Born into Community

There’s a school on the other side of the road, on the far side of the field next to our house. Interesting things are going on. There are piles of soil, a temporary fence, diggers and bulldozers and a sign that says “Keep Out! Building Site!” The school is over-subscribed, I think, with more children than they have space to accommodate so maybe they are building an extension. If I was a pupil there I would spend far too much time watching the builders.

I walked past the fence and the notice earlier today when I went to fetch the Sunday newspapers. I thought of other building sites and other notices. The “Keep Out” sign never really did its job. As kids we pushed our way through hedges to get onto a building site. They were building the telephone exchange in a nearby patch of scrub land. We explored the pile of pipes and paddled through muddy puddles.

I am my own personal building site, a work in progress, not yet the finished product. I would love to put up a fence and slap on a notice that tells people to keep out. Weeks, months or perhaps even years later I would like to dismantle the fence and present the polished person that is me – no piles of bricks, no cement bags or scaffolding. I would like to testify that, yes, I had a challenge, and it’s all sorted now. Feel free to take pictures and admire to new extension!

But God isn’t like that. He doesn’t like the fence I have put up and tells me to take down the notice. He doesn’t want people to keep out. He invites them in – friends, family and foes. He gives them the keys to the bulldozer. He lets them operate the cement mixer. He rolls out the blueprints on a trestle table and directs their work.

He insists that they speak into my life and instructs me to speak into theirs. Sometimes I cannot see, or will not admit to, weakness and flaws. My perception of His truth is coloured and tainted by hang-ups and short-sighted vision. I don’t know everything I need to know – he gives truth to others to pass on to me.

He never intended that I should be the lone wolf or the solitary hermit I yearn to be. The Christian life is lived out in community.

Sometimes we need to be reminded that we are a body and that the “you” of scripture is plural, not singular. We need each other to grow and to flourish and the journey of faith can never be personal or private.

Gone -  the first person singular in me!

Renounced - the hermit I’m inclined to be

For “him” and “her”, and “they” and “us” I see

Yes, born am I into community

This Fallow Field

He gave to us this fallow field

and asked that we might sow

a hundred thousand different seeds

and watch a harvest grow

He put into our hands the tools

the ox and sharpened plough

and sent us out to turn the soil

plant not someday but now

Not ever asked to toil alone

no tasks with labels “mine”

the field was His, the labour ours

no drawn dividing line

We planted potent seeds of love

through kindness on display

and sprinkled seeds of living hope

through lifting words each day

We searched out seeds of spirit truth

and planted wisdom deep

sowed endless joy and laughter loud

and sorrow’s tears to weep

We sowed the seeds of mended life

through hands that touched to heal

With subtle fragrance soothing souls

we learned again to feel

With lifted heads and upraised hands

we planted jubilant praise

We sang our Saviour’s victory hymn

that set our hearts ablaze

We scuffed our knees to rid the field

from bitter weeds of hate

Wielding faith and warrior prayer

we battled long and late

We sowed our seeds not sparingly

not from the miser’s hand

but freely given, we freely gave

and richly sowed the land

Today we see the harvest in

His church, this vibrant place

and the world sees a reflection of

the Father’s loving face

The One I Made Earlier

Yesterday I was watching Celebrity Masterchef.  In one section of the programme one of the chef presenters made a dish.  It involved lots of sugar, figs and pastry.  There was also a side garnish of cream with orange and rose water, with pieces of praline, and some of the praline crushed to dust to sprinkle over everything.

 The contestants were given a pen and a bit of paper and asked to identify the ingredients that went to make up the dish.  They tasted all the bits and pieces and wrote down their notes. They were then asked to recreate the dish.  There was no list of ingredients or recipe. 

They were given all the ingredients that had been used along with some ingredients that hadn’t been used.  It was up to them to work out what they needed to do from seeing and tasting the end result.

Some of the celebrities got down to rolling out the pastry and baking the pastry case blind.  Some began stewing the figs.  The praline didn’t seem to bother any of them – they knew what to do.  One man just looked at the plate of ingredients and had no idea what to do with any of the stuff.  An hour later they presented their offerings to the presenter to be tasted and commented on. 

Only one of the celebrities had come close to doing the pastry tart properly.  It was an up-side down tart.  The filling went in first, the figs uncooked resting on the boiled sugar stuff and with the pastry placed on top.  Once cooked it was turned upside down.  Cooked that way the pastry didn’t go soggy.  The woman had also added in things that were not in the original recipe.  I think it as cardamom pods.  She was congratulated on the taste of her pie and the presenter said that he would now start adding cardamom pods to his tarts. 

There were perfectly edible tarts all of them.  For the most part the pastry was soggy – but the figs were cooked well.  The wrong piping bag had been used on the cream or the sugar missed out somewhere – but the end result was not bad.  There were variations in the tarts, the cream and praline.

Imagine, if you will, all the accounts of the way Christians did church that are written about in the New Testament, in Paul’s letters.  None of those churches are the finished product – but let’s assume that it is like the presenter’s finished tart with the garnishes. 

Reading about those churches and the relationships between church members – if you could “taste” the tart, what would be the ingredients that could be identified?  For example there might be a healthy sprinkle of generosity.  The book of Acts talks about people selling land and giving to proceeds to the apostles to distribute to the poor.  

Imagine that the next step is recreate the church in all its activities and relationships.  There is no recipe included, just a whole lot of ingredients.  There is a huge selection of ingredients.  You do the best to recreate what you have read and meditated upon.

Imagine that you present your “church” to the presenter.  Sometimes you come close to doing some part of the dish properly.  Sometimes you miss an ingredient out – like the sugar in the cream.  Sometimes you add something that wasn’t there originally – like the cardamom pod – and it actually enhances the taste.  Sometimes you end up with the soggy bottom. 

Sometimes that’s what church is all about.  It’s about tasting what is in the Bible.  It’s about bringing to mind those good church experiences and trying to identify the ingredients that made it good.  Or the not so good ones and trying to work out what went wrong.  It’s about being prepared to risk the cardamom pods in the mixture to see what happens.

If churches were made like that I think they would be interesting places to be.

The Un-Persecuted Church

It might have been just a week ago, maybe a little longer than that, when I was invited to join a day’s fast for the persecuted church in Asia.  There were other issues heavy on my heart at the time, and it seemed the ideal opportunity to bring them before God.

There was a Facebook page with lots of encouraging Bible verses.  People were also posting their prayers.

The only verse that came instantly to mind was Matthew 5:10-12 - “Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.  Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”

What a privilege the church is Asia was being given!  What an opportunity to deliver a powerful testimony!  As much as I could say Amen to all the prayers people posted about God’s hand being on the believers there – what caught my spirit was “How blessed!”

Where did the church lose its courage?  We seem to put a very strong emphasis on safety and comfort.  We want people to like us.  We want them to bow to our superior knowledge about God and allow us unhindered freedom to demonstrate our faith.  When someone is sacked because they wear a cross, or because they pray for a patient in hospital – they don’t feel blessed but hard done by.  When we read news items that mock and ridicule our faith, we write a letter of complaint and seek to silence the dissenter.  We feel ourselves to be victims but we don’t feel blessed.

I was reading an article on the internet this morning about a mega church in the USA.  Apparently it was common knowledge that a worship leader was having an affair with someone else in the church.  It was only a worship leader, so no one expected anyone to kick up a real fuss about it.  Chances are it might have been more serious if it had been an elder.  Indiscretions were often swept under the carpet rather than acknowledged and dealt with. 

The article went on to talk about how stagnant some of this church had become.  They had started life as something new and original and people flocked to them but now something newer and more original had come along.  There was an exodus of people leaving to join the new movement. If they wanted to halt the exodus they needed to do what the newer churches were doing and let go of out-dated ways of doing things.

If I was God I would be very disappointed in a church like that.

What they really need is a healthy dose of persecution!

I remember being weaned as a baby Christian on testimony books like Nicky Cruz and “Run Baby Run”.  One of the books I read might have been entitled “Sergei”.  It’s a long time ago.  The story was about an underground church in the Soviet Union as it was then.  One of the soldiers was Sergei.  He had the job of tracking down the church’s hiding places, arresting the believers and “persuading” them that being a Christian was a bad thing.  One church member, a girl, was arrested on three different occasions and severely beaten by Sergei.  The fourth time she was arrested, another soldier was about to lay into her with fists flying when Sergei stepped in to stop it.  He couldn’t understand why she was still a believer despite the beatings.  He became a believer himself through her testimony.

Isn’t it possible that the reason why the church in some places like the UK has a hard time attracting people is because it appears to have nothing people are looking for?   Make no mistake, people are looking for something – and it’s not something new and original in terms of worship, sermons or whatever latest fad is being offered up to draw people near.  The church has become so like the world to appeal to the world that what made it distinct from the world has been lost.  I’m not even sure the church has realised it has gone.

I am not praying that we become a persecuted church – although maybe I should.

I pray that our witness to the world would stop being so pale and insipid.

Our lives luke-warm no power or clout
So God in Heaven spits us out

It's All About the Journey

It was a small scene in a much larger dream that has caught my imagination today. 

The larger dream involved driving the car over a patch of sandy ground with lots of marram grass to cut a corner that had a traffic light.  I have seen people on bikes cut corners all the time, but not people in cars!  The car got stuck in sand and I had to get the bus.

I was in Nairn and the last bus to Inverness had long gone.  There was a bus beside the stop and the bus driver leaned out of the window to tell me he was going to Tore on the Black Isle.  For those that know our local area, the geography at this point breaks down.  To get from Nairn to Tore one would have to go through Inverness – but you know what dreams are like.  He told me that there were busses every half hour from Tore to Inverness.

I got on the bus, bought my ticket and sat down.

“So, you are trying to get to Inverness?  There are busses from Tore to Inverness every half hour.”  It was a nice young man standing next to me.  He was repeating basically what the driver had told me.

“You’ll have a half hour wait,” said another passenger.  He was quite a burly chap. “If you visit the Tore Arms bar, you have time to hear my band play.”

“He’s the drummer,” added another voice.

“It’s a rotten band, mind…”

The banter on the bus was really friendly.  It turned out a woman on the bus was in charge of the light buffet and began asking people to do little things for her like collect the paper plates and plastic spoons from the shop.  She also checked whether anyone minded but she was planning the use the spicy recipe for the chicken drumsticks.

A boy on the bus asked if anyone could help him with his homework.

It wasn’t a quiet bus.  No one disappeared behind a newspaper or a book cover.  No one searched for an empty seat all by themselves.  It was a collection of people who knew each other well to the point of teasing one another.

We piled off the bus at Tore, outside the Tore Arms bar.  There was a collection of people milling around outside.  Some of them were the band members with their musical instruments in cases.  They waved to the bus driver as he left.

There was lots of conversation beside the door of the Tore Arms bar.  No one seemed to be in a hurry to set up for the band or sort the buffet.  They stood beside the door and chatted.  It was not a warm night, but with all the people by the door, it felt warm. 

Someone spotted the Inverness bus.  It had a bit of a circuit to do before it came back to the bus stop which wasn’t outside the bar, but a short walk away. 

“We’ll walk you the bus stop,” said the first man that spoke to me.  At some point I had acquired a cat and a seven year old boy.  Someone picked up the cat.  Another man picked up the boy and we all started the journey to the bus stop.

I woke up at this point.  I felt a little bereft.  I wanted my journey to the bus stop.  I wanted to stay in the company of my new found friends.

Before I had even begun to puzzle out some kind of interpretation, those words that instantly came to mind were “It’s all about the journey”.

The word “journey” seems to be tainted with the reality show experience and contestants talking about what they learned along the way or what they will take with them as they get voted out.  This was not like that. 

The friendliness and familiarity of the people on the bus reminded me of my home church.  We are a very small church, but much like a family.  I don’t have my own teenage daughters so I count it a privilege when a young girl tells me about her growing pains.  I sit beside another young girl dissecting poems and counting syllables.

Throughout life there are people who share a part of our journey.  Some walk beside us, or sit on the bus with us, for longer than others.  For some, I think we can make that journey quite unpleasant or a bit of struggle.  Other times, we make the journey a welcoming and comfortable one.  We include rather than exclude people. 

Too often I am the person disappearing behind the newspaper, isolating myself.  By doing so I miss those opportunities to journey beside someone for a while.  The words I could have said to encourage them were never spoken.  We continue to travel in our lonely orbits and that was never God’s intention.  

I time to fold the newspaper and put it away.  It’s time to start telling people about the band at the Tore Arms bar, warn them about the spicy chicken drumsticks and ask them to help us with our homework.

A Game of Two Halves

It was just bad planning by the Union bosses to organise a meeting in Glasgow for a weekend where Celtic were playing away to Motherwell! My better half being a Union man was at the meeting and took the time to catch up on family. I joined the party on the Friday night.

We planned to watch the Celtic match in a bar that had Santanta. We were somewhere near Glasgow Cross I think, just a few hundred yards away from the Barras.

We watched the first half of the match in a bar diner. There was a huge screen, with a couple of big sofas parked in front of it. Being a bar diner, there were menus everywhere, appetising aromas and plates wheeled in with carefully arranged food on them. The sound from the match was turned off.

The times that I have watched football matches without any kind of commentary have not been good times. I don’t know who has just kicked the ball to whom, or who had committed what foul, or who had just scored the goal. They run around in enforced silence hugging one another and I am trying to get a glimpse of the name on the back of the jersey.

Football is not the number one item on the menu. It may be up on the big screen, but the food on the plate takes precedence. People are not really involved in the game, it is just background flickers and is not allowed to interfere with conversation – and eating.

We were there simply because there was a blackboard perched outside the door telling us that they were showing the game. Showing was all they were doing. We decided to find another place showing the game for the second half.

A hundred yards down the road we went into the Sarecen’s Head – or the Sarry’s Heid. The same game was playing – a different audience was watching. There must have been a half dozen small screens in addition to the big one, so that no matter where you sat in the bar, whatever direction you faced you could see the game.

The volume was definitely switched on, but you couldn’t hear it so well on account of the commentary given by the watchers. The commentary was sprinkled liberally with choice swear words most often aimed at the Celtic players for not scoring in the second half.

Eating and drinking played second fiddle to the game. Every kick of the ball, every throw in and every corner was scrutinised. The game was centre stage and every person watching was drawn in. It mattered who won and who lost. Somehow there were no spectators in the room, but everyone was a participator.

Two places, involved in exactly the same activity and yet two very different experiences. It made me think about church. You can have two churches involved in exactly the same activity – worshipping God – and yet end up with two very different experiences. I have been in churches that have been very well-behaved. There is order and structure. Everyone knows what happens next – like the menu on the tables. Sometimes, although it says so on the poster outside, God is not really at the centre. The minister might put Him there, but the congregation might there for other reasons – they always go because they have always been.

And then you get churches like the Sarry’s Heid. God is centre stage and there are no spectators. You cannot help but be affected by the enthusiasm and the involvement of the people around you. I admit that there isn’t a sprinkling of choice swear words, but people are not quiet either. They allow what is on their hearts to spill out.

Something That Isn't Jesus

I have come from a church history of preachers that like to dissect Bible passages and then order their notes neatly with alliterating headings! They make four or five points that are perhaps memorable because the headings start with the same letter.

This way of bringing a word appeals to the “control freak” nature in me. I like things to fit into neat patterns and structure. I don’t really do “messy”.

However, having said that, in the Monday evening contemplation of the first chapter of Genesis, we were encouraged to think about just one thing that struck us as we read through. Under normal circumstances my mind would be making leapfrog connections between the words and alliterated headings for each section! But I kept it to the one thing!

I am bringing the word this week in church and decided to focus on the one thing again. The story is following on from the account of the Transfiguration. A man with a demon possessed child brings his son to Jesus and finds his disciples instead. Despite their experience – they have cast out demons before – they are unable to help.

The one thing that struck me was the whole concept of people coming to us, the Church, or us, as individual Christians, looking for Jesus, and finding something that isn’t Him at all.

Personally, as I was praying as I prepared my word, I am aware, that just like the disciples, I have done it before. I am on the rota for bringing the word. I have a bookcase-ful of commentaries and studies. I have a list of favourite website addresses and a history of successfully (?) bringing a message. I have done it before! But when my brothers and sisters come, and visitors come, to a meeting, looking for Jesus, do they get Jesus or do they get Mel? There are times when there is no difference. I am doing what I am supposed to be doing – just being the messenger, and faithfully delivering a God given message. However, there are also times when, I am not sure about the message. I am not sure that I have heard from God, but I am sure that with my mental gymnastics I can come up with the alliterated headings that apply. What I might end up with is good stuff that can inspire anyone. It’s stuff that they can build with – but it might not be God stuff which is what truly transforms.

This morning I went to mass at St. Mary’s. There seemed to be a little bit more incense waving and more bell-ringing than normal. I thought of the people that come looking for Jesus. Do they find Him? Undoubtedly there are people who find Jesus in the ritual and the ceremony, but for some people, all of that becomes interference and intrudes on their search of Christ. Perhaps there are others that never find Jesus but never realise they haven’t found him. The ritual and the ceremony becomes a substitute fro the real thing.

All churches have their ritual. Substitute a worship band for incense waving, for example, or clapping hands for bell ringing. Any of the things that we do can end up being a substitute for the real encounter.

The man with the demon possessed child knew when he had encountered Jesus. In the presence of Jesus he couldn’t pretend a faith level he didn’t possess. He realised the poverty of his spirit, acknowledging just how much help he needed. His son was released from his demonic jailer. Without Jesus none of those things are possible.

I don’t want people to come to me looking for Jesus, and finding something that isn’t Him.

More than a Song

I am feeling somewhat frustrated at the moment. I am not sure that much of what I experience on a Sunday qualifies as worship. At the end of a meeting where I was leading worship, I was left thinking – did we just song songs or did we worship? Just becuase one or two people lift up their hands - does that mean anything? Are they just going into "worship mode" or are they genuinely in the presence of God?

On Thursday night I went to a meeting at a local church. The new Culloden Visitor’s Centre is due to be opened some time and the church felt the need to meet together to celebrate that today Culloden isn’t the battlefield it was some two or three hundred years ago. There were men in kilts!

We began the meeting with a time of worship. Worship has got to be more than singing songs, no matter how modern. There was a string of songs – some old and some new, with all the words projected on to the white bit of the wall. Some of the songs had nice lyrics, perhaps even adapted from scripture.

In amongst them all was “Shine Jesus Shine” which, if you did not know, was voted number ten in the top one hundred hymns and songs in a “Songs of Praise” survey. That brought back a few memories!

There was no pause between songs. There wasn’t even a smooth chord sequence to get from one tune to the next.

A few people in front of me, and perhaps a few behind, lifted up one hand or two – but I am thoroughly convinced that we just sang songs. “We” might have worshipped, or “they” might have worshipped, but “I” sang songs – not for the want of trying to do something more than that.

My lips moved. My vocal chords moved. My hands moved as I clapped to one song, or tapped the side of my leg. My feet moved as I shuffled from one leg to the next in a very muted form of the Charismatic two step. I even stretched out a hand to heaven at one point. Anyone looking at me would have thought – “There’s a woman who is worshipping!”

Many things may have moved – but my spirit didn’t! I didn’t go anywhere. I don’t know, but if the person leading worship isn’t really going anywhere, does that mean that the people he or she is leading are not going anywhere either? Can I blame it on the worship team? Or does that not matter at all? Some people make the distiction between a worship leader and a lead worshipper - is that just semantics? If the lead worshipper isn't leading you then are you actually going anywhere?

I really don’t want to just sing songs! I want to connect. Worship isn’t worship at all if there is no encounter with God. i know what it feels like to connect and I know what it feels like when the connection is absent.

I read this Hebrews 4:14-16 this morning about worship. This is how the Message puts it:-

“Now that we know what we have—Jesus, this great High Priest with ready access to God—let's not let it slip through our fingers. We don't have a priest who is out of touch with our reality. He's been through weakness and testing, experienced it all—all but the sin. So let's walk right up to him and get what he is so ready to give. Take the mercy, accept the help. (Hebrews 4:14-16)”

On Thursday, I didn’t “walk right up to him” and get what He was so ready to give.

As I think about leading worship in our fellowship, I am challenged about whether I give people the opportunity, through my choice of songs and the way in which they are sung and played, or indeed anything else that I might say or do that creates the right atmosphere, to walk right up to Jesus and to get from Him what He is so ready to give.

Rediscovering Weetabix

“This is really quite nice!”

These words were said by me, to myself, twenty or thirty years after I had sworn never to to buy, eat, look at, smell, touch or go anywhere near Weetabix!

The problem was Weetabix was the only cereal we ever had at home for years. It took a long time to persuade my mother to start buying Cornflakes as an alternative. And then of course for the next few years it was only Cornflakes. Eventually, we again persuaded mum to try buying Rice Krispies. Thankfully I left home long before I had developed an aversion to Rice Krispies. There was no mixing the cereals.

So for years on end I have never been able to get over my Weetabix and Cornflake phobia! My husband loves Cornflakes and buys the occasional box, but I come out in a cold sweat every time I have to touch the box to move it to get to something behind it!

Despite having eaten Weetabix for most of my childhood, if you asked me what it tasted like, I honestly can’t remember what it tasted like – only that I didn’t like it! It is a clear case of familiarity breeds contempt!

I bought a pack a few weeks ago. Weetabix have distinctly fewer Weight Watcher points than some of the other breakfast cereals and they also have a low GI rating, which means they keep you filled up longer. So I fought against my Weetabix aversion, slipped two in a bowl, cut up a banana, dowsed it with milk and was quite surprised. It was nice! It wasn’t a case of holding my nose and gulping it down bravely – like I sometimes do with my porridge (which also has few WW points and is low GI). Yes, Weetabix is back on the menu!

I have had an opportunity to visit a number of different churches on a Sunday morning since we began meeting on an evening. The last time that I worshipped in a “denominational” church was probably in the late 1980s. Since then I have thrived, spiritually, on a diet of worship songs, guitar and keyboard music, various school halls, chairs, small congregations and an avoidance of anything that looks remotely like tradition.

Sunday mornings have been a little like re-discovering Weetabix! The things I thought I disliked about “denominational” churches don’t actually exist. Every place I have visited so far has been vibrant and full of life, not steeped and stagnant with tradition and hierarchy.

I thought I knew what Weetabix tasted like and I was wrong. I thought I knew what a typical church meeting in a “denominational" church was all about - but I was wrong.

I still haven’t tried the Cornflakes though!

The Three Egg Omelette Challenge

On a Saturday morning we like to watch a cookery programme called “Saturday Kitchen”. They have guest chefs who demonstrate favourite recipes, celebrities that choose their food hell and food heaven for the viewers to vote on, and there are always a couple of viewers invited on to the programme to be the guinea pigs and taste the various recipes.

One regular feature of the programme is a challenge for the guest chefs to make a three egg omelette in a little time as possible and depending on how quickly they do it, they get posted onto a leader board. We are talking about mere seconds! What they call on omelette looks suspiciously like scrambled egg to me and not the least bit appetising.

I am into week two of my hunt for the man! Seeing as I didn’t find him at last week’s church meeting, I thought I would try another church.

It feels like a three egg omelette challenge taking the opportunity to visit other churches in the morning now that we are meeting in the evening. However much I want to just take the meeting as it is, there is the inevitability of comparing one with another, and also comparing them with my own church.

With the three egg omelette challenge there are things that they all have in common – three eggs, a pan, oil, heat, a whisk, seasoning and a ticking clock. The end result for the most part looks rather similar too. What’s different, although not really that different, is the actions of the chefs. Some of them want to be on the leader board so they rush and hurry and serve up a pile of goo on a plate. Others, although they also want to be on the leader board, also want to serve up a proper omelette and they seem not to be able to lay aside cooking protocol!

What would be the things that churches have in common – worship songs perhaps? The sermon? The welcome when you arrive? The tea and coffee at the end? None of that really matters to some extent if you don’t encounter God! It is nice to be welcomed when you arrive – and I have been made to feel very welcome. The worship songs – today’s church pips the post rather. Not because the songs were familiar – they weren’t. The musicians were good. It wasn’t so much them as me – I was ready to worship and wanted to connect. The sermon this time around was challenging, not that last’s week’s wasn’t! The tea and coffee – the first church was better – much nicer biscuits!

But did I connect with God? Yes I did, but I missed my own church family very much. Many of the avenues that I connect with God don’t come in isolation. It is not the words or the music that always does it – but the familiar faces and the way my church family look at me. It is a familiar smile and an affirming nod from someone I know that makes my encounters with God to be so much more real. I know where I stand with them. I am not a stranger or a visitor but an essential part of their encounter with God too.