The Magi's Journey

Christmas seems a good time to post this. Feel free to use it if you wish.....Some details might seem surprising to you, but having visited Bethlehem in the middle of winter two years running I can assure you that it really is very cold there at this time of year! (Last year it was colder there than in York).

Instead of having a sermon, we are going to have a cross between a story and bible meditation. So get yourself into a comfortable position, close your eyes if you find it helps, and begin to relax........ Now is the time to leave the busyness of the high street shopping, the worries about what to wear, what to eat, who is coming on Christmas day and to place them in God’s hands. You think about each one now, name it before God, and imagine God turning it into a little silver ball to hang on your Christmas tree............ Now you are free of your worries you can begin to tune into what God wants to say to you this evening.

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Now imagine. Imagine that you are a traveller. You have come a very long way. All the way from Africa, carrying a small quantity of precious, fragrant burning resin. You have ridden for hundreds of miles on horseback till your thighs are aching and sore, you have travelled on foot too, till your back aches and your feet throb. Sometimes the territory was a little too forbidding or a little too steep to stay mounted. You are now in a strange country, and here it is night, and the nights are cold.

For as you began to climb higher into the hills, the temperature began to drop. It feels like you are on the roof of the world here and although it is pleasantly warm at noon, at night it is much colder than you have ever known it. There is frost on the ground. You have heard tales of this white powder that covers the sand where the dew has dropped, but noone has ever told you what it felt like before.
-how it bites at your fingers,
- how the cold wind cuts into your face.
- how your knees ache with the cold in the middle of the night with only a flimsy tent to protect you.

You wrap your thick, woolen travelling cloak tighter around you and you look for the place you are searching for. You feel scared and lost. Very lost. Although you have travelling companions and a servant nearby, you know how vulnerable you are in a strange place, with different customs, and this place is under military rule. Armies have been marching past you at regular intervals on the journey.

You hear jeers and shouts from cohorts of passing troops at times, and
the fear is always at the back of you and your companions minds. What if they turned on us? We could never fight against them, there are too many of them. But so far, they never have turned on you. Their commanding officers reigned them in, and told them to march faster. They disappeared over the horizon, the soles of their boots drumming rhythmically into the road.

The fear stayed, deep-down though. And the despair too and the tiny voice inside telling you that you must be crazy for leaving everything you know behind you, just to search.

Because you *are* searching - looking for a new born king. Looking for some answers in life too.
Yet the obvious place to look for a king is in a palace .

But the only palace near this place had no children crying in it. It contained only a bad tempered ruler, who you were afraid would
murder you on the spot, and a few local priests of the ancient and complex religion they follow in these parts. These holy-men directed you six miles to the South. But you aren’t really sure who you can trust. The king who asks you to report back to him with the cold-steel of a threat in his voice, or the priests who consult their ancient scriptures and give the name of a tiny hamlet miles away from anywhere important.

Your confusion mounts... and the black pit of fear in your stomach.
Was this long journey all for nothing?

And now you reach the village. Someone has scrawled the name of the place on a wooden post near a watering trough. The place is riddled with caves, like a giant anthill. And you begin to wonder where on earth you should be looking next. But then you gaze into the sky, and as you gaze the starlight seems to crystallize through the freezing air, pointing the way to one cave in particular, with an old family home leaning crookedly against it, like the cave has become the spare room or the granny flat for the unwanted guests and the pet goat.

It is about as far removed from a palace as you could wish. Deeply deeply ordinary. Yet something inside you makes you want to look further. You lift the latch. And smell, not goat dung, but something animal all the same, a cow, and the remains of whatever the cow had for breakfast. The ripe smell makes you cover your face at first.

But then you look around. And see a scrubbed corner. And in the scrubbed corner a woman is lying on a pile of staw. She is pale, as if she has been bleeding. She looks as if she has recently been through a great ordeal. And then you see the man. He is much older than her, and he is busy propping the woman up with piles of straw and trying to persuade her to drink some wine from a goatskin he is holding.

You hail him in your native tongue. He looks puzzled. You remember just how far you are from home so you try again, this time in the rough traders Greek you have picked up over the years. This time he replies, falteringly, trying to find some words. “Hail stranger, come in.”

You ask. “I have come from far away. I am looking for a baby king.”

He points to a feeding trough, which puzzles you at first. Perhaps he is offering food for the horses. Then you peer inside and you are shocked.
A baby. He is lying, newborn by the looks of him, too purple and wrinked to be any older than a few hours, tiny and fragile, wrapped in bands of cloth that are wound around and around, as the Egyptians do with their princes before they bury them. You stare straight into the baby’s eyes, and the baby seems to stare at you, in an unfocused kind of way. You move closer, so you can see each other more clearly. You feel moved to talk to this child. What do you say? ........................................................

Then the baby seems to want to communicate back. Not in speech, for he has no speech as yet, but in the way that he looks, his position. His eyes bore a message into your soul.
What does he seem to be saying to you...........

And now you feel compelled to give the child a gift. You have brought frankinsence from your home country for him, but you also want to give him something else. What gift do you want to give him now, a personal gift between you and him that noone else can see.................

Your companions come in too. They also pay their respects and give their gifts, and then you leave, after a brief conversation, filled with the halting phrases provided by the language barrier and both your lack of vocab. You are aware that something tremendously important has passed, but you are also aware that it will take time to process this. You sit and think for a while, about what this can all mean, about the next step.....

And then you hear singing, strange, ghostly music, that seems to come from the clouds and the frosty air itself. It sounds like the cross between a song of joy and a lullaby.

Hymmage

I'm doing a wedding, Visions-style at the end of the month. Its quite exciting really as its only the 3rd completely-Visions-style wedding we've ever done and especially nice because we've known Pete for years.

We're singing three hymns at the wedding. "Be thou my Vision", which we already had a remix of, "And can it be" (which I also had a remix of, but I didn't like it so I've done another) and a song which was new to me "O God beyond all praising" which is sung to the tune Thaxted, (I vow to thee my country). I always liked that tune, but really didn't like the words much, so its really nice to see some nice words to it (which are really appropriate for a wedding). Turns out it 187 in the "Praise!" hymnal.
It has some cool lines like..
"Oh God beyond all praising, we worship you today
and sing the love amazing that songs cannot repay;
For we can only wonder at every gift you send,
at blessings without number and mercies without end:"

and these lines really go with the "for richer, for poorer stuff"...

"Whether our tomorrows be filled with good or ill,
we'll triumph through our sorrows and rise to bless you still"

The words are by Michael Parry (1942-96).

Anyway I've now remixed this one as well and am feeling very productive having 2 new tunes in the bag in one week!
All I have to do now is find time to record some vocals to all the hymns we have remixed this year. I have a bit of a plan to release a CD entitled "Hopefulness" and use the money to finance social action projects in the city which would be a nice contribution Visions could make to the Hope 08 thing. Lets hope we get the time to do the recording......

Gregorian.

Whilst searching on itunes for "I still haven't found what I'm looking for" I was browsing various other artists covers of the song, and discovered a group called Gregorian. Have you ever heard something and wondered..."Hmm...either this is very clever or its cheesy." And I really don't know which. Actually having mulled it over I think its both clever *and* cheesy.

Basically they are a German group who sing covers of well known songs, but only ones which work in the 7-tone scale.
The vocalists record their parts in a church atmosphere with dimmed lights and candles for atmosphere's sake.

Actually I think their version of "with or without you" worked, but "fields of gold" really made me cringe! Still its worth having a listen for interests sake. It will either amuse or make you cringe, or make you smile, or maybe you might really like it. Feel free to share what you think!

Claudia's tale

This is a story I wrote for the feast of Christ the King the other year. It seems like a good time of year to post it up.

Sometimes its good to fill in the gaps in a well-known story. Or to see it through different eyes. And so, instead of a sermon. I’m offering you a story. A fictional account of one woman’s glimpse of Christ the King. So here it is, Claudias tale. And apparantly she really was called Claudia. As for the rest. Well the factual information is taken from the gospels which you can read for yourself. The rest....came from somewhere in the imagination.
--------------------------------

My name is Claudia Procula, and it is said that I was a grandchild of the great Augustus Caesar through a rather unruly daughter. You probably think you have never heard of me, yet you may well have done, although not by name. I bet you have heard of my husband though. The man who killed a god to stop a riot. Pontius Pilate. So, if you are willing to sit back and relax a while, I will tell you my story.

It began early Thursday night with a dream. A terrifying dream of a tortured man, a wreck of a man, with holes in his hands and thorns on his head, crying out to a deity in utter devastation. But then an incredible shining light began to shimmer from within him growing in its intensity until it seemed to turn the world to white and as I creased my eyelids against the light I saw that he himself was divine. The son of God. Then time flashed back, and I saw my husbands stylus sign a death warrant. And the pen became a hammer and the hammer clanged on the steel of the sharpest nail I had ever seen, ripping and tearing through the flesh of a hand that was only outstretched in blessing. The blood ran down and covered my husbands hands and I saw the man I loved turn into a monster, a murderer, a king-killer, a god-killer, and a smotherer of all the goodness in the world. And as I ran towards them screaming, to try and stop the man I loved turning into a demon I ended up running nowhere, sliipping further and further away, and as I ran and screamed I too was covered in blood. The earth quaked and swallowed us up.

I awoke, and my bedsheets were wet with sweat and tears. This dream was more real than anything else I had ever experienced in my sleep. I could think of nothing else and the screams were still ringing in my ears. The night was stiflingly hot, and in fear of further terrifying nightmares I left my bed and my room, quicky pulling on a simple dress and an all-encompassing dark cloak. I left my hair down rather than dress it, for I did not want to wake the slaves. But in my confused sleep-filled frame of mind, I quizzed one of the guards at the entrance of the palace. A guard I trusted for his loyalty “Has anyone been arrested this evening. Anyone unusual. I feel sick with foreboding. I’ve had a terrible nightmare and sense that a great injustice is about to be done.”
The guard knitted his brows. “ I have heard that the prophet from Galilee has been arrested by the Jewish priests.He is currently being held in their prison. One of the soldiers just returned from patrol reported it back to me. “
“Take me there. I want to see him,”
“Maaam?”
‘Take me there. But do not breathe a word of this to anyone. I just want to look, you understand.”
And so we went, in the dead of night, to the Jewish priests prison. My cloak offered invisibilty and the soldier offered protection. And my face, well that was the passport to whatever I wished. Noone could refuse the wife of the governor.
The cell had a heavy oak door, with a square barred grille upon it. I did not ask for it to be opened. I was too terrified. I had never entered a prison before. The stench made me retch. I had nothing to mask the smell of blood and sweat, urine and sick. I covered my nose with my cloak, and peered into the cell. There were rats in there. There was also a man in there. But the rats would not go near him. They cowered in fear and kept to the corners. The man had been badly beaten, so much so that it was hard to make out his facial features. He was bound hand and foot, but was kneelng on the floor, his head raised to the sky. And then I knew. It was the man from my dream. And despite the smell, and the wounds, the pain and the sounds of arguments from the room above, there was a sense of calm, of authority. A bubble of peace surrounded the man. He held his head like a king preparing for battle, scanning the sky to judge the weather and then I felt the ground tremble, ever so slightly. As if the creation itself was preparing for battle too. As if creation itself obeyed him. And I knew in my bones that this beaten up wandering mystic dressed in ripped and bloody clothing had the ultimate power, which ran deeper than I could possibly understand. He was king... but if he was in charge the world was crazy. Nothing made sense. ...But nothing does make sense in a world where children die and monsters live.... And then my fear got the better of me, and I ran from that place and the guard ran behind me. I wanted my Pontius to have nothing to do with that man. He was terrifyingly powerful, even in his weakness. Not Pilate, but the prophet. I could believe that that prophet ruled the world and I did not want to cross him. And so, arriving back at the palace, I scratched out a message to my husband’s office in my own hand, not that of a scribe “Don’t have anything to do with that innocent man. For I have suffered a great deal today in a dream because of him.” I sent the letter to him via my trusted guard as the cock crowed, announcing the dawn of a new day.

But there was nothing I could do to save the man.
I tried.
And I believe my husband tried too, as far as he dared, but he didn’t dare risk a riot, or his precious position.
The next day, I went, once again in disguise, to the room in the Palace where Pilate was questioning Jesus. And from my hiding place, behind a pillar, I heard it all. The battle commencing. “Are you the king of the Jews?”
“Is that your own idea. Or did others talk to you about me?”
Who was running this conversation? Those did not sound like the tones of a prisoner begging for his life.
“My kingdom is not of this world. If it were my servants would have fought to stop them arresting me. My kingdom is not from here. “
”So you are a king then?”
“You say I am a king. “ then that light I saw in my dream seemed to glimmer in his eyes “Its for this I was born, for this that I came into this cosmos. To be martyred telling you the truth. Everyone belonging to the truth hears me .”
‘WHAT IS TRUTH!” Pilate cried sweeping out of the room.
And then things went hazy and the world turned wild. Pilate offered to free Jesus. They preferred to free a robber who was practially a serial killer thinking THAT would make the world better place. And then they crucified their king while Pilate washed his hands.

But I witnessed the end. I saw the wreck they had made of his naked body, ripping his skin off with metal whiphooks. I saw the nails of my dream in his palms. But I also heard the conviction in his voice when he spoke to the thief they crucified with him. I heard the thief beg him. “Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom.” And he replied to that man who had probably never done a good thing in his life, hours away from it ending “Amen. I’m telling you . Today you will be with me, in Paradise.”And I knew that it was true. He was a king. He had a crown, even if it was made of thorns.
He had a throne, even if it was an instrument of torture, and as he breathed his last the earth itself shook, releasing the dead. Yes, I could believe that in all this, he really was in charge.

God of all the nations.

The Iona community have written a rather wonderful peace-song to the tune of Finlandia. We remixed it and have sung it for a while now on Remembrance sunday. But the song was only two verses long, so rather than singing it all twice, the other year I wrote two more verses. Help yourself to my two verses if they prove useful
The Iona version starts.
"This is my song, O God of all the nations A song of peace, for your land and for mine...." and you can find the words in the book "Praying for the dawn" by Ruth Burgess and Cathy Galloway.

This is my song, O God of all the nations
A song of peace, for your land and for mine
Forgive our deafness to your peaceful calling
When fear and anger fill our waking lives
When in our wars we kill your precious children
And black explosions rip your deep blue skies,

Come heal our ears, when they are tired of listening
And heal our eyes, when they can’t see your plans
And calm our fears when we see no solution
To all the torture that invades your lands.
O hear my song, O God of all the nations.
Bring us your peace, come hold us in your hands.

Birmingham: It all went Pete Tong (literally)

Well I said I'd blog the whole sorry tale, so here it is....
There is an informal sort of gathering of alternative worship and Emerging Church folks happening this weekend in Birmingham, and I was going. Well actually I went, or at least tried to go. But then the most ridiculous farce of an evening happened and in the end I gave up and drove home, because I knew where York was, and Pete Tong and Dave Pierce's dance anthems were on the radio and the roads were cool and empty, and the drive home was really nice, but I missed the conference. And I'm sure there must be some deep and meaningful pattern behind it all, but just at the moment I can't think what it might be, apart from enjoying Dave Pierce's dance anthems at 70mph passing Sheffield.

It all started because it was Black Friday (which is a combination of having a Friday rush hour and the start of half term rolled into one). I left York at 3.30 so should have got to Birmingham at 6.30 at the latest, met up with the others, shared a Taxi to the Revive service with DJs and food and stuff at Lorraines and had a good evening. Followed by meeting up with the B1 people in their building near the cathedral the next day.

What actually happened was that I left York at 3.30, got caught up in multiple jams on the M1 (which in itself wasn't so bad, I was kind of expecting it), and drove into Birmingham. Then I drove round and round and round and round Birmingham looking for the Travelodge, ringing Malcolm 3 times for further directions as I went. Plus Birmingham drivers are bullies! In a Smart car I don't usually have problems navigating strange towns, as people are nice and let Smarts in, and they are nippy. But these guys were really awful and several times actually pushed me into the wrong lane so I couldn't actually get where I wanted to go. The signage is also pretty crap and doesn't come up nearly soon enough. I ended up going halfway to Kidderminster (or at least it felt like it) passing multiple hotels, none of which were the right one.

Anyway eventually I got to the hotel, by which time everyone had already gone to Lorraine's, and it was 9pm by then, as, once I found the Travelodge it took me another half hour to work out how to get into it negotiating the one-way system and once-again being bullied by drivers who simply would not let me out of a sidestreet. But the car park was full. Now the hotel directions say that alternative secure car-parking is available at the NCP car park 600 yards away. But there *isn't* an NCP car park 600 yards away, it seems to have been taken over by Europarks. I rang the hotel and they didn't bother picking up the phone. So I had to pay for temporary parking just to find out where the car park was (which cost 50p and it was a completely open car-park in were no CCTVs there or anything in a really dodgy looking area). Also there were big wheelclamping and wotnot signs everywhere.

So then I went into reception, got my room key and was told that it was the Europark over the road which was the secure one. So I rang Jonny Baker to check that there was still stuff going on, said I'd park my car and then be on my way by taxi unless he heard otherwise. And then the final straw happened.

I got into the nice shiny Europark, and discovered that they charge more than 5 pounds for 24 hours parking (so the hotel info is wrong! ). Plus, what the hotel did not inform us of, was that the machine only takes coins. No cards, no phone payment, no notes. (I *had* notes!) And even overnight parking costs 3.85 and I only had 3.40 left. (if you do the maths you will then realise that I *would* have had enough money if I hadn't had to pay 50p to park to find out where the car-park was). I tried to get change, but of course, everyone else is in the same position. They all needed it too.

I rang the helpline and the guy on the other end was very helpful in tone, he thought there might be a mobile phone-code I could use to pay, but after looking in his books and at his maps there wasn't one! He did suggest putting a note on my windscreen but if the traffic patrollers are anything like the ones in York I wasn't going to risk that. So then I was directed to the local cinema to get change. There were cash machines around (which of course only give notes). There were also bars around (where you can buy drinks and get change). There were also some friendly traffic wardens, who suggested I try the other Euro car park as they were sure that that one took notes. I went and had a look, but it didn't. But then there were also adults old-enough-to-know-better throwing fireworks! (yep at each other and the rest of the street!)

At that point, I thought "That's it. I'm going home." People complain about the Middle-East but it was safer in Ramallah than that bit of Birmingham and I didn't want to get my leg blown off by a stray rocket!

Now in retrospect I know that I *could* have just parked in the open car-park (but my car is new and shiny and undeserving of firework-attack), I *could* have just driven to Lorrianes (but you have to remember that my navigation skills aren't brilliant and I really didn't want to go through that getting-lost-round-Birmingham thing again for another hour and a half) or I *could* have done what the car park man suggested and put a note on my windscreen, but you have to remember that the way things were going I wasn't exactly having a good-day. I bet I'd have got the 100 pound penalty! Plus I'd have had to get up early in the morning to sort out the parking mess and I don't like mornings!

I think sometimes you just instinctively know that by the time the twentieth door has shut in your face, its time to give up.

So I drove home at 10 ish (I *know* where home is) and got back at 12.30 having made a reasonable-attempt at conference-going.

I'm not sure what lessons I might have learnt by this.
Go by train? (I should probably have gone by train, but thought that the Travelodge might not be near the station, they are usually set out of towns)
Get Sat Nav? (or maybe borrow one. I don't go anywhere often enough to buy one)
Just don't go anywhere you'll only get lost?

Transcendence

P1020784, originally uploaded by Suevisions.

Last year, when St Cuthbert's roof was being re-done, we migrated to York Minster crypt for a few months. We loved the space, and opportunities to meet new people that came from being in the Minster, although it was quite hard work doing a full service set-up every week.

Out of this though, an idea was born. What if we teamed up with the Minster once a month and created a new Fresh Expression? One that combined the best of what Visions and the Minster had to offer. Stunning music, amazing visuals, liturgy with depth and passion combined with futuristic technology and a transcendent atmosphere of powerful approachable-otherness. An Ancient-Future Mass.

So we talked a bit, waited a bit, prayed a bit, and came up with a plan to try two of these services, one in the first Sunday in October and one in the first Sunday in November and just see what happens. It was hard in a sense to imagine what it might be like, unless we actually tried it. Sometimes you just need to learn how to do something by doing it.

Well we had the first one last Sunday and it was completely amazing!
It was worship but it definitely wasn't common (although we did "play it by the book").I was so excited Sunday night I could hardly sleep!

We had four minster choristers come and sing a Kyrie, a psalm, a Sanctus and a piece during communion, and especially within that space and that candlelit atmosphere they were completely mind-bogglingly brilliant! We also had two familiar songs that everyone could join in with, new settings of the old hymns "Be Thou My Vision" and "Let all Mortal Flesh". We had a prayer activity involving rocks "What mountains do you want God to shift for you?" which we presented at the altar, and the climax, as ever, was the Bread-Wine Body- Blood-Mystery connecting us, not just to Christ and each other, but across history to the hoards of Christians who have worshipped in that place across days and months, centuries up to one and a half millenia and more. It makes me realise what an amazing
priviledge we have, and yet what a huge responsibility, singing the next verse of the Great Story and Song to those who have not yet heard the tune, with a certain freedom to improvise, but in such a way that the Song is not lost.

Anyway I'm slipping into waffle-mode now. The next Trancendence will be in York minster crypt at 8pm on the 4th November. Come and check it out for yourselves.

Transcendence - Communion

P1020779, originally uploaded by Suevisions.

Transcendence - Offertory

P1020772, originally uploaded by Suevisions.

Transcendence - Beginning

P1020760, originally uploaded by Suevisions.

Transcendence - Intercessions

P1020770, originally uploaded by Suevisions.

God be in my head (2)

A few years ago I wrote a version of the old Anglo-Saxon prayer "God be in my head". I think the sung version is up on the Abbess music site if you want to hear it.

Anyway yesterday I revisted the concept, and a new song was born (God be in my head 2) . I'd just got a piece called "Explore your Mind" by Single cell Orchestra. I heard it on the Groove Salad station on internet radio. I then checked out some of their other pieces on itunes. There are some really nice ambient worship tracks by them on there.

Anyway, as I sometimes do when its a really good track, I started singing, and this is the song I came up with.

God be in my head and in my
heart and in my understanding
God in my eyes and in my looking at the world
Christ be in my mouth and in the
sentences my tongue is speaking
Christ be in my hands and feet
To run and hug your world.

Fill my life and my living
Fill my heart and my giving
You're my end, my beginning.
You're my reason for being

God be in my work and in the
artistry these hands are making
God be in my home and in
my hospitality.
God be in my heart and in the
seat of all my deep emotions
God be in my eating and in
all my energy

If you want to know what the tune goes like, mail me...

Harvest Rap

I had to do something Harvest-y for the under 3's today (16th October)
They seemed to quite like it last time I brought the drums in, so I brought the drums in again.
And while I was at it I thought I'd write something with a drummed response, so here it is. The harvest rap. The idea is that I say and drum the "verses" and everyone joins in with the responses. I thought I might as well stick it on my blog as I can' t think of anywhere else to put it, but I'll backdate it a bit, cos I want Transcendence to stay on top for a while!

The other bizarre thing is that I got to use all those rhymes that I'd never use normally in a million years. grow and hoe and pets and vets.
Nothing like being obvious eh?

Actually considering how little the kids are, they really have quite a good sense of rhythm, oh and the other good trick I learnt (I can't actually remember where) was to raise your hands and get people to raise their hands when you want them to stop. I've realised why now. You can't possiby play when your hands are in the air, and so it stops the random banging while you're trying to explain something. Aha!


For things that grow and plants to hoe
Thank You God for everything
for farmers and shops and growing crops
Thank You God for everything
For my favourite dinner and not getting thinner
Thank You God for everything
For peas that are green and warm baked beans
Thank You God for everything
For the people that work to make the food on my fork
Thank You God for everything
For apples and pears and chocolate eclairs
Thank You God for everything
For food and treats and chocolate and sweets
Thank You God for everything.
For fruit and cake and being awake
Thank You God for everything
for nice things to chew and strawberry goo
Thank You God for everything
For plants and ants and pets and vets
Thank You God for everything.
For big fish fingers and smells that linger
Thank You God for everything
For soil and sun and playing and fun
Thank You God for everything
For roses and daisys and colours that are crazy
Thank You God for everything
For corn in sheaves and red autumn leaves
Thank You God for everything
For tummies that are full and fluffy sheep wool
Thank You God for everything
For giving us new starts when we're sorry in our hearts
Thank You God for everything
Thank you that You care and listen to my prayer
Thank You God for everything

Ampleforth

I went on a PCC weekend to Ampleforth this weekend. It was quite interesting really, as I've never been to the place before in my life, although I've driven past once or twice.

Its an incredibly beautiful place, and I even made it to one of the monastic "offices" on the Sunday. (Our timetable was a bit too full to make it to any of the other ones). Actually I was really struck by the contrasts between the informal , guitar-based worship we began our meetings with which included some creative prayer too, and the echoing Roman-Catholic chant of the monks. Yet there were quite a few of us who did a bit of both.

The other thing that struck me, was just how easily the atmosphere of peace and tranquility soaked itself into our souls and made our discussions peaceful and tranquil, yet honest (even when they involved money!) . That combination of honesty and gentleness seems to me to be a precious rarity. Often we compromise truth to gain peace, but how people react all depends on how we tell truth, with gentleness and and air of exploration, valuing the other, or with uncompromising brutality.

I think I'd like to visit Ampleforth again.

The Lost sheep.

I was down to preach at a fairly traditional church service last Sunday morning. The bible text for the service was the story of the Lost sheep "Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn't he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home.". Here follows an extract from the talk, because people quite liked the story and so I decided it was worth blogging.

"In the best tradition of the tale tellers and the parable givers, l’ll begin with a story.
Not so long ago, and not so far away, there was a sheep farmer. He had a flock of 100 fine sheep, who grazed on the Yorkshire hlls and soaked up the Autumn sunshine. Anyway, one morning he went to inspect the field the sheep were currently grazing in, and counted them, as he had a feeling that something wasn’t quite right.

Anyway, sure enough, it turned out that one sheep was missing. So he went to look for it.....Actually he didn’t go very far, he just poked around the ditches at the edge of the field, had a quick check underneath the brambles in the corner, and then looked in his pocket, (not for the sheep,his pocket wasn’t that big) but for his mobile.
“I’ve lost a sheep.” he said. “Will the insurance cover it? Great!”And off he went back home, having written the sheep off as an insurance loss.

Meanwhile the poor old sheep was sitting halfway up a clifftop a mile away, bleating pityfully. Eventually a walking party spotted it, and rescued it, and it wandered off to join the nearest herd, much to the puzzlement of another local farmer, who one morning counted his sheep and found one extra.

Thats what our society is like these days. We right off sheep as an insurance loss, and we right off people too in a kind of similar way.

The desert fathers, who were monks who lived in the desert in the first few centuries, had a reputation for being wise, and there is a story told of one of these desert fathers which goes like this.

A soldier asked Abba Mius, if God accepted repentance. After the old man had told him many things, he asked him this question:Tell me, my dear, if your cloak is torn, do you throw it away?"He replied, "No, I mend it and use it again."
The old man said to him, "If you are so careful about your cloak, will not God be equally careful about his creature?"

Its a wonderful story, but extra poignant these days, because I think if someone asked the soldier the same question now, “would you throw the torn cloak away?” he would say “Yeah, I’d bin it cos I can pick a new one up from Tescos for a tenner”. But God doesn’t do that. God does not consider us disposable. God takes the time and the trouble to mend us instead.

The Good Samaritan

We did a service on the Good Samaritan on Sunday. Miles did the teaching, which was very creative. Anyway it got me thinking. That night I was lying in bed and I realised that, at the moment, our planet is like the man who was mugged on the way from jerusalem to Jericho and lying face down in the road going "help!"

And we are the priest and the levites who are passing by on the other side.

Its hard to know what to do sometimes, as its not a case of just one person helping, or one easy solution. This particular patient will need all of us carrying the stretcher to take them to the inn to get treated. And this means that we cannot live the way we once did, for if we do, other people are going to get hurt. Yet we have to do something for we cannot ignore the fact that what we do tend to do instead is pass by on the other side of the road, pretending that the patient doesn't exist, which will help noone.

Umbrellas

I was invited to do some prayer stations (praying for our country) yesterday at a prayer service marking two years since the 7th July bombings in London. It was quite a powerful and moving event, run by Churches Together and One Voice (church leaders network) in York. One of the wonderful things about it was that when the churches tried to book the Guildhall in York ( a kind of civic hall) for the event the council leaders said they would invite us to come in for free and that the civic party would attend. When we arrived we were actually struck by the fact that we were standing in the rebuilt "medieval" ruins of a building that had once been bombed itself (during the blitz) and yet had risen from the ashes to be restored to its former glory.

During the middle section there were 3 sets of prayer stations (praying for the city, the world and the country). I was actually quite inspired by the "praying for the world' section. There was a huge world map (printed on a duvet cover), and a lot of little home-made umbrellas made of cocktail sticks and paper. We were asked to pray for a country, and put a little umbrella on the map of a country we'd prayed for, praying for God's protection and for the people there. Then, a minute or two after I had placed my umbrella on the map, suddenly the sun came out, and the shadow of each umbrella appeared to cover each country. It was a wonderful effect.

And then I remembered the cocktail parasols that appeared in st Cuthberts a couple of years ago that we never knew what to do with. Now all we need is a map, some blue tac and a strong light to cast a shadow....

As Rhianna put it....
"Now that it's raining more than ever Know that we still have each other
You can stand under my Umbrella."

Emmaus or Damascus?

I don't often go around raving about books. Maybe its cos I really don't really have enough time to read as much as I should. But one person whose work has definitely inspired me recently has been Stephen Cottrell. I met him at a Fresh Expressions day in London and was quite impressed by what he had to say there, which made me notice when his name made it into the Church Times, a few times recently. For celebrating communion at the gates of Faslane, shining peoples shoes on Maundy Thursday and most recently, handing egg-timers out at the station to try and get frantic people just to take 3 minutes out of their hectic lives to stop, for just a moment.

Anyway as a result I pricked my ears up when someone recommended his book "From the abundance of the heart" which is subtitled Catholic Evangelism for All Christians. And I must admit that I have been impressed. It makes a lot of sense. The church in the past has spent a lot of time and effort on "Damascus Road" type evangelism, focussing on the sudden conversion experience, and those experiences are good and he doesn't dismiss them. But then he suggests that you try asking your people about their faith-stories, and see how it happened for them. Apparently 3/4 of Christian's stories are more like the "Emmaus Road" than the "Damascus Road", a gradual journey accompanied by others.

So we tried this exercise in Visions, and around that particular dinner table it turned out that we were all "Emmaus Road" people, with little Damascus moments along the way, but mostly a gradual journey.

Anyway he then goes on to suggest lots of practical ways of adopting a more Emmaus Road way of reaching out in mission. Some of the suggestions were challenging for me, as I realised that we aren't really getting alongside people as much as we would like to. I must admit I'd like to discuss it more with our folks and see what we come up with as a result.

Oh the other thing I liked about the book was his definition of 3 rather "churchy" words that pop up in the traditional creeds.
Holy, Catholic and Apostolic. He drew a little diagram with 3 circles and said that Holy was in communion with God, Catholic
was being connected to one another (ie more about community than about power structures), and apostolic about being present in the world (apostolic literally means "sent"). In order to be effective we need all 3, because each one on their own leads to a skewed view of life. (being stuck in holy huddles, or divorced from real life, or disconnected from the Source of all our power)

Makes a lot of sense to me.

Sue.

e-Merging

Malcolm thinks I have too many blogs. I've always kept this one (mostly) for top tips on worship for busy people who can't be bothered or simply don't have time to read my deeper ramblings, (or should I say just plan longer ramblings) but Malc reckons that folks will go by the subject line anyway and only read what they want to. Hence, I am going to merge this one and the Abbess blog, and copy some stuff over here that was previously over there. I hope this makes sense and doesn't bore you too much.

Sue.

Tales of Jerusalem 1

(Originally posted on the Abbess blog on the 8th January 2007)

I've just come back from spending 6 days in Jerusalem. An exhausting but special time. There was lots to see and lots to think about. I won't give an ordered diary account here. Just some tales, thoughts and impressions. Here is one of them...our journey to Bethany.

We were staying at St George's Jerusalem so the journey to Bethany doesn't take long. You can walk it if you are feeling fit, up the mount of Olives and around. But we thought we'd save our legs for the journey back, and took the bus, which dropped us off, not very far away from the wall. The big ugly towering, grey concrete wall. We walked along the wall, reading the graffiti, and laughing in a bittersweet way at some of the jokes and comments on there. "Make love, not walls", "Mancs against the tanks" and messages from many different towns and countries throughout the world. We walked all the way to the top of the hill, where the ruins of a once palatial hotel stood, its windows tattered and torn, its walls pockmarked. An old map later told us that it was once called the Cliff Hotel, and it would once have commanded serene and beautiful views over the city while the rich partied and played within. Now it stands like a empty shell, a shadow whispering tales of happier times.

We looked over at the view of Jerusalem, and the mount of olives. It was indeed beautiful, and a guard came over. I think they were probably a little nervous. What were these strange Westerers doing here. What are you doing? They asked. "looking at the view" we replied. They asked us where we were from, and Jem answered but asked the same question in return. Amazingly whenever he did this (and he always did it in a jolly and polite manner, which is why I think he got away with it) they would actually reply. This man came from Russia once. I did wonder to myself why would he come to a place where he would have to join the army for 3 years, and then I remembered that the same thing was probably true of Russia too.

We returned down the hill, following the concrete, which I remembered from last year, when it suddenly stopped at a point where I remembered seeing Arabs clambering over last year. Now there was no gap, just a profound change of style. The grey concrete suddenly morphed into carefully laid honey stone, like a garden wall on growth hormone. Why the sudden change? Well the wall was now not just surrounding a city, it was surrounding a rather nice dwelling that we presumed would be demolished. We didn't know who owned it, but decided that they must have some power and influence to get the ritzy glitzy "pretty?" version of the wall.

Then we came to the convent that is the traditional site of Mary and Martha's garden. We rang the bell, and a nice Polish priest answered and allowed us in to see the church. We took photos of the inside, and then went to explore the garden. The priest said that we were welcome to do so, although we would no longer be able to walk from Mary and Martha's, following the route Jesus took to raise Lazarus from his tomb. For now there was not only a wall in the way, but soliders patrolling the gardens.

We met the soldiers. Actually they were quite nice, in a funny sort of way. They seemed to be a little torn between wanting to be friendly, and trying to be "official". They asked us the usual questions, and they seemed happy for they did allow us to look at the caves in the garden, which the priest told us date from 100BC. So Jesus would have known them. We went inside, and filmed. The light was amazing! And I was struck by how unspoilt they were, like living relics. They were simply carved out stone, with a door, and yet I was sure that an ex-carpenter had once visited this carved out hillside, and been inside this cave. It was an amazing feeling. like stepping into a Tardis. A small sunny sacred space.

Then we tried to get to the tomb of Lazarus further down the hill, but the wrong side of the boundary. The soldiers wouldnt' let us go the direct way. They said it was no longer possible, and perhaps it wasn't. The wall looked very nearly finished. But just outside the monastery gate we found a gap, which had 2 more soliders guarding it. like an unofficial sort of checkpoint. We were glad it was there though. The only other alternative would have been a 40 minute bus ride to a place that was once "just down the hill". A pilgrimage route crudely carved in half.

I waved my Christian pilgrimage guide at them, which seemed to make an excellent substitute for a passport, pointing out the picture of Lazarus' tomb. They let us through. We clambered over the uneven ground, with scattered rubble, emerging on a small road, where we caught site of the tomb, the Greek church nearby, and the giftshop opposite, which they opened for us.

The venue was empty apart from us. I imagined coachloads of day trippers once making this simple journey to a place that Jesus was very fond of, but now all was silent, and business was bad. Did any coaches make the trip anymore? I don't know. But I sincerely hope that they will make the effort, for I am sure that *they* will be waved through like VIPs. They will not have to queue for hours while thier passport is checked and re-checked, or simply made to wait and interminably long time. The country needs them!

And we finally saw the tomb, clambering down many, more modern, steps to the ancient entrance. It smelt a little strange, but somehow that made it feel more authentic. It was, of course, empty. And after lunch, we walked back returning to the citt the way Jesus would have walked, around Bethany and down the mount of Olives. This city is such as city of contrasts. It contains such incredible beauty, and yet such incredible sadness.

Tales of Jerusalem 2

(originally posted on the Abbess blog on Monday 8th January 2007)

Or perhaps I should call this particular episode tales of Jerico?

On Wednesday we hired a car. It took an interminably long time. Jem had warned us that this was often the case, and that if we had breakfast at 7.30 we would eventually get on the road at around ten. In that respect he was both right....and wrong. We almost got on the road at 9am, but as we excitedly clambered our way into the shiny silver Chevrolet and started the engine, the
mirror promptly broke off and landed in the passenger footwell with a thud. We did toy with the idea of simply driving away, but caution made us point our the fault to the car hire boses, who offered us coffee while they attempted to fix it. Half an hour, and a ton of something that looked like cement later we returned to our car, started the engine, and once again our mirror decided to do some sort of perverse acrobatics. This time in landed in the driver's lap.

Then a short, but intriguing journey around the one way system of East Jerusalem began, as we followed a car hire employee's vehicle to a place that does repairs to car mirrors. I must admit that my heart was heavy. I thought we'd end up spending the entire morning on a garage forecourt when we could be journeying to Jerico on the bus. But, when I saw the enormous roll of tape covered in Arabic advertising that the mechanic was brandishing I decided that things were looking up. Actually they did an extremely speedy and successful job of the mirror, and with the aid of a couple of pieces of paper wedged in the right direction, we could even see through the back window using it!

And so we set off, as predicted at 10Am, but having had an interesting introduction to the mirror-repair business.

We then drove East out of town, heading for Qumran. It was Louise's first introduction to driving in the Middle East. (you could tell by the way she was wincing!). It was incredible how quickly the weather changed too as the road made its rapid descent from 900 metres above sea level to 400 metres below at the dead sea. We seemed to spontaneously skip from winter to Summer (or British Summer at least). Jerusalem was colder than York had been when I left there, but at Qumran I took my socks off, and basked in the sunshine. It was so nice to be released from the cloud at last and bring out the sunglasses.

After Qumran we headed fro Jerico to look for Zaccheus' sycamore tree. None of the locals seemed to know where it was, but we followed the directions in the pilgrimage guidebook, and found it, with its painted trunk, growing by the side of the road.
A two thousand year old tree, with white paint on its gnarled, half-hollow trunk, and great branches that would still support a climber now. But we never really had time for quiet contemplation,as we were immediately decended upon by some extremely friendly souvenier sellers. We chatted to them though, and once again, they paid us the complement of presuming we were ex-pats, rather than tourists.

Jerico was amazing though, and I was really glad I went there, and not just for the wonderful weather. (I read somewhere that in days-gone-by weathy residents of Jersualem and Bethlehem overwintered there). No, the thing that really thrilled me was that everywhere we went locals greeted us with "welcome, welcome" in English. We were treated like VIPs simply for taking the trouble to visit their town. A moving and humbling thing indeed. For I couldn't help thinking of all those people who are scared to venture into Palestinian territory, for fear of what they might encounter, when what we were encountering was people who simply wished to make us welcome.

We lunched outside, the only time during our trip when we were anywhere hot enough to do this. We had the usual mediterranean tapas of hummus, tahini, salads, olives, aubergine and freshly baked flatbread, but this selection was particularly nice. The restaraunt, Al Khayam, had a pond in the middle of a garden full of orange trees, heavily laden with fruit, and the owner of the restaraunt encouraged us to pick the fruit from the tree and eat that for dessert. I must admit that the fruit was amazing! The peel was so full of juice that the zest sprayed through the air and filled our nostrils with zingy perfume. It was so relaxing, simply sitting in the sunshine, that I found it hard to leave really.

Then we went to investigate where a new Orthodox monastery was being built nearby. A priest at the cathedral had told us that icon painters were staying there, in order to paint the new church, and that it was a unique opportunity to see them at work on the frescoes. Sadly we must have come at the wrong time, for the place was deserted and noone answered the door, but I was glad we saw the outside, even if we couldn't get inside, and just knowing that new works of art were being made in a place where we often simply hear of destruction was in itself a sign of hope for me.

The only problem with crossing the border, is that it always takes an age to cross back, and this journey was no exception.
We had hoped to get to Wadi Qelt to look at the monastery before the light failed, but we had a 45 minute wait while the cars in front had their papers and their vehicles checked thoroughly. When our turn came, they simply glanced at our passports
(I'm not sure we even opened them!) and waved us on our way, but by that time the light had grown dimmer. Still I counted myself extremely lucky. I know that 45 minutes is nothing really in comparison with some of the waits people have had to suffer.

When we reached the wadi, we chatted to the Beduin. As the moon rose, shining so brightly over the desert that it cast great shadows, one of them mounted his donkey and said he was heading to the supermarket in Jerico for some shopping. As we watched his figure climb over the hills of the Judean wilderness and disappear as a dark comma on the nighttime hill I couldn't help thinking that some things never change. Two thousand years or more, people would have to travel to the nearest town to buy provisions by donkey. The only difference is that these days it comes in a plastic packet, and is sold in a supermarket.

Tales of Jerusalem 3 - Bethlehem

(originally posted on the Abbess blog on January 13th 2007)

How far is it to Bethlehem?

Not very far.

Three and a half shekels on the bus, which goes from the bus station near Herod's gate.
(that's around 45p in English money....ish) Buses here are interesting. In fact bus stations themselves are interesting, at least the Arab ones (and I've only been in Arab ones so can't speak for the rest). The bus station is kind of like a sidestreet, or garage forecourt. Its not very large, but neither are the buses. They are minibuses really. We asked where the bus for Bethlehem was and the locals pointed it out to us. We were always smiled at and greeted with much warmth, but I think maybe knowing even a little Arabic does help in that respect. People really really do appreciate you taking the time and effort to bother speaking even a few words, such as "hello" and "thank you". One thing I really love about these local minibuses is that there is no timetable as far as I can see. You simply sit on the bus, and when it is reasonably full, it goes. Simple. No hanging around outside in the cold. Its easy and sometimes I really wish we had something like that back here, but maybe we're just in too much of a hurry. I dunno.

One rather complicated aspect of this bus station's design seemed to be that the buses had to back out, onto a main street (although thankfully, not a too populated one when we were around). This exercise involved a lot of beeping of horns and sometimes some shouting too, but did in fact result in the bus being well noticed and so noone was likely to accidentally hit us, as we manouvred around until we were facing the right way.

Then we set off properly. There were many sights to see along the way. The walls of Jerusalem, and many famous historical sites. You simply had to know which way to look to see them. The roads snaked and wound up hills and down hills, moving from century to century around every bend, as some views were straight out of the old testament, and others were filled with the concrete of the 60s. There were sad views too, previously unspoilt beauty spoiled by recent settlements, which we just knew were a cause of grief and sadness to the locals.

"There was a forest there when I first came here," Jem pointed out a hill through the window. "It was the last forest in Bethlehem, and now its gone". Replaced by modern houses. I was shocked to discover that even since my visit last year they were building a tower block on the hill. Anywhere else I couldn't see anyone allowing it. Would we build a tower block in the middle of the Lake district? I think not. But then the land suffers here as well as the people.

We reached the infamous wall and the bus stopped. A spanish guy got off the bus at the same time as us, and looked rather confused. Thankfully Louise spoke Spanish and so she chatted to him, helping him negotiate the crossing, which was a bit confusing for us too. For everything had moved. It made us wonder why, but then we realised that the Banky murals were no longer within view...hmmm. Is this why? There was one left within sight, and they had obviously tried to scrape the paint off it, and had failed. It struck me as a silly petty little act of ignorance and vandalism. I bet in 50 years time they'll be selling for millions. Hmm. I'd have liked to have got a decent photo of one of them, but then I hadn't really come here to look at paint anyway.

We went through "passport control" (or whatever it was) and then we headed down the corridor straight ahead ("as you do") and met....a no entry sign! So we backtracked and went along the second corridor, and met...a no entry sign! Now we were really confused. There were no signs, in Hebrew, English or Arabic to tell us where to go next. The man in the glass cubicle gesticulated his arms wildly, and then we realised that the door which looked like it had been left open for ventilation, that went into what looked like a backyard where the bins were kept, was in fact the main way through. We headed towards it. It still looked very "wrong" for there was a ten foot high wire fence in front of us. But as we reached the fence we realised that actually it had been placed in such a way as to create a "corridor" to the top of the hill, and the exit. Finally we had made it across the boundary.

We walked down the hill, to where the road abruptly ended, and were met by eight taxi drivers or so. Jem and Louise helped the Spanish man with his luggage and his taxi, doing the haggling for him. It turned out that he was a pilgrim, going to stay at the Spanish, Franciscan house, Casa Nova, on retreat. I admired him greatly for that. And I must admit that I was a little envious too, to actually stay in Bethlehem itself. Then we secured a taxi of our own. Our driver was friendly, but did insist on telling us about all the other things he was willing to do for us in great detail. That he was happy to take us to Herodian " I like Herodian" or the Shepherds fields. " I like the shepherd's fields" or the souvenier shop. "I like this shop. It is owned by my uncle." We felt a bit battered really. At another time, in another place, it would have made me angry, but this time it simply made me sad. I knew they were having such a difficult time, and it wasn't fair! I felt guilty about not being able to take him up on all these trips. But we simply needed to get to Manger Square, and we had other plans for our day and we didn't need a taxi for them. The poor drivers! As one other driver said. "We used to be able to go to Jerusalem. We could go on trips. Now we are in a prison camp and now, if we are lucky and we can get fares, we drive round and round the same old places!" Something about his description reminded me of hamsters. But these aren't hamsters. These are people who have been caged, even children and babies! But nowadays there are hardly any visitors to drive round and round. They can't get much work. And so they sit all day waiting and waiting, for some fare to come.

Manger square when we got there was a bit mad. It turned out that, as it was New Year's day, many people had come to Bethlehem for a day trip. They were all locals though. The children were out, as usual, waving necklaces and postcards at us, or simply holding out their hands and asking for shekels. They were a bit like flies the way they buzzed around you persistently. But mostly they were friendly. Somtimes they also liked to chat, to practice their English. "Where are you from? What is your name? How are you?"

I went into the Church of the Nativity and it was there that I saw what I regard as a little beacon of hope. The place was full, of Christians and of Muslims. They queued together to visit the site of Jesus's birth. It was something that we would not see here. It was something that I feared had been lost in fundamentalism, in post 9/11 witchunts, in Iraq somewhere, and yet here it was present. Here it was tangible. That the baby in the manger, can still unite people, can still bring people together, and if we only take the trouble to go, we can still hear angel song, and see a tiny tiny piece of peace on Earth.

Love is His word

Jem and Louise (two Visions members) are getting married on Saturday. They are going to have a pre-wedding communion
the night before and we had a chat about songs that Louse's family might know that are in the Catholic hymn book. I suggested Love is his Word, because I know we used to sing it at school, and when my uncle and aunt had their 40th anniversary celebration we sang it there. Which was nice because family, cousins and kin (see verse 5) were all at the service.

So last week I remixed it, and, in the process of remixing it I've been pretty blown-away by the words really. They are so strong. It makes me wonder why we don't sing it more often really. Its nice when you forget about something for years and then re-discover it, like blowing the dust off an old ornament and disovering that its made of gold. And this is well worth some re-discovery as it has some really important stuff in it. The first verse has the whole fasting/feasting thing. And the fact that we fast alone (we don't do it in front of people to advertise it or sit there when others are eating looking glum as that's an offense against hospitality). But we feast with others, for we should share our food and our joy. There is lots of deep stuff about communion in the song too, and yet it finishes with the beauty of the relationship of the Father, Son and Spirit. Deep and wonderful stuff.

Love is His word, Love is His way,
Feasting with all, fasting alone,
Living and dying, rising again
Love only love is His way.

Richer than gold
Is the love of my Lord.
Better than splendour and wealth.

Love is His way, love is His mark,
Sharing His last Passover feast.
Christ at the table, host to the twelve
Love, only love, is His mark.

Love is his mark, love is His sign,
Bread for our strength,
wine for our joy,
“This is my body, this is my blood”
Love, only love is His sign.

Love is His sign, love is His news,
“Do this” He said “Lest you forget
All my deep sorrow, all my dear blood,
Love, only love, is His news.

Love is His news, Love is His name,
We are His own, chosen and called,
Family, brethren, cousins and kin.
Love, only love is His name.

Love is His name, love is His law,
Hear His command, all who are His,
“Love one another, I have loved you”
Love, only love, is His law.

Love is His law, Love is His word,
Love of the Lord, Father, and Word,
Love of the Spirit, God ever one,
Love, only love, is His word.

Cinders

The readings last Sunday included the story of the call of Isaiah, when the angel takes a burning coal from the altar and touches Isaiah's lips with it. So we did something similar! At the end of a confession prayer, we invited people to come up to the communion table and take a piece of cinder toffee, from an impovised brazier made of a wok lid, and touch it to their lips (and eat it afterwards). It worked really well.

Actually one of my favourite parts of the whole exercise was that we worked out a way to make the coals glow too! I was just wondering whether there was a way to do this, perhaps by projecting something onto the coals, when I remembered that I had
some of those light-up ice cubes that you can freeze and put into people's drinks. They come in different colours, one of which is red. So we put three red cubes in with the coals, and it looked really quite impressive. Just shows you that it doesn't always have to be super complicated!

Our Broken World.

The other week I was doing intercessions at the family service in Acomb, and I wanted to do the prayer activity when we pass around the globe while a piece of music is playing, and people say the name of a country or place that they see on it. There were going to be about 60 people at the service, so I thought it would be a good idea to use two globes really. So I brought two inflatable globes with me.

Anyway, one of the globes refused to blow up. I spent about 15 minutes on it before I realised that the reason it wasn't blowing up was because it had a rip in the side. I almost threw it away and decided to just use the other globe, when I realised that actually I could use the "broken" globe as well.

So I brought both globes with me, explaining that the whole globe was the way God wanted it to be, and the "broken" globe
was the way it is at the moment. So we passed bother globes around and rounded up the prayers by offering God our "broken" world (hold up the broken one) and asking Christ to make it whole (hold up the whole one).

Tales of Jerusalem

I've just come back from spending 6 days in Jerusalem. Over on the abbess blog I'm writing down some impressions of my experiences there. Check it out.