Out on a limb

Our adventurous young cat, aptly named 'Pickles',

is centre stage in this photo, although her tabby and white stripes make her initially hard to see.

I took the picture from  a second storey window when she'd scampered up the kauri tree outside, spurred on by my husband. 

She'd never been up this tree before - she'd never been this high before  - and we both watched with some anxiety as she spent the next ten minutes carefully moving four paws and her useful tail 

around, over and through the narrowing branches. At one stage she even let out a plaintive, though restrained, meeaow and I could tell she was having second thoughts about her rash dash upwards.

Finally after realising that she could not jump onto the roof, and the birds watching her from a safe distance were not going to move any closer, she carefully reversed, and very slowly navigated the descent. 

No need to ring the fire brigade after all!

But her predicament made me think about the proverbial 'going out on a limb'. I could see how easily it happens - perhaps inspired by others we start off with great enthusiasm to achieve a goal, without stopping to consider what might lie ahead. We think we have what it takes, but suddenly find ourselves doubting our abilities or wondering whether we should proceed or retreat. 

Yet how often have people who are willing to 'go out on a limb' made lasting changes or achieved outcomes beyond their or others' expectations? People like explorers, inventors, artists and writers, people working for justice, and anyone who risks stepping out in faith, not knowing where that step will lead them. People like Jesus , who stepped out on a limb by challenging the prevailing religious and political authorities in the name of the God whom he revealed as Love. 

Next time you feel as if you're out on a limb, remember you're in good company.

FINAL ARRANGEMENTS

I went to a funeral a couple of months ago.
Not an uncommon occurrence.
But this was a little different - actually quite different.

The funeral took the form of readings, prayers and music because the young minister had been given clear instructions prior to the man's death that he wanted no tributes or eulogies. As a result, by the end of the hour long service, those present knew little more about him than we had before. There was no life overview, and no personal anecdotes to bring discovery, tears, laughter, and thanksgiving and make the deceased more real, even as he moved from our sight.

People will give this instruction for all sorts of reasons e.g.

• Speakers talk more about themselves than the one who's died or they go on too long
• 'I don't want to any fuss'
• 'I don't want people saying nice things about me or making me out to be something I'm not'

But someone once said to me, 'Funerals are for the living, not the departed,' and there is a truth in that. I don't know if you're like me, but I've often valued the diverse perspectives that a thoughtful biography and two or three  well-crafted tributes can provide. Sure they are only glimpses of different contexts in which the deceased was involved, but they paint a fuller picture of the person's  character and life, not just the part we may happen to have shared.

And when different generations are given the opportunity to remember a mum or granddad, their participation in a significant family ritual will be a blessing to them in spite of their grief, and a reminder to us of the impact for good a caring older relative can make.

So, maybe,when we come to make our 'final arrangements' we might allow those who attend a glimpse into our background and the things which have been significant be they people, places, work or play, our faith even our failures. It's a gift to those present if we can provide  a space for trusted family or friends to share their stories, their struggles and their love in the presence of a supportive community.

Then at the end of the service, our 'goodbyes' will be informed by a deeper understanding and appreciation of who the person was in this world, even as we commend them on their journey of

becoming in Christ.

Ripples ...

Ripples

                                                                                                                  Photo BBC 2012

I'll bet many of us have stood at a  river's edge and skimmed a smooth stone across the surface ... there's been a a plop or two or even more to show  the extent of our skill and then the stone has sunk beneath the surface. The ripples have broken up and disappeared, but we know they were real. For a time, however brief, they were full of beauty and energy.

Sometimes I think about ripples when I'm writing - or trying to write. I think about all the books, articles, sermons and so on, written about 'listening' or 'God' or 'prayer' or 'love' or 'spirituality' and I wonder what on earth my writing - the 'stones' of books, articles, sermons and so on - could add to the world. Theologians and writers, scholars and poets far more gifted than I am have explored these themes before me - some of them making such a huge impact, it's as if they've dropped a large rock    [ with the help of a bulldozer ] into the ocean and set off a tidal wave! While I might have aspired to such an influence once, I know now that my contributions are more like the small pebbles a child might drop into the water with joy, without needing to know where the ripples end up. It is enough to know I've found and shaped a particular 'stone', and set it in motion. Its ripples will reach those to whom they will make a gentle difference, without my having to make it happen.

Sometimes I have a picture of a large expanse of water covered in circles of ripples which embrace the globe. And I begin to imagine ... you may like to join me ...

Imagine those of us who try to live a life that is kind and just, sending out ripples of love and hope and forgiveness and grace  as we go through our day ...
imagine persisting even when faced with failure, persecution, disappointment or apathy,
imagine  the Spirit of God breathing encouragement and wisdom into each of us until our ripples merge with others, and then ,
as these ever -widening circles of compassion move beyond our comprehension,
imagine  the world covered  'with the glory of God, as the waters cover the sea'.

Let's see how many ripples of love and joy and peace we can send out today.

In the company of a kingfisher

I love birds.

Perhaps I should have been an ornithologist  - although science wasn't my strength.
Or perhaps a dedicated 'twitcher' - although I haven't got the telescopic cameras that provide exceptional glimpses of a bird's feathered beauty for those patient enough to wait and wait and wait.

There's something about watching birds  - the way the large fledglings pester their parents for food, the squabbling over crumbs by the bins near the beach, the delicate courtship dances, the swoops and stall dives of the resident wood pigeons - that makes my heart lighter.

And there's something about listening to birdsong - the morepork's haunting,  repetitive notes echoing through the darkness, the racket of sparrows sorting out their sleeping arrangements in the roosting tree, and the tui's trills and whistles just before dawn - that makes my spirit sing.

The kingfisher or, in Maori,  'Kotare'  is my all-time favourite. Years ago its coming and going with flashes of brilliance reminded me of the way the divine entered my life - sometimes bright and clear, at other times fleeting and mystical.

In September 2006,  I had an encounter with  a kingfisher that left me blessed and grateful.
My husband and I were a long way from home. Diagnosed with dangerous blockages in his heart only a week before, he was in a specialised hospital undergoing a quadruple bypass operation. It was a long operation and so I went for a walk to the playing fields nearby to occupy some time and get some respite from hospital walls and the heaviness of my thoughts.

As I walked into the field, a flash of turquoise caught my attention - a kingfisher was sitting on a tree about five metres away. Nothing unusual about that.

But what happened next remains with me to this day.

As I began to walk, the kingfisher flew a little way ahead of me. And each time I caught up with this brilliantly beautiful bird, it took flight again and settled a a few metres ahead. This happened several times until I reached the big field. The kingfisher by then had settled on the higher vantage point of a power line and stayed there while I made a couple of circuits , my steps and thoughts lightening as I got some much needed exercise and released some of my anxiety into the care of the great Love some of us name as God.  As I turned to go back to the hospital, I looked at the kingfisher expecting it to stay where it was - but instead it flew ahead of me. And so we repeated our outward journey's pattern - I walked and the kingfisher kept me company until it was time to leave the park.

Now you may think me fanciful but for me that bird was a Godly messenger - reminding me that I was not alone in this ordeal, that God was in so many ways keeping me company - through the beauty of the creation, through the prayers of friends all over the country, and through the Spirit at work in the world - in the medical team whose efforts saved my husband's life, and in the kingfisher's soothing presence as I paced and prayed.

I did not know it at the time, but the kingfisher takes its name, Halcyon sacra from a mythical bird who was able to calm the wind and the waves as it nested on the sea during the winter solstice.

I think of the One who calmed the wind and waves on the Sea of Galilee.

Between them, Jesus and the kingfisher certainly calmed the storm in me and allowed hope to be born from heartache.

Walking by on the other side

I went for a walk with husband and dog as usual this morning.
There was a commotion on the route we normally take and,
before we could see clearly what was happening, I went to go the other way.
But husband was already ahead, interested in the activity, and I followed,
as I often do.

We got closer and saw damaged cars and men standing on the pavement near us.

A  police car arrived and the officer went to the woman still sitting in her
side-swiped car and asked if she was all right.
I could not hear her reply but I could see she was holding herself
upright as if concentrating hard on something intangible.
Perhaps she gave the almost automatic ' yes,thanks'  in spite of
her situation, not wanting to make a fuss.
Convention doesn't help us in times like these.
I wondered if I should stop and go over to her until someone of her own
came to offer comfort.

But I didn't.
I kept walking and the policeman left her and turned back to his vehicle.
The men on the pavement  chatted on their phones,
and one a little further away took more pictures, careful of his angles
and the light.

The woman was alone.

We turned the corner.
I hesitated.
I thought about what it might be like to be shocked and alone.
To be without a hand to hold.
There was an almost tangible impulse.
I said 'I think I'll go back.'
Husband and dog continued their walk.

Only two or three minutes had passed, but by the time I got back,
there was someone else by the car.
She had a cardigan on over her uniform and her young hand was on the
woman's pulse. Human touch - woman's hand to woman's hand.
I heard an ambulance in the distance.

I went by another route to my destination
and thought about the Good Samaritan story.
I've always thought that I would be that Samaritan
the one who stopped and took care of the man
at some personal cost and inconvenience.

But what I discovered this morning was
a less attractive reality:
I was the one who gawked and passed by
the one who hesitated but moved on
until the Spirit reminded me of
who I am supposed to be.

I had missed an opportunity to help another person
even for a couple of minutes.
I had missed an opportunity to touch Christ.

Being Beatrice

I go to see Beatrice today -  I find her  in the big lounge - one of the many sitting in a semi-circle of wandering minds,as notes from Andre Rieu's violin  float past muffled ears like so many dandelion seeds in the wind.

I tell her my name and push her comfy chair to a small private lounge.
We sit facing each other.
We are not in any hurry to go or do anything.
The room is tidy, clinical, a kitchen space, some chairs, a window curtained bright, a table.
She cannot reach these things.
She can't remember what they are for.
Someone has chosen her clothes with care
this morning; the colour of her necklace is reflected in her shirt and her nails are clean and polished.

I introduce myself again and she briefly becomes alert when I mention our common links of family and church. She starts to talk and I listen intently.
Her words are a mixed bag: here and there a run of two or three reveal a small piece of the puzzle her life has become. References to clothing, food, her sons, an old friend pop to the surface like bubbles and then evaporate into the silence.
We sit gently in the space they leave behind.

She inhabits this silence with an air of wondering, an occasional frown and then something makes her smile and she waves her hand and her eyes crinkle. I don't know what the joke is  but I mirror her delight with my smile.
Silence settles again.
There is no rush ... until ...

There is a knock on the door. A carer pops her head round the door - time to gather folk for their mid-day meal. I nod. The door closes.
I tell her again who I am and ask her if we might pray the Lord's Prayer together before I go.
She smiles.
I begin the old version and so does she.
Words emerge in their proper sequence without hesitation.
I see her lips form familiar phrases as her voice gets quieter.
At the end she says, quite firmly, " Thank you, Lord for helping me get through."
Clear as day.
"Thank you Lord," I whisper as I take her hands and kiss her cheek.
Her hair may need washing
but her spirit is sparkling.

Empty tomb, full hearts

The empty tomb is a strange place ... the two tiny rooms lie within an  elaborate 'edicule' [or shrine] now in such poor condition that scaffolding supports it as it awaits its own resurrection. 'Holy Sepulchre'   and 'Resurrection' [Anastasis] are  both names for this Holy Church - and the site we were about to enter spoke both of  the death of hopes and the death of death itself.

Under the stern eye of guardians from different churches, I stand with others from our St George's College group in a queue that trails around the edicule, under the rays of light through the cupola above.  As we wait, some people nearby  sing songs from their homelands, some are clearly deep in prayer, others chat about food and hotels and touristy things, while still others focus on their phones. Yet we are all drawn here by one man, Jesus of Nazareth, and the story of his life, death and resurrection.

After an hour's wait, it is all over in a matter of minutes. Several of us are ushered into the first space where a portion of the original stone which the angels rolled away is kept right here. A brief moment for reflection and we move into the second room - where you see the candlelight in the picture above - the actual place of Jesus' s burial and of his resurrection. The surface of the shelf where Jesus's body lay is protected from  countless pilgrims' hands - and ours  - by a slab of marble. It is cool to the touch - a hard reminder of the lifeless body which lay right here so long ago, . But the candles tell another story  -  the extraordinary energy, the power-full light that blasted through the darkness of death like a laser, and, right here,  released Jesus the Christ into the cosmos, into Love for all time. 

And as we are waved outside by the queue 'manager', I thought of the disciples who ran to the tomb and crouched right here and ran to tell others what they'd seen  and Mary waiting in the mist of mourning, right here.Not recognising the resurrected Jesus in the dim dawn light, it wasn't until he called her name right here that her grief fell away like an ill-fitting cloak.

And so it is with us - with me - it's not easy to recognise Jesus when we are bogged down in busyness or poverty, suffering or anxiety,  depression or fear for the future of the world and our children and their children. 

But as soon as we stop and are still enough to hear him call our name, everything changes. 

Stop today. Right here.

Listen.