You could hang a hat on those things!

‘$13.99 a kilo’ I say.

She trots off to check. If I’ve been honest enough to tell you it didn’t scan a price, surely I wouldn’t lie about the price. Especially at $13.99/kilo. But all good, I’m glad she’s checking.

When she comes back, she flicks her all-powerful staff card at the machine’s screen. Her lovely young finger taps the screen nimbly and soon the amount is totted up.

But this old gal has spent a lifetime and then some, watching every penny and I vaguely think ‘That seems a lot’. I’ve only got about 6 items. But you know, the cost of everything has rocketed lately, so off I go with my one measly bag of groceries.

But once outside, I look at the docket. She’s charged me the whole $13.99 for a handful of beans. Maybe 150 grams worth. Did Jack have this much trouble with his beans? Oh. No. Different type of beans.  

Back inside I go and show her the docket. She looks at me imperiously (that ‘Madam Imperious’ training is coming in handy). ‘Yes, that’s right. They’re $13.99.’  She’s walking to the bean aisle. ‘See.’ She points to the beans.

‘Yes, I explain, ‘but that’s for a kilo of beans. A kilo of beans would be a whole big box of beans.’ She’s walking quickly back to the checkout and I’m tottering along beside her like a toddler keeping up with a grumpy mum.

‘A whole kilo of beans would … well, weigh a kilo. I try and explain but I don’t think she’s listening. She doesn’t reply so I’m thinking she doesn’t get it, or the penny’s dropped and she doesn’t want to admit she’s got it wrong.

At last a Supervisor came over and sorted the whole thing out. I felt for the young woman. Perhaps she was new and I didn’t want to embarrass her by being a smart alec. And she did apologise, right at the end of the encounter. It was a bit of a weak effort, and I could have executed a much better apology but then…. I’m not a Madam-Imperious-in-training.

 

A Whimsical Interlude

        “My house needs cleaning,” sighed the old lady. “Who will do it for me?”

“Not I,” said the fly. “I’m incubating my babies ready for summer. You can never have too many babies in summer.”

“Well, who?” the old lady looked disapprovingly at the scattered sheets of paper cluttering the dining table and the dust collecting under the TV.

“Not I,” said the bumble bee. “Too busy! Too busy! Flowers to visit, honey to gather! A bumble bee's work is never done.”

            “Just like housework,” muttered the old lady. “Who will do it then?”

            “Not I,” said the old dog, sleeping under the table. He opened one eye, then said irritably,  “The very idea! You know I haven’t got opposable thumbs, woman. Get your Significant Other to do it.”

            “I haven’t got a Significant Other. You should know that by now, you foolish dog. Surely it’s your turn. I always have to do it!” But the old dog was asleep again.

            `Who’s going to tidy my house then?”

            Just then, two fairies flitted in and chorused together “We’re the housework fairies. We’ll do it!”

            The old lady boggled at the two ephemeral figures in front of her.

            The taller, older fairy said “First we must negotiate a contract. We don’t work for free, you know.”

            `Oh no! Of course, I must pay you.” But the old lady’s heart was downcast at these words, for she was not wealthy. But she only said, “What would you be requiring? For the cleaning. How much?”

            “We don’t do windows. That’s a different Union altogether. We don’t do cobwebs; we don't empty cat litter trays.” The fairy looked indignant.” Nasty, smelly things. We don't! We won't! And we don't do under the fridge.”

            Who bothers doing that? thought the old woman.

            “We don't like dog hair,” the bigger fairy looked at the dog and scowled. “That will be extra.”

            `Right,” said the old woman. `What else?”

            `The oven will be extra, of course.” We charge two huge dahlias and must be allowed to choose them ourselves,” said the tall fairy. The younger fairy nodded solemnly.

            “Dahlias?” The old woman’s face became creased with confusion.

            “Yes, that’s right. And the dog hair,” she scowled again at the old dog, “will be a big bunch of roses, no thorns if you have them.”

            `I do, as a matter of fact,” said the old woman, then stopped and shook her head in puzzlement. `You mean I must pay you …. in flowers?”

            `Of course in flowers!” The older fairy was incredulous. `What did you think you’d pay us with? Chook manure? Do we look like garden gnomes?”

            Now the smaller, younger fairy spoke for the first time with a voice that was whimsical and melodious. “Payment in flowers, payment with flowers. All sorts of flowers.” The old woman noticed that her hair, which curled and floated around her head, was wreathed in blooms.

            A little more negotiation took place and finally, the fairies and the old lady were happy. She could hear them singing as they dusted and polished and cleaned.

            Sometime later, she awoke with a start from her seat under the gnarled old apple tree. The dog roused himself from his place under her chair. “Goodness me, what a funny dream I had.” She looked down at him. “And I’m afraid you didn’t cover yourself with glory, old dog. Most uncooperative, you were.” His tail fanned briefly. The afternoon was drawing in and she got up from her seat. Several blossoms had pattered down on her. She brushed them off and they both went inside.

        Fairies indeed! she thought to herself as she poured her tea and sat down. You silly old woman. No such thing as fairies and certainly not housework fairies. She frowned. Although I don't remember clearing away all those papers….

 

 

After the fire

(the first line was written by Kenneth Slessor)

 

A bird sang in the jaws of night

Its crooning voice was low and sweet.

I listened, crouching, small and still,

And peered through new encircling leaves.

 

The smoky, sombre haze was still

In cleared arena dim and dark,

It hung in softly shadowed poise,

And hid the constant, friendly moon.

 

I looked upon the smoke-hazed orb.

 Sequestered in my hide of leaves

Until a whispered wind arose

And all around was blessed with light.

 

The bird flew down to circled gleam

A gentle light from high above,

Fell softly on the silvered wings;

Its plumage borrowed from the stars.

Susan Starr ©©©

 

 

 

Everything takes time. The sun doesn’t just instantly appear in the sky every morning. It makes its way slowly to our horizon (we actually make our way to it, but let’s not get bogged down with Science). It heralds its coming by the first faint glow of colour, low in the sky. Then it peeps out shyly; just the arc of its great orb showing, like a hiding child peeping up from behind a lounge chair.

It rises relentlessly, gradually, until the full measure of its brilliance shines on all of us from it’s lofty perch in space.

Our lives take time to establish too. It takes time for us to become who we really are and its always a fraught journey. Through the shallows of callow youth we splash our mistakes and gather our joys. We wade to deeper waters. Wide, unknown; exciting and treacherous where sometimes unavoidable currents take us to places we didn’t plan.

If we’re lucky, we find a shore bedecked with happy, fruitful relationships and successful ambitions. It all takes time, and if we are always honest with ourselves, we find out who we really are and why we plotted our course in the way we did.

The flotsam of our mistakes wash up regularly on the shores. Some are driftwood and float off again. Some are great logs of regret and disappointment which never leave.

And overall, is God, whether we acknowledge Him or not. For some of us, He is the anchor in sunny climes. He is the rock in our storm-washed shore. He is the One who will bring our journey to an end. One day the sun will set on all our lives.

In each of us who are called; who have chosen; a growing part of us longs for that Day when the trump shall sound and we will step on to that Other Shore where we will be restored to all our potential; all our failings healed; all our hurts becalmed. We live in this fallen world ever battling our flawed human nature with the other nature; the divine one. We tire of carrying the battle within. Today Lord, we surrender to your Holy Spirit, who can change us, slowly, like the rising sun, from glory to glory, until we are fit for heaven.

 `I’ll have a half-strength flat white..’ I leaned over towards the glass fronted counter and pointed. `… and a piece of that luscious-looking carrot cake please’. Thus my day at the Coolamon Art Show had begun. The coffee, I have to say, from The Little Rustic Pantry, in the aforementioned town, was the best I’ve tasted for ages; barring the cup my son-in-law makes, in his you-beaut machine.

I sat outside on the verandah and literally soaked up the sun. I could actually feel the back of my neck getting quite warm. I didn’t care. It’s been so long since we had a full-blare sunny day, that I was determined to extract some Vitamin D from its radiance.

Then, I stepped next door to the Art Show. For a tiny community, the standard is pretty good. I gazed at a close-up painting of the face of a cow; of a tiny girl taking a photo of a cockatoo; pastoral scenes of impressive quality, and some with a bit too much of the amateur’s brush. Doesn’t matter. It’s important to have a go and give reign to your creative talent.

Then, I wandered down the main street, noseying about. I entered a very posh-looking ladies’ clothing shop where exquisite garments hung on stylish racks suspended from the ceiling. Their price-tags made my eyes water! It was a tasteful, softly-lighted space decorated in lovely pastel colours. Stylish. Elegant. Expensive. There was no music, I noticed and loved the quiet. It was staffed by an attractive young woman; tall and slim and wearing a lovely dress of soft pinks and greens. She also wore the pinkest lipstick I’d seen since the 60’s (must be back in fashion), and lashes which could have batted for England, they were so long. I admired her courage, however, opening such a shop in a small rural town. I think she might need to stock a few more items for older ladies. Like me.

The other side of the street sported an Op Shop. The two ladies were just closing, but beckoned me in. It was a tiny shop and I was sifting through the DVD’s when a man squeezed past me to the mens’ clothing out the back. He brought out a jacket, the better to see it in the light from the window. He told the two ladies he was looking for 70’s retro stuff. They were very helpful and showed him a jacket of a peculiar stripy pattern (see photo). `It’s very well made,’ said the chattier of the two. I had already noticed that the stripes on the shoulders didn’t match up, but didn’t say anything. During this tete-a-tete over clothing, it transpired he knew his labels. `Ahh, I think I’ll stick to this one.’ he said, indicating the one in his hands. `It’s a `brand name’ and been made in England.’ He had driven his beautifully restored vintage Dodge, up from South West Victoria somewhere. I’m thinking Daylesford or somewhere like that. The ladies and I trouped out to look at his magnificent set of wheels. Several acres of gleaming vehicle stood at the kerb. It was a huge American convertible with left-hand drive, leather seats and a boot which could fit a big red Kangaroo in it, and leave room for his mate, the Emu (Americans call it an Eee-moo). Hilarious!

On down the street I wandered. I bought a plant from a little-old-lady craft shop… you know, the ones which sell crocheted toilet roll holders with dolls at the top, and washers with crocheted edges. Lots of balls of wool, but all acrylic. I don’t buy acrylic, so I guess that makes me a wool snob. But ladies of my Mum’s generation love acrylic wool.

Then, I motored out to Ganmain. It’s a little town 15 minutes west and it has a two coffee shops, a lovely home-wares shop, and a quaint little bookshop. Really. I could have spent an hour in it. It was housed in the old Post Office and it had a big and varied range of books (including Christian ones!) and little spots where you could sit and read. I bought a dear little Japanese Imari vase. That sounds knowledgeable, but… I don’t know what that is. I bought it because I do use vases and because it’s pretty. I also bought a book called `Enigma’ by Robert Harris. There’s a movie of the same name. Want me to tell you what Enigma was? No. I’m thinking, I’ll be lucky if you’ve read this far, so I won’t.

I thought I better get home, so headed back through the paddocks of canola. Yellow betwixt paddocks of the bright green of emerging wheat or oats or lucerne. Roadsides bright with flowering wattle. Truly, Australia is a land of green and gold out here.

When I found my way to the wool aisle in Spotlight, (In Australia), two older ladies were huddled over the display of knitting needles on offer.

`That’s a 10 there’ said the younger one; a short, dumply little woman with a round, pleasant face.

`I need a 10 and a 12.’  The older lady’s finger wavered between the 3’s and the 3.25’s.  Or would it be that one, do you think?’  she looked over at her friend, her finger now gravitating to the 3.5. The needles were all lined up neatly behind each other on the display.

I understood their predicament immediately. If you’re older than about 50, you grew up knitting with needles measured in the Imperial gauge.  Then, we went metric and needles were measured in millimetres. Soo… 3.5mm etc. The US have a different sizing again, just to add to the confusion.

The older lady was thin, with a slightly crouched frame and tightly permed hair. `It’s confusing, isn’t it’ I ventured.

`I need a size 10 for the basque and a size 12 for the rest.  I’m knitting a jacket for a new-born babe.’ I could picture the old pattern, probably English, possibly from the 50’s or 60’s or even older, comprising lacy jacket, booties, shawl and bonnet, in a pretty lacy pattern. My mother knitted them for my kids, but never in the impossibly thin wool which was like knitting with cobwebs. I admired the dear old lady’s determination, but then I bet she was knitting when Hitler was invading Poland;  and when our troops marched off to Korea to fight in snow and gave our wool industry a boost (think about it). I bet she was still knitting as she watched the moon landing and through Tricky Dickie’s crimes and cover-ups; through the Berlin wall coming down.  On and on through the decades until now.

`If you buy the wrong ones, I’m sure they’ll exchange.’ I offered helpfully.

`Oh no dear, we’re from Young.’

`Oh,’ says I, smiling, thinking of their journey down here. I bet they take a thermos then possibly treat themselves to lunch in a cosy café, like my friend and I do when we set out on a jolly jaunt to another town.

The two turned back to the task in hand, still prevaricating over which size was right.

`How about I google it?’

The pleasantly plump lady hesitated and I turned away, thinking perhaps they were sick of me interfering. But she looked over at me and said `Are you going to google it?’

I had it in a twinkling; the table showing the equivalent needles in millimetres, converted from the Imperial.

I finally left them to it and wandered about in the next aisle over where I got into a conversation with another lady, about losing loved ones and anxiety and depression…. and God. She introduced the subject, after she told me her brother had died 4 years before.  `I’m not religious,’ she said to me, `but I believe there’s Someone up there.’ These conversations are always negotiated carefully on my part, lest I intrude too far into someone’s private beliefs and cause offence.  I would absolutely hate to brow-beat someone about this subject, so I just let her talk. But I did tell her eventually, that God was my rock.

Into the fires

The reading this morning was from the Old Testament;  the book of Daniel;  the story of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego (I thought it was Abendigo when I was a kid).

It’s one of the best stories in the OT Bible (for those “unversed” in the Bible, the Old Testament is the “Jewish” bit (especially the first 5 books where God sets down the rules he makes for His people). In all honesty, I struggle with a lot of the stuff it contains;  the bits about God going before and helping the Israelites plunder and enslave other nations, for example.  I guess that’s why we need the New Covenant of the forgiveness and sacrifice of Christ contained in the New Testament (this is the Christian bit of the Bible).

The OT also has themes, over and over, of penitence and forgiveness and reconciliation.  It also has stories of God’s immeasurable power and intent to stick up for the little bloke;  the oppressed;  the disempowered;  the put-upon.

The story of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego is one such a story.   Daniel Chapter 3.  It tells of these 3 men, who would not bow down to worship the golden calf, fashioned by human hands, and as ordered by the king of the land, Nebuchadnezzar. Instead, they declare their intention to be thrown into the fiery furnace and die, rather than denounce their faith in Yahweh; the great I AM; the God of Abraham;  the Alpha and the Omega.  So, they get thrown into the furnace.

As I read it this morning, I thought again of Rev Whorley (pronounced Whirley). He was the Methodist Minister at Forbes, NSW, in Australia, in the 50’s when I was a little girl. He would come to Eugowra to preach in the little Presbyterian Church on the banks of the Mandagery Creek (running a banker in recent days).

He was a little man; mild in character and gentle in nature. He was a man of the people, woven from common cloth.  He was a bit funny-looking as I remember, but Oh, he had found his vocation:  he had a genuine, fervent faith.

He took Scripture at Eugowra Central School and I’m sure he told this story because my memory of him arose from the page as I read it this morning.  I’m pretty sure, too, it was covered in the Salvation Army Home for Girls at Canowindra.  What a happy place it was for me;  child-sized Sunday School chairs painted all different pastel colours;  little basket to take up the collection (“hear the pennies dropping; listen as they fall…);  a sense of open, airy space in the big room, with shiny lino and big windows.

These all impacted my life, in a mainly positive way.  They set me on a faith journey which I’m still following to-day. I wonder what I’d be like now if I had never heard this most profound of gospels, passed on by these kindly, gentle people?

Back to our 3 saints:  The story has it that when the 3 are thrown into the furnace, God (in the form of Jesus) enters the furnace with them and they are seen;  the 4 figures, walking around unburned, unconsumed, as God protects them.  I have not doubt God could do this;  I also know He often doesn’t intervene and many Christians over the millennia have died, rather than deny their faith.

One thing I do know and understand deep into my very soul, is that when we go through our own fires in life, whether they be the death of a loved one, or illness or relationship conflict, or whatever else ails the human soul, God will be there, figuratively, in the fire, with those who invite Him to be there with them.  The same God who got into the furnace with Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, is the same God who said ”Lo! I am with you always, even to the end of the age”.

In an increasingly unstable and scary world, the one who promises “I will never leave you or forsake you”, is becoming increasingly meaningful, not just to me, but surely, to the rest of the world. 

The winsomeness of passion

5. LThe Winsomeness of Passion

One of the things I enjoy most as the varied tide of humanity streams through my life, is the particular colour, people who are passionate about something, bring.  It might be gardening, or golf, or good grief, it might be football!

Let me share with you a gentleman of my acquaintance who has enriched my life with the expression of his particular fixation.  The name has been changed to protect the innocent.  I’ve called him Bill.

Bill is a man who calls a spade a spade. Some might say he is bombastic;  his firmly-held opinions are delivered with force and finality. But this barge-like manner is tempered by a deeply ingrained cheerfulness and goodwill.  I prefer to call his personality robust.

This rather large personality is housed in a short, rotund little physique, which has a very round face, black hair and  glasses.  When Bill smiles, it makes beguiling dimples in his rosy cheeks. Bill is rather fond of his homemade brew (another of his passions), which gives him a large tummy, or,  as my father called it, a “brewer’s goitre”. Over this are stretched cute, black braces,  the better to hold up his pants.

Bill’s passion is pigeon racing. I find myself, after the service one Sunday morning, standing next to him in the queue for morning tea.  So, there we are shuffling towards the morning tea table.  “How are your pigeons going Bill”  I ask.  Bill’s response is immediate.  (His language occasionally veers away from the straight and narrow of the ladies-coffee-morning standard, and sets foot in the boys-at-the-pub-on-a-Saturday-arvo level) “Well bugger me if I didn’t loose one to a hawk yesterdee”.  This is delivered at full forte volume and those around blink and turn their heads, as they are also bombarded with this disappointing news.  “No sooner out of the box, she was, and a blanky hawk came from no-where and got ‘er”.  “What a shame”  says I, all concern and nodding sympathy.  With a little more gentle inquiry from me, his voice takes on a more instructional  tone.  He shifts his weight on to both his feet, spacing them slightly apart as he does so. His hands come out of his pockets and he folds them across his body, head slightly dropped, he becomes the tutor, the teacher, the expert caught up in a subject he loves. “You’ve got you’re racing stock,  then you’ve got your breeding cocks and broody hens.  Then I’ve got a few youngsters still getting used to flying with the mob”  (shouldn’t that be ‘flock’, but I didn’t say it!). His little black eyes, inscribed with intensity, bore into mine  as he launches into the finer points on housing, diet, breeding and of course, racing.  I am as much transfixed by his passion for it, as I am by the actual facts.

After a while, I asked him how many birds he had, thinking of perhaps a dozen or so at the most. 

“I’ve got about 500 at the moment”, he says.

 I was astounded.  “Good grief, that many!”

 “But where do you put them all?” I asked with a touch of amazement.  He lives on a corner block in town, and I couldn’t see how his back yard would be much bigger than a cricket pitch.

“Well, I’ve got double tiers of cages.....”  

His unique sense of humour also displays this bombastic quality.  Bill is never content with a little twitter or a giggle.  Not for him the polite, gentle chuckle. When he finds something funny, and he frequently does, he twinkles up at me over his glasses, his face splits into an endearing grin (he also has a dieresis) , then he applies himself to a sonorous, booming belly laugh, during which his tummy shakes gently.  

He has a round, man-in-the moon sort of face;  it's honest and ingenuous. His eyes twinkled with pleasure as he told me about his birds, but this is nothing compared to when he talks about his home brew!  He can give you the low down on the best brands for different flavour or keeping quality.  His knowledge  about ingredients, bottling techniques, storage time, is extensive.  He can tell you which brand most tastes like Victoria Bitter…. And that’s something I was dying to know.   His laundry is full of the paraphernalia of home brewing, and he loves it.  Once, at a Parish Council meeting, we were discussing the family camp and Anne was giving a run down on the facilities of the venue.  Bill asks, with just a hint of anxiety, “What are the refrigeration facilities like Anne?”  “Oh, quite adequate”  she replies breezily.  “Oh good” says Bill, relieved, “because…  you know” (his voice takes on quite a wistful quality) “I was thinking about how I’d get the home brew chilled”. 

But you know, for all his rampaging, bombastic personality, I cannot find it in my heart to censor him.  He is an unfailingly honest man in every way.  No pretense;  no shuttered secrets or veiled malice. There is nothing snide or sneaky about Bill. What you see is what he is.  And goodness knows, the world needs more of that. 

In conclusion then, what a joy it is for me to run across these people.  Could I encourage you to keep an eye out for them too.  Look with fresh eyes on the people of your circle.  You might just find an enriching and delightful example of all the complex, eccentric, wonderful tapestry which is essence of the common man.

 d of all being, I give you my all;
if I should disown you, I'd stumble and fall;
but, sworn in your service your word I'll obey,
and walk in your freedom to the end of the way

How do we recognise Jesus?

Luke 24:13-35. The familiar story of the walk to Emmaus. When it comes to the events surrounding the resurrection of Jesus, the gospel writers record very few of his appearances.  In fact, Mark records none at all.

Luke's gospel is a summary account of the women's visit to the tomb, followed by Peter's visit, Jesus appearance with the disciples in the upper room at which he provides evidence that he is actually alive, opens their minds to the scriptures and then commissions them, and finally they all go off to Bethany for the ascension.

In the middle of this summary account we have a detailed account of the Emmaus walk.  What then do we have in the story? We have two disciples, not apostles, just ordinary followers of Jesus, like you and me. When Jesus walks with them they don't recognize him, and when they do recognize him, after he breaks the bread, he disappears!  How very odd!.

Why didn’t the disciples recognise him?  Were they kept from recognising him? Was there something about his resurrected body that made him unidentifiable? The stories tell us that he was appearing in locked rooms and vanishing before the disciples’ eyes. Clearly, there was something different about Jesus’ flesh and blood. Does the fact that the disciples did not recognize Jesus point to the nature of the revelation of God? Could it be that God does not always make himself known to us in ways we think he will?

On the way to Emmaus those sad, deflated disciples mistook their Lord for a stranger, someone who wasn’t of their country. How did they make such a mistake? Maybe because he seemed to know nothing of what had happened recently. Who knows?

Is it something to do with the mystery of God.  Can we only really recognise Christ when he reveals himself to us?  Could it be, that he waits until the time is right.  They were grieving when they encounter Jesus on the road.  They were expecting Him to be the leader of the Jews;  they thought He was a political leader, a charismatic victor who would overthrow the Romans. Instead, he died an ignominious criminal’s death.  He was gone, and they were shattered.  I know one thing; if he’d come in pomp and splendour, they may have kept on believing, mistakenly, that He was a mere earthly figure.  They may never have grasped that he was the Messiah, the Saviour, the one whose death suddenly made sense, as he explained the scripture and the prophesies to them.  If he had come to them bedecked with jewels and trappings of an earthly King, the penny never would have dropped.

Did they fail to recognise him because they were looking for someone else; a political King. They lost an intellectual Jesus… he wasn’t who they thought he was, so they were downcast when he was taken away.  But when they finally realized He was the Messiah, their faith was transferred from a head knowledge of Christ, which was all out of whack, to a heart knowledge of who he really was, and what he had done for them and for us. They learned to see and hear with their souls.

Then he begins to expound the scriptures to them. He says to them vse 25 “How foolish you are and how slow to believe the prophets.  He tells them the Messiah had to suffer these things.  And then he explains all the intricacies and the fulfilling of the Scripture;  probably from the line of David and Isaiah through to John the Baptist.  So they’ve had the testimony of the women and then Jesus himself tells them “the Messiah will rise on the 3^rd day”.  They themselves have already told him at the start of the journey that “it’s now 3 days since he was killed. Nope. Still nothing.  They still don’t recognise him.  The lights are on, but nobody’s home. You can imagine if it was one of us, by now, we’d have a very smug look on our faces and we’d be saying “Hello, it’s me. I told you so!”

But he just keeps on, walking with them, patiently explaining to them.  I think he’s like this with us.  We live out our lives, so close sometimes to opportunities to see so much more of the Spirit things, the really important things, but we can’t quite see them.  We always see through a glass darkly;  we’re so taken up with earthly things – what holiday we’re going to take, what we’re going to cook for tea – what on earth is that silly driver going to do next!  And all the while, the Risen Saviour walks beside us. 

And that’s OK really;  if we were living in terrible circumstances, where day after day we had to throw ourselves on the power of God for strength to get through it, even the most stoic amongst us would long for a change to a more comfortable existence.

He came silently, gently. There were no recriminations.  He didn’t say “well a fine lot of disciples and followers you turned out to be!”.  He came to ordinary people – on the road – where they were.  But they didn’t recognise him.  Why didn’t they recognise him?  Was his body so different?  I think they were immersed in their own blindness.  They had failed to really grasp his mission and purpose when he was alive, and they weren’t expecting him to rise from the dead, even though he had told them, and explained the scriptures to them. 

We don’t see Jesus because we are looking for someone else.  We look for him as the one to solve all our problems and answer our prayers in the way we think , we don’t always see him as the tortured, dying Jesus who walks with us all the time.

Was it because he appeared as an alien?  Apparently the Greek word used to describe the appearance of Jesus in this passage is paroikos, which can be variously translated as stranger, exile or alien.

He came as an outsider to the disciples on the road, and sometimes he appears to us in this guise too.  He comes in the form of an alien;  an outsider;  an unlovely one  and an undeserving one. We don’t always recognise him in this form.  American singer/songwriter Paul Simon’s wrote a song called “Trailways Bus”.  It tells the story of a Spanish boy, riding silent and scared, on the bus to America from Mexico to what he hopes will be a more prosperous life.  It describes the countryside the bus passes through….over the crest of the mountains, the moon begins it’s climb and he wakes to find he’s in rolling farmland…the farmer and his wife sleep and he wonders what their life must be like.  A couple with a young baby….the bus is heading into Washington DC, and his heart is racing with the urge to freedom. The father motionless as a stone;  a shepherd resting with this flock;  the trailways bus is turning west.. Dallas via little rock. He’s leaving his family who mourn for him but he has to find a way to help them live.  The border patrol outside of Tucson boards the bus… “any aliens here?  You better check with us.  How about you son? You look like you got Spanish blood.  You mind yourself, you understand?” The boy says in his head “Yes, I am an alien from Mars;  I come to earth from outer space and if I travelled my whole life through, you guys would still be on my case”.    

On the walk to Emmaus, Jesus is first recognized as an alien. Jesus was always an alien;  someone not accepted by his own;  he is a true child of Israel; living in exile was in his blood, so to speak. His ancestors -- Abraham, Jacob, Jeremiah -- all lived as aliens at one time or another.  He was present when the world was created, yet was a stranger to his own people when he came to live in that world.  It seems fitting somehow that when he came back to life after the crucifixion, he would still seem like an alien. He is not bound by one country or culture – he is available to all people.  Perhaps this is why he comes in such an “un-Jewish” guise; an alien who was never really at home on earth.

Do WE sometimes not recognise him?  Is he just the one-dimensional cardboard Jesus we think about sometimes when we come to church or do we walk with him daily as we journey through our lives?

He’s sometimes comes to us in a guise we don’t expect;  as a tiny helpless baby;  as a tortured criminal;  as the Risen Victor, yet walking in the humble apparel of the ordinary man;  a paradox - with the knowledge of all things in his head;  the power of the whole universe at his fingertips;  but empathy with the grief of the common man. Perhaps this is the real essence of the presence of Christ.  He walks with us even when we don’t realize it;  even when we don’t listen to Him. 

I’m sure you are all aware of John F Kennedy, the second son of Joe and Rose Kennedy, who became the US President in 1961.  But JFK was not his father’s first choice for a son in politics.  We have perhaps forgotten Joe Kennedy and his story is as tragic as is his younger brother.  The V-3 “supergun” was meant to win the war for Germany. In 1943, for the first time since World War II began, Hitler was on the back foot. Allied bombs were devastating German cities and the Fuhrer was rattled. His proposed V-3 cannon would be the biggest gun the world had seen.

The V-3 was built in a truly enormous bunker buried deep in a chalk hill in northern France. Millions of tonnes of rock were excavated by hand and among the workers were hundreds of slave labourers. In its original conception, 25 barrels were to point at London – about 100 miles away – delivering up to one bomb per minute and to create an environment of fear that would turn the course of the war back in Hitler’s favour.

American Engineers were working on a secret “drone” mission to destroy the V-3.  Joe Kennedy Junior was piloting a B-24 Liberator on August 12 1944. He and co-pilot Wilford Willy were supposed to take the plane up to cruising altitude, arm the drone bomb,  set the correct course and bail out. The drone would then carry on and drop it’s bomb on the launch pad of the huge German rocket. But an electronics officer named Earl Olsen had discovered that there was an error in the arming mechanism;  a small solenoid in the contraption was faulty and would burn out too quickly, setting the bomb off prematurely.  He tried to tell his superiors of the terrible outcome but was not listened too.  The man in charge of the mission was the top Engineer;  the big brass.  He failed to listen to the younger man of much lower rank.  Olsen even ran to the airfield and begged Joe Kennedy not to take off, but Joe didn’t listen either.  Olsen was right;  there was a fault in the arming mechanism and so, completely without warning, the bomb exploded over Blythburgh in Suffolk only 20 minutes after the ‘plane had taken off. Kennedy and Willy were killed and their bodies never found.

We can be like this;  Jesus tries to tell us of the power which can be ours;  a road-less-travelled way of living;  a path of blessing and enrichment, with Him at the helm of our lives.  But we don’t listen;  we are too caught up in other things. We don’t recognise what He’s telling us.

How then, DO we recognise him? How did the disciples recognise him? He explained the scriptures to them. The word made sense, because he came as “The Word” to them.  He came to them as the word-became-flesh, not as a political King. He does the same with us. It is one of the ministries of the risen Christ to open scripture to us. When the scriptures become meaningful for us, it is because the risen Christ has met us in that word, has engaged with us through Scripture, through our life’s journey via the Holy Spirit.  I’m not asking for a show of hands, but I wonder how many of us actually read the Bible, at home, every day?

The disciples were downcast and low.  It was then, in the midst of their weakness that the risen Christ became real to them. This is absolutely at the heart of an authentic life in Christ.  He will always walk with us;  it might be at some hour of crisis, or at the behest of some awful news, or illness, or an anxious time;  the fog of the mundane clears away and the Christ walks with us, in the midst of our grief or bewilderment.  He explains the Scriptures to us;  he expounds the word to us, because He himself IS the word. He always wants us to enter a deeper recognition of Him but He will never intrude; He will never make us give him his proper recognition as the Lord of All. (pause) He never imposes where he isn’t wanted.  He waits until the time is right as he did with Cleopas and his friends.

The bible says that when we help the most unlovely, the lowest, dirtiest, poorest scrap of humanity, we are helping Him. There’s a pattern of Him appearing as something so unlike what we expect.  If He knocks on the door of our hearts as the delightful rich host who showers us with honour and gifts, it would be too easy to follow Him and we’d be led away by the glitter of the world.  A Jesus like this would be a fake Jesus. I believe this is at the heart of why His earthly appearances were in such humble guises.

This Jesus is so much more than the political hero the disciples thought he was.  This Jesus shares not just the gift of his immortality with us, but his presence with us on our journey to get there as well. Listen for His still small voice;  hear it through our own personal reading of the Bible. Amen.

Lord of Safe Harbours

It’s a very familiar story, the one where Christ goes to sleep in the boat in the midst of a terrible storm.  (Mk. 4:38) It is evening and the disciples are in the boat with Jesus. They are crossing the Sea of Galilee when a great storm arises. The boat is beaten by the wind and the waves; it is filling with water and ready to sink. All the while, Jesus is asleep in the stern untroubled by the storm, indifferent to their peril and unperturbed by their fear. We wonder why this story was included in the Bible, because it shows Jesus in almost an uncaring way.  But I think it’s a little deeper than that:  There are two significant things we could notice about the story.

One is the nature of the call.  Let us go to the other side, he says, in the boat. He calls them, off the solid land onto the storm-prone sea, at evening.  And he calls them to go to the other side, as though there is a purpose.  There are many images in this narrative about what following Jesus might mean.  He calls them out of their comfort zone, into peril, to an unknown place, for an unknown purpose.

And then he goes to sleep.  That’s the second significant thing.

Apparently, the Sea of Galilee is prone to these storms, because it’s shallow, is below sea level and is surrounded by hills, which act as a funnel, through which the wind whips up storms.  These storms are more likely to occur at twilight, because of the cool night air blowing down onto the relatively heated surface of the water.

Why did he do this at such a precarious time?  He must have had some idea that the storm would blow up. Why was the storm permitted to arise in the first place? He knew about all the mechanisms of nature (because he was there at its creation).  Did he do this on purpose?  It doesn’t seem to equate with a loving, caring Shepherd. Yet, he did seem to call them knowingly into perilous possibilities.  Humanly, we might even ask “If he really loved them, why would he put them at risk?”.  We believe that God loves each of us.  The Bible says he holds our tears in a bottle;  that he knows us completely – he knows us by name; he will provide for our needs.   But when storms strike, it’s sometimes hard to reconcile what we believe about God in our heads, with the emotional and practical reality of our existence.

In his book, A Restless Faith, Keith Mascord explains his journey to come to peace with this enigma. He tells of a terrible accident what prompted him to search outside his Moore-College trained, fundamentalist faith.  He was a Minister in the Sydney Anglican tradition at Wee Waa, and during his time there, one of his churchmen, a farmer, backed over his little toddler son and killed him, then 11 months later, his daughter was killed in a car accident, because she wasn’t wearing her seat belt.  The reason she wasn’t wearing her seat belt, was because she’d had a previous accident and would have been killed, if she’d been wearing her belt.  Keith Mascord questioned his fundamentalist faith, in the face of the unimaginable suffering of these parents, and pondered all the whys and the hows of God letting this happen.  He eventually came to re-evaluate his faith, from a very black-and-white Sunday school understanding of God, to one which embraced much more of the mystery of God, and a less rigid explanation of the suffering in the world. When we consider the personal tragedies that people face every day and the global crises that plague our world, we may also wonder if Jesus is asleep on the job. The cries of the disciples are our cries too: "Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?"

The verses in Job have wisdom to add here. Job was a man who seemed to be picked on by God;  it was as though God took bets with the devil over Job.  The devil said “I bet I can do this or that terrible thing to Job, and he will abandon his faith in you”.  And God said “you’re on”.  And when the terrible things happened, Job felt abandoned by God, just like the disciples in the boat. Yet, in the end Job came to realize that he was just part of a bigger picture… he was not the Centre of the Universe and he had no right to tell God what to do.  This seems harsh to us. It is harsh, but there is great victory and strength in it too.  When confronted by his Creator, Job, in spite of everything that has happened to him, grasps the greatness, the mystery, the goodness and the inscrutable wisdom of God.  He learns about God’s sovereign grasp on our world. In the midst of his suffering, Job declares, "I know that my Redeemer lives and at the last he will stand upon the earth...then from my flesh I shall see God." (Job 19:25). Job has found his way home the hard way--through the path of being reduced to nothing but his bare skin and wretched bones...he is raised by God's spirit to the soaring conviction that no matter what happens to him, he belongs to God, and God will bring him to the divine presence in glory”  We too, discover that when our Universe collapses, there is still God. We are humbled to discover that we are not the Centre of God’s universe;  at the same time, we experience the mercy and peace of the Christ who is willing to become like us and get into the boat with us.

It’s the involvement of God with us that is the great overcoming mystery.  Not the head knowledge;  not the doctrine, but the absolute certainty of knowing God is there.  And sometimes, we only really understand that fact, when the great billows rise and the wind howls. This is the wisdom of the Storm story. This is why Jesus calls them out in the boat, at evening.. He knows what storms will blow up in our lives and still bids US follow him into the boat. Otherwise, we’d stand alone, marooned on the rocky shore of our lifeless head knowledge. The sleet of life’s storms would still rain down on us, but if we never venture into the thrashing water, we will never experience the real Jesus;  the overcoming One;  the one who, even asleep, still knows the storm rages.  He wakes to our call.  Every time.

Perhaps that’s why the story is told the way it is – because we know Jesus even sleeping, is still with us, so the sleeping bit is like a metaphor which represents our interpretation of what we feel when he doesn’t stir and answer all our why questions and answer our prayers in the way we want.

The mystery and the blessing of the storms of our lives are all mixed in together.  It feels messy to us.  Life is messy, complicated, unexplained.  The blessing we finally learn from our wave tossed journeys, are the blessedness of the presence and therefore the peace of Jesus, even while the tumult rages.

It can be unwise to directly link God’s caring of us, with our circumstances.  I have a friend on Facebook, who has had a pretty comfortable life.  And I know, we can’t always see behind closed doors, but in the overview of life she’s got a lot to be thankful for… stable marriage, plenty of money, healthy kids, grandkids, a job she loves.  Sometimes her posting to Facebook will be filled with exclamation marks and big smiley faces…. Things like “I love my life.  God is so good”. Or, “flying out to Paris today, our God is wonderful!” There’s nothing wrong with that.  It’s giving God the credit for our many blessings.  But if we only count the good circumstances of our life as proof of God’s favour and love for us, then when the storm comes, we may want to abandon the faith life altogether. A head knowledge faith, can be a fair weather faith.

The truth is that we live in a world which is defined at times by injury, loss, illness and death.  We all face our own storms and this story tells us, not so much why they happen – I’m not sure we can ever know that – but about how we can behave in the midst of them.  Of course, the disciples were afraid.  We also are afraid when terrible things happen.  And I think, it’s OK to cry to God, as the disciples did “Don’t you care?” Maybe that’s why this story records their reaction.  It’s like God is reaching down the years, saying to us “it’s OK to ask me why, or even why not”. But in the end, Jesus is the voice of calm, and he calls us to trust him over our fears.

Can we cultivate so firm and deep a trust in the wisdom and sovereignty of Christ that we do not fear following Him into the boat at evening, to go to the other side? The paradox is that until we step into the boat and until the storm arises, our faith can never be that firm or that deep. When we are in the thrashing unsafe boat and realize that He is still in control, our faith in His ability to either calm the storm, or calm our spirits, becomes rock solid.

Finally, can I share a lovely image of this seaside encounter with Jesus.  In his book Letter to a Man in a Fire Reynolds Price tells of an elderly lady who wrote to him about her experience of seeing Jesus more clearly. She was facing her own “storm,” as she was going through exhausting medical tests in preparation for surgery. One day an image came to her mind’s eye. "I went out along the Galilee shore and came to a crowd gathered around a man, and I stood on the outskirts intending to listen. But he looked over the crowd at me and then said, 'What do you want?' And I said, 'Could you send someone to come with me and help me stand up after the tests because I can't manage alone?' He [Jesus] thought for a moment and then said, 'How would it be if I came?'" (Letter to a Man in a Fire, 30-31)

“How would it be if I came?" This is precisely what God has done in Jesus Christ. God has come to us in our suffering and pain, in our struggle to be human, in our fear and anxiety, and in our doubt and uncertainty. Jesus put off deity and put on humanity. He became one of us--one with us--one for us.”

He bids us follow him into the boat, without revealing where the other side might be – without giving us a travel plan or sea sickness pills or life jackets.  He calls us to follow knowing full well that the journey will involve setbacks and storms.  But we have to get into the boat with him, before He calms the storm or hands out the life jackets.  Sometimes, indeed, he waits until the storm is strongest before he acts. If we waited until all was prepared and ready and known we might never go.  And risk being stranded on the shore for all eternity. 

Lord of safe harbours.  We know we are forgiven for all manner of our frailty You are the same today as you were when you bid the waves and winds to cease in the midst of the storm at Galilee.   You understand our fearfulness;  you speak the same words of peace to us.  You hold the mystery to all which befalls us;  you always know the measure of our endurance and faith, and will always command the storm to cease, before we plunge beneath the waves.  We know that all things are under your control.  You can calm the storms we face;  you can give us peace while the storm rages. Blessed by your name O God.  

The Lord's Prayer

“Teach us to pray;  the Lord’s prayer”.  These are my thoughts on what the verses from Luke mean to me; it’s how I’ve applied these precepts in my own life.

*        The opening sentence is “Our father in heaven; hallowed by your name”.  It’s like in a nutshell of who God is: We have on the one hand the invitation to see God as a very personal God who is like a father, and on the other, the Jehovah God to whom all things owe adoration and worship, and who reigns in heaven which is the beginning and end of all creation.  “Hallowed” means “all holiness belongs to you”.  . Some people struggle with the image of a Father God, because their earthly father was a very flawed character, We can feel compassion for those whose fathers were strict and severe, or violent or abusive, or feckless or work-shy; Nevertheless, we can at least relate on an intellectual level, to the ideal of a loving parent who has our best interests at heart, and who will always be interested in our lives;  who will forgive  us no matter what, who provides for us and looks out for us..” Our father” speaks of relationship;  of being able to talk to God in our own language, confident that He is listening. So we are invited to be in relationship with the One to whom all sacredness and power belongs.  And it seems that this prayer teaches us how to get our priorities right.  To start with acknowledging who God is and what He deserves from us, is a good beginning.

*        The next bit is “Your kingdom come, your will be done on earth as it is in heaven”. This has absolutely nothing to do with our idea of earthly Kingdoms.  I confess, I’ve recited this bit since I was a child, not really seeing it’s significance, or knowing what it really meant.  But after my son died, it became more meaningful.  My son was a young policeman, and when we gathered at Wesley   for his funeral; as we walked up the aisle we could see that the church was absolutely packed;  everybody squashed into the pews, and the little slide out seats too, and outside, and in the vestry. As we bowed our head for the first prayer, I began to have a sort of mental picture of that packed church and I could see lots of slender soft ribbons floating down onto the heads of many of the people.  In later days, as I pondered and prayed over Ben’s death and where God was in all of it, I could still see the ribbons descending.  And I began to pray that whatever purpose God had in allowing Ben to die, that it would begin to be put into place on earth;  I began to pray, that in relation to Ben’s death, God’s will would be done on earth as it already was in heaven.  God’s will was done in heaven;  Ben was with him;  God had counted Ben’s days;  He’s counted all our days and he has the final word on what happens to us..  Now I prayed that this will and purpose would be done on earth too, for all those people on whom the ribbons settled.  I felt that in this one way at least, Ben’s death would help someone else find peace with God, as he himself had found. Perhaps this is fanciful to you;  the silly imagination of a grieving mother.  Maybe.  But this I know;  God’s will is a fact;  a force;  a divine energy;  the divine intellect and purpose in the shadow of which we can only stand in mystified awe.  I could never say that it was God’s will for Ben to die, but "in everything God works for good with those who love him, who are called according to his purpose" (Rom. 8:28). Ben was called home to God according to God’s purpose and I have to believe it works for good in the big picture.  Jehovah and parent God, may your will be done for us, on earth, as it already has been done in heaven.

*        Now we come to the petitionary part of the prayer;  “give us this day our daily bread”  This is the only part of the prayer which is for our physical provision.  Or is it?  I’m sure it  means we should be asking for the bread of physical life.  Notice that we are instructed to ask only for what we need today, on a daily basis, not for our sustenance and health in the days to come.  Tricky, very tricky.  It goes against our inclination doesn’t it? We want to know that we will be secure with food and money, long into the future. I don’t think many of us have any idea at all of what it would be like not knowing where our next meal was coming from.  But for the people of Jesus’ day, this was a real prayer, prayed for their survival.. And we are to ask for others too “give us”, not “give me”. And when we ask for bread, we probably should be mindful of all those who grow it and cook it and transport it, and especially those who are dying for the want of it.

This idea of a providential God, supplying everything we need and looking out for us, is a bit of a two edged sword and is never simple.  God is not a Father Christmas giving us what we think we want or even need.  We can’t say “God is good since he saves our children;  and we DO say this “God must have been looking after him or her because they walked out of the wreckage unscathed”. But where does that leave people like me, whose child was not saved?  Why was Peter freed from his prison cell by an angel, but Stephen was stoned to death? Why was John the Baptist allowed to be killed at the whim of a silly girl?  We believe in God’s providence when we get what we want, and we must also trust that providence when He allows things to happen which we don’t want. If I’m going to believe in a God who is absolutely good and always has my best interests at heart, then when Ben died, I couldn’t turn away and declare that God isn’t a loving Father.  This is mysterious stuff which we won’t understand until we get to heaven.  It’s all mixed up with our free will, and God’s absolute will, but at the end of the day, we are still the child, with the burdens and cares of our lives, coming to God’s door, saying “Give to me what I need and I’ll trust you for what that is;  let your will be done for me and all that happens to me”.  In the face of the death of my son, this is all I could offer God.

Could these verses about bread also mean, that we should be asking for God’s very heart to be shared with us;  the bread of Life;  the Spirit.  After all, the rest of these verses  go on to speak of the Holy Spirit, and God’s delight and desire to share his personhood with us, through the Holy Spirit. (down in vs 11-13 where he says that as earthy fathers know how to give good gifts, so the Father longs to give us the Holy Spirit)

*        And forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us.  We accept and embrace God’s forgiveness of us, but we aren’t always so energetic about forgiving others who have wronged us. It can be very hard to forgive people and our capacity to forgive is probably linked to how much they have hurt us.  Sometimes it can take a long time to forgive and it takes much prayer. Maybe this is why we are instructed to pray in this manner;  so that God can change us from resentful, ungodly people, into forgiving, Christ-centred people.   Prayer is not designed to change or persuade God; it is designed by God to change us! Prayer is a spiritual discipline through which we are formed into disciples of Jesus Christ. And a surprising shortcut to forgiving people is to pray for them. 

When my son had been dead for less than a year, I encountered a woman who took every opportunity to establish a pecking order, with me as the peckee.  She could have done me a good turn but she did me a bad one;  she could have shown compassion but she showed me veiled malice instead. In her defence, the things she said and did were petty, small-minded and if I’d been in a normal emotional state I could have flicked them off before they took hold. But I was in a very dark place, with a great wound on my heart and soul. It went on for months and as I drove home one rainy winter night, after another bad encounter with her, at a meeting during which I was not permitted to speak, I thought that I didn’t really want to be in the world any more. But after a few more months and with a skerrick more emotional strength, another way of escape presented itself. I began to pray for this lady.  I prayed for God to bless her;  I prayed that my attitude to her would change.  I prayed for God to love her and for me to love her the way He did. We can’t change how others treat us but we can change how we respond.  She had added to my burden of brokenness.  But prayer began to change the way I saw her and it allowed me to withdraw from the arena.  Her bossy pettiness began to fall on my deliberately-deafened ears.  I yielded her up to God and if that meant she always had the last word and the victory in the pecking order, then my reward was a healing emotional state. She began to seem like a little girl, always trying to prove how much she deserved praise and approval.  I began to see her with more compassion and understanding. Prayer did that. I’m sorry to be sharing something which is so personal, but I discovered that this praying for those who hurt us, actually works.

*        The next bit of this prayer is “And lead us not into temptation”. It’s no surprise that we are told to ask God not to lead us into temptation.  We could spend a month of sermons on this one.  Do not bring us to the time of trial.  Nobody wants trial. God knows how frail we are;  he knows we have need of confession. - We all of us have inclinations to wander to a particular area of sin;  for some it might simply be eating too much, or gossiping, or any type of natural appetite for which the human race is so prone to distort and adulterate. Temptation never strikes when we are strong and have the ramparts of our souls in place.  The evil one knows our weaknesses as well as the Christ does and he waits ‘til we are made vulnerable by any type of life circumstance through which he can fire an evil dart.  But with much praying and the help of the Spirit, we can overcome any temptation.  We have Christ’s example in that too.

*        We move on to the verses 6 to 13 and they are really about persistence;  the man who keeps knocking on his neighbour’s door, the verses about seeking and finding, asking and receiving.

In his classic book, The Meaning of Prayer, the great preacher, Harry Emerson Fosdick, puts it this way: Some things God cannot give to a person until he or she has prepared and proved his or her spirit by persistent prayer. Such praying cleans the house, cleanses the windows, hangs the curtains, sets the table, opens the door, until God says, "Lo! The House is ready. Now may the guest come in."

The Rev. Dr. Charles Reeb, pastor of United Methodist in St. Petersburg, Florida, has expressed this attitude very succinctly:  “When we ask long enough, seek hard enough, knock loud enough, and pray persistently enough, something happens on the inside of us. The discipline of prayer begins to awaken us to the Holy Spirit inside of us, and our motives and desires begin to change”.

It’s been said (Peter Annet) that those who pray persistently are like sailors who have cast anchor on a rock. As they pull on the anchor, they think they are pulling the rock to themselves, but they are really pulling themselves to the rock.

This is what persistent prayer does. Especially, if God’s answer to us, is eventually “no”. It pulls us closer to the rock of God’s divinity. . And in that continual coming, God changes us;  in that persistent coming, we are changed into what God wants for us.  In that constant coming, He shares his Holy Spirit with us. When our temporal needs are foremost in our minds, it might seem that this isn’t what we need.  But it IS all we need in the whole of our life’s journey, and is what is at the heart of this passage. Teach us to pray Lord?  Yes, he teaches us to pray, but it’s not an easy learning; we are often on a different wavelength, with different values and different ideas of what we need.  Yet, as we move closer to God in prayer, we may not always get what we ask for;  instead,  from the wisdom of God, we get what we need. We get what God wants for us, for our spiritual and eternal good. We find that as we move closer to our Rock, we begin to desire what God desires, so that what we ask for, knock for, and seek after becomes what God so desperately wants to give us. Then the truth of Jesus' words come to life so that what we pray for we truly receive. This is the secret of how to pray.  In the name of the father, son and Holy Spirit. Amen