SUNDAY 11th MAY 2025 11.00 a.m.
MORNING WORSHIP, VE DAY 80th ANNIVERSARY
ST COLUMBA’S, PONT STREET 
(FOURTH SUNDAY OF EASTER)

“Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honourable, whatever is just, 
whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, 
if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise,
think about these things.” Philippians 4:8

From a collection of World War II verse, selected phrases from a poem entitled,
War Has become official, old friend, Geoffrey Matthews,
evoking the new landscape of a country at war in 1939.

“The searchlights lean their wigwam patterns 
over a minster peeled of glass, 
No tactless light breaks through the muffled streets,
kind for the lovers, the County Council and the thief.

Today I am sick of sandbags, news, announcements, 
and cycle in calm September sunshine 
across the plain at Ampleforth 

Sheffield and Hull, Bradford and Leeds 
have billeted children in these chequered villages, 
happy and pale they pull the unripe apples down, 
and what a sin it is, I think, 
to carry a gas mask through cornfields like these.”

Six years later, the jubilant scenes of VE Day – crowds in London,
Dancing in the fountains – relief and joy.
On Tuesday, when Scots in London hosted an evening of discussion 
about the significance of VE Day – then and now – 
what emerged was the variety of experience, on May 8th, 1945.
Yes, there were the jubilant throngs in London, 
but there were other smaller episodes, eloquent of humanity.

A member of the RAF (writing for Mass Observation): 
Serving on a base near Luton:
On the evening of 7th May I was in the local village church 
with a young chap 
who had promised to show me the basic ideas of playing the organ - 
a thing I've always wanted to do. 
We were still there at 10:00pm when a very elderly and decrepit lady 
inquired if she might lock the church. 
She said that the news had come through of complete German surrender. 
My friend said just a minute, and went back to the keyboard to play, 
“Praise God from whom all blessings flow.” 
Then we switched off the bellows, turned off the lights 
and went down to the village 
where people were singing and dancing outside the pub, 
while others were decorating the houses with flags and streamers. 
When the pub closed the people seemed to melt away. 
We went to a transport cafe and ate fish and chips. 

When we got back to camp, we found a great deal of excitement 
as we were to close down from midnight until 8:00am Thursday. 
Passes were arranged for all who could possibly get home, 
and it was arranged to run transport from Luton at 4:30am, 
which would serve those waiting for the first trains 
both for London and the north. 
(p188 The People’s Victory).

A stark contrast from the front, 
is the recollection of member of our linked congregation, St Andrew’s, Newcastle.
Ian Gillespie – Normandy veteran and recently celebrating his 105th birthday in style,
records in the Scots in London 80th Anniversary publication.

“That day I happened to be the company Orderly Officer. 
The main duties were company admin and security, involving setting the guard. 
Uniquely, I was also guarding a captain in the Pioneer Corps who had shot his major 
and was on a murder charge. 
Everyone in the company was given a bottle of champagne to celebrate. 
So you can imagine me guarding this captain, 
both of us drinking the champagne; 
I with my revolver at the ready, and he on a murder charge - a macabre scene. 
He was shipped back to the UK for his court martial. 
I don’t know the sentence. 
Today he would have been treated medically for post-traumatic stress disorder.” 

Ian has always kept a diary and when he opened the page for VE Day 
he found the label from the champagne bottle, 
Moet et Chandon, Epernay, France, Brut, 1937. 
A friend advised him he shouldn’t have drunk the champagne – 
today it would be worth £1,000. 

Sydney Jary, another Normandy veteran who ended the war in Germany observed –
“Reaction to the end of the war, like aggression, increased 
the further behind the lines you went. 
The natural aristocracy of the battlefield, the infantry, 
having fired a feu de joie of Very lights, 
curled up and slept. 
We had learned too much to indulge in shallow demonstrations.”
(!8 Platoon, p122)

For many of course there was continuing anxiety for loved ones – 
those still away, those missing, those who had been prisoners of war – 
and of course those who were still fighting. 
VE Day was the end of fighting in Europe, 
it was very clearly not the end of the war.

At St Columba’s, as the account read earlier by Stuart Steele explained – 
there was no church building, following its devastation in 1941.
Instead, thanks to neighbouring St Saviours, 
the congregation gathered to give thanks – 
in the same way that there were services across the nation.
(At Westminster Abbey there were services held every hour, throughout the day.)

At St Saviours, the minster, Revd Dr Scott began:
“Dearly beloved members of Saint Columba’s, 
it was in God's house that the tidings of war were made known to us 
on Sunday, the 3rd September 1939. 
Today, the 8th of May 1945, we meet again in God's house, 
to give thanks to Him for final victory 
achieved in the European theatre of this worldwide struggle 
against the forces of tyranny and oppression. 

It is not the same house in which we meet, 
but it is the same God whom we worship. 
The enemy has taken from us a cherished building. 
He has not taken from us our unshakeable belief 
in the God of righteousness and peace 
revealed to us in Jesus Christ, our Lord.” 

From these voices speaking to us across the years, what will we glean?
Simply nostalgia – an outing for the historian, if you like that sort of thing?
As with the annual Remembrance Day services, 
perhaps the 80th Anniversary of VE Day is primarily a chance simply to listen –
to hear and honour the voices of those who were there – 
old and young, serving personnel and civilian. 
To comprehend, if only a little, their experience.
As one veteran summed up: 
“Just ordinary people called to do extraordinary things.”

But in this house of prayer – a wondrous gift that has grown from the ashes,
We might choose to search for more.
Christian, currently serving, read Psalm 23.
So often sung or read – a go-to for many, in demanding times, danger or sorrow.
It’s most remembered image, is God as shepherd.
But, it also describes God as faithful, trustworthy, generous host:
You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.

This afternoon we will retell, largely in his own words, 
the wartime story of the Very Revd Fraser McLuskey, chaplain to the SAS;
longtime, and much revered, minister of this congregation. 
Parachuted behind enemy lines into central France in 1944,
he lived the nomadic, dangerous life of the unit he was serving with.
Of church services held in secret forest camps he wrote:

“… our worship seemed natural and meaningful.
We worshipped where we lived; 
in the clearing where we slept, round the campfire which was home. 
In the most obvious and concrete fashion 
worship was a part of daily life 
and not divorced in any way from it.
The ground on which we cooked and ate and slept, 
the ground on which at any moment 
we might find ourselves defending our possessions and our lives, 
was the ground on which we worshipped. 
Common ground was sacred ground.”

And of communion - the meal and sacrament at the heart of our faith – 
which he often celebrated – 
“…circumstances robbed our celebrations of much of the usual ceremony.
(But) we lost nothing by the smallness of our numbers 
and the simplicity of the service.
We gained rather a new realisation of the character of this family act 
instituted by Christ, with a handful of men 
as ordinary and human as we were, 
in a home where a family lived its life
and did its work.
That first celebration was simple and unpretentious enough, 
and we had the same essentials, 
bread and wine, a group of unworthy believers,
and the presence of the Master.”

“…, whatever is true, whatever is honourable, whatever is just, 
whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, 
if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise,
think about these things.” Philippians 4:8

SUNDAY 20^th APRIL 2025 11.00 a.m.
HOLY COMMUNION, ST COLUMBA’S, PONT STREET
(EASTER SUNDAY)

Prayer: Living God, may we rejoice in the hope of this day,
be immersed in the wonder of its purpose,
give ourselves to the joy of its meaning,
and bind ourselves to the love it reveals. Amen (Tom Gordon, Easter Day 2025)

“Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark,
Mary Magdalene came to the tomb
and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. So she ran…” John 20:1

Perhaps when I know you better, or have spent more time with a therapist,
I will tell you, how two years ago, I didn’t win the Dads’ race,
in the June of my daughter’s final, primary-school sports day.
It would require speaking of caution unwisely discarded,
some treacherously, uneven ground,
a cartoon-esque, headlong fall, severely skinned knees,
a last place finish and enduring humiliation.
As indicated: “Too soon.”

Such hauntings resurfaced this week, with a short piece of film on the BBC News website.
Shelly-Ann Fraser-Pryce is a three-time Olympic champion,
the third fastest woman in history.
She also just competed in her young son’s school sports day, mums’ race, 100metre dash.
She demolished the competition.
Seemingly launched from the start line by a rocket,
she was so far ahead by race conclusion
that the phone camera couldn’t contain winner and followers in the same shot.
Post-race, the Olympian explained: “They haven’t banned me yet, so I’m at the line.”

Running maintains a lane in the Scriptures:
“Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall;
but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint.” Isaiah 40:30-31

Paul the Apostle advised the Hebrews:
“… let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us,
looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith,
who for the sake of the joy that was set before him
endured the cross, disregarding its shame,
and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God.”

Running - a metaphor for the way/life of faith – particularly the call to perseverance.
But then there is just running –
running as action, or reaction, to the impulse of the moment.
The Father of the Prodigal Son,
running to embrace the wayward child, presumed dead.
Or, (according to the Gospel of John), the running of the first Easter – the resurrection relay.
Mary running through Jerusalem’s dark, pre-dawn alleyways.
Then retracing those steps, back to the garden,
the footrace between the Beloved Disciple and Peter.
What prompts this pre-dawn dash?

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark,
A grieving woman returns to the only place left to go –
the place where they had wrapped and laid his shattered body
at the end of that hideous day.
She remembered the oppressive heat of the morning,
an intolerable, indifferent sun,
until the clouds gathered like ugly bruises,
a slow suffocation of agony and anger.
In those stretched out hours the light fled,
as if the world itself screamed its horror at those shameful gallows.

She neared the tomb; panic, distress. The stone aside. Dark emptiness.
One final indignity? The double grief of the disappeared?
Robbers? The Romans? The priests?
Could they never leave her Jesus alone, even in death?
Easter starts in distress and unknowns.

Then the rush to let the disciples know.
Peter and the Beloved Disciple racing each other to confirm Mary’s tale;
the former, arriving at the tomb first, but pausing at the entrance;
Peter, arriving second, ploughing straight in – his gospel character, entirely.
Incredulity in the doorway.
Grave clothes. Discarded, set apart.
What did it mean?
For the two men, the tomb was evidence but not a place for answers.
They leave, unwilling or unable, to comfort Mary.

 So, it is Mary, alone, who is first;
first, not only to discover the absence,
but first also, to be changed by its mysteries.
It is the grieving, apparently abandoned Mary,
who encounters the angels, shimmering like candles on a tablecloth of bandages.

Why are you weeping?
They have taken my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.
In the circumstances, a lifeless body would at least be some consolation.
Then, turning, looking outward from the tomb,
Mary encounters the gardener.
Do you know where they have taken him?

The unknown one speaks her name – Mary –
a greeting, an awakening, an invitation – all in one.
Mary - all is changed, all astonishingly new.
Rabbouni! she responds, Teacher! Recognition, return, renewal.

Three runners on resurrection race day.
And striking - three differing experiences.
Mary Magdalene sees Jesus first
because she chooses to remain, even in the darkness, bereft and bewildered.
She gives grief its due.
Refuses to abandon what is real, even when that seems unbearable.
Sorrow is her legitimate and faithful pathway to Easter.

In contrast, Peter runs headlong into the tomb - and runs back out again.
He cannot bear the rawness of the moment. 
Perhaps too proud, exhausted, or ashamed to share Mary’s grief.
For him Easter will take time, before it catches him up.
Meanwhile, the Beloved Disciple believes without understanding.
Believes what? That the body has been stolen? That Jesus is alive?
That God has vanquished death?
We are not told. Only “he sees and believes”;
trusts the evidence of his own experience.
Holds onto what he can in that strange, confusing moment,
leaves the door open for faith to deepen further.

Three runners on resurrection race day –
three encounters with Christ – each different.
Reminder, that we come to the empty tomb and Easter,
as ourselves, not identikits -
with different expectations and experiences;
in running parlance, differing PB’s –
our own personal bests, our own slowest times.

Mary, Peter and the Beloved Disciple remind us,
if we are to encounter the risen Christ,
it will be only, can be only,
in the circumstances of our own lives –
complicated, compromised, incomplete, imperfect,
miraculous or mysterious,
as they may well be or feel.

We might wish that things were different, or easier;
but if those Easter tomb runners pass a baton to us –
it is that the absence and presence, they first stumbled upon,
is the same absence and presence
that moves and motivates, sustains and inspires our lives today.

And whether Olympian, or also-ran: we too can relay the astonishing wonder of Easter:
Fighting the good fight, finishing the race, keeping the faith. II Timothy 4:7
“Not banned yet - so each and all of us - at the line.”

“As Moses came down from the mountain with the two tablets of the covenant in his hand,
he did not know that the skin of his face shone
because he had been talking with God.” Exodus 34:29

“Now about eight days after these sayings Jesus took with him Peter and John and James,
and went up on the mountain to pray.
And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed,
and his clothes became dazzling white.” Luke 9:28

Do you recognise these words? Locate their time and place?
“Current Guidance: We encourage people to wear face coverings in the building
(unless exempt), but the requirement to do so has now been lifted.
Some people will be more comfortable maintaining social distancing:
please be respectful of their choices.
Our arrangements are under review –
the Out of Lock Down working group will meet this week.
We will publicise any changes as promptly as possible, should the need arise.”

The St Columba’s intimation sheet three years ago.
Time of masks and direction arrows –
their faded outline, still visible on wooden floors,
ghostly reminder of strange days.
Today, seemingly barely believable - Did that really happen?

You will have your own COVID memories.
People had such differing experiences.
We went from livestreaming services in an empty church,
to gradual readmission of worshippers into the sanctuary – spaced and masked.
I was often asked: Did it feel lonely to conduct worship with a
musician and a technician and no one else?
To which I always answered:
That was easy - when people came back that was difficult!
(Which needs a little explaining):
When the church was empty there was never a sense that nothing was happening.
On the contrary, the leading of worship felt more important than ever –
and though the pews were empty, there was always a sense,
that in ways we couldn’t fathom,
we were connected and sharing something profound.
In contrast, the return of “live” worshippers was much more disconcerting:
A sprinkling of people – thinly spread – faces covered – unable to sing.
That felt much more disconnected.
It turns out, faces were/faces are important.

We shouldn’t be surprised:
A wedding couple choose lines from by Scots poet, Edwin Muir’s “The Confirmation”
to be included in their ceremony:
“Yes, yours my love, is the right human face,
I in my mind had waited for this long,
Seeing the false and searching for the true,
Then found you as a traveller finds a place
Of welcome suddenly amid the wrong
Valleys and rocks and twisting roads.”

Or today, a baptismal day; welcoming, celebrating, Winifred,
words that we sang together:
“The Lord bless you and keep you;
The Lord make his face to shine upon you…”
The presence of an infant, a fresh reminder of the wondrousness/the shiningness
of a human face;
a double delight: both to really look into the face of an infant;
but also, to behold a child looking at the world;
their curiosity and attention re-teaching jaded adult eyesight the G K Chesterton truth:
“The world will never starve for want of wonders; but only for want of wonder.”

Today’s focus on faces and accompanying masked musings,
prompted by scripture; serving up two notable faces,
masked and revealed; revealed and masked.
The link appears to be mountains and faces.
Moses at Mount Sinai (receiving the Commandments)
then returning to the children of Israel with a face all aglow.
Mask on, mask off.
Then Jesus echoing much of Moses’ experience:
Taking the high road, clues and symbol abound –
mountain, dazzling light, glowing countenance –
The presence and commendation of Moses and Elijah –
dignitaries, representing the Law and the Prophets.
Lest we be in any doubt: A cloud descending – very presence of God;
and that Voice: “This is my Son, the Chosen. Listen to him!”

Luke’s account really starts:
“Now about eight days after these sayings…”
Which sayings?
“Who do you say that I am?” asks Jesus. “The Christ” trumpets Peter.
But to Crown, Jesus responds, Cross.
“The Son of Man must undergo great suffering, be rejected…be killed
and on the third day be raised.”
…
“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves
and take up their cross daily and follow me.”

Eight days later the great witnesses, Moses and Elijah talk with Jesus;
“speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem.”
Our translation is departure; but the word Luke uses is exodus –
a profound, loaded word, for those shaped
by Israel’s long walk to freedom, out of Egypt’s chains.
Luke uses exodus both in the sense of journey and more profoundly, death.
The Transfiguration/the Big Reveal is an assurance,
before the end, about the end.
A glimpse, a confidence, a provision for the way, –
something to feed on when the going gets tough.

Perhaps it is Jesus who most needs to comprehend the confirmation.
Given the journey ahead, he will need all the affirmation of purpose he can get.
The Transfiguration representsa recognition/commendation of his true self –
chosen and beloved of the Father.
And for disciples, something in time,
that will defy the apparent meaninglessness
of Jesus’ vicious, filthy, tortured passing.
His exodus, not a dead end, but gateway to a Promised Land.

Peter, patron saint of the foot in mouth comment,
makes the mistake of wanting to tabernacle the moment,
harness the holy, contain/perpetuate it for posterity.
The sight of Jesus striding down the hill, educates him swiftly,
to what Jesus thinks of that idea.
Neither the rabbi, nor Gd, appear much concerned with permanent mountaintop real estate.

What happened next?”
All three Synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark and Luke) tell the story of the Transfiguration -
and all three conclude the story with the healing of a “demon-possessed” boy,
down in the valley.

In the Vatican Museum, the last painting of the Renaissance artist, Raphael
depicts this gospel account; entitled The Transfiguration of Christ,
it divides in two parts.
The upper, bathed in light, portrays the events on the mountain-top;
Peter, John and James witness Christ in glory.
But, scrolling down to the people at the foot of the hill,
one becomes aware of a darker scene;
a jostling crowd, and a boy with agitated features, looking up to the Risen Christ.
His father seeks help; the other nine disciples are there,
some arguing with the scribes, as others look on.

Layered as it is, it is a single piece – its unity, an amalgam or fusion,
conveying a difficult truth.
The Christ story will not be neatly segmented –
beauty and order and light in one domain –
life’s difficulties – illness, intolerance, anger, disappointment,
somehow exiled to a lesser, non-sacred category.
Artist and the gospel author, weave the two together –
the glory and the grey, certainties and doubt, vision and gloom,
hope and despair, belief and unbelief.
Mountain “God” moments may come, unanticipated, gifted –
but more reliably, Christ is to be found in the valley,
amidst the sorrows and beauties of everyday, messy, imperfect human life.

Debie Thomas highlights the danger of “God on the mountaintop” Christianity:
“As if God is somehow more present during a rousing choral anthem,
a stirring sermon, or a silent retreat in a seaside monastery,
than God is when I'm doing the laundry, buying my groceries,
or sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic. 
Desperate for the mountain, we miss the God of the valley,
the conference room, the pharmacy, the school yard.” 

Peter eventually learns that the compassionate heart of God
is most powerfully revealed amidst the lost and the lonely;
shines most brightly against the backdrop of the parent who grieves,
the child who cries, the “demons” who oppress,
and the disciples who try but fail to manufacture the holy

So, with Peter, John and James, after our worship together,
we are invited back to the world,
imperfect and flawed, complex and complicated;
there to seek and serve the face of Christ:
Found “…. as a traveller finds a place
Of welcome suddenly amid the wrong
Valleys and rocks and twisting roads.”

Or as another poet penned:
“… for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces.”
(As Kingfishers Catch Fire, Gerard manly Hopkins)

ST COLUMBA’S, PONT STREET
SUNDAY 30th MARCH 2025,
4th SUNDAY OF LENT & MOTHERING SUNDAY

“There was a man who had two sons.” Luke 15:11 

A poem entitled, The Parent’s farewell:
[The Geese Flew Over my Heart (Lyn McCrave)]
A fragment of dialogue, between youth setting out, and parental remaining:

“I always seem to be saying goodbye,
Packing your boat, launching you out
Into the deep.

Then I stand and wait for your wave,
that smile that says
“Here I go; stay there.
Be my harbour.”

Leaving home, letting go, escaping or setting free;
independence, defiance, departure, homecoming, slipway and harbour.
Suitable themes for a sabbath that coincides Mothering Sunday
and the Gospel parable of Parent and Sons.
And lest we fret at the thought of sermon on fathers and sons,
on a day for celebrating the role of mothering –
whether in families, Church, or the numerous other ways it can be dispensed –
let us remind ourselves God is beyond gender,
and the Scriptures are quite capable of offering feminine images:
“As a mother comforts her child, so will I [God] comfort you;
and you will be comforted over Jerusalem.” (Isaiah 66:13).
Or as Jesus said over that same city:
“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you,
how often I have longed to gather your children together,
as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings,
and you were not willing.” (Matthew 23:37; Luke 13:34)

The late Henri Nouwen, Dutch Roman Catholic priest, writer and theologian
authored “The Return of the Prodigal Son”.
It offers an extended reflection on the Rembrandt picture
housed in the Hermitage Museum in St Petersburg. (Check out this week’s Newsletter).
The picture depicts the moment the prodigal son returns
and is embraced by the father –
while the elder brother watches from the shadows.

One of Nouwen’s observations is that one of the hands of the father
can be interpreted as being more feminine, showing God our Mother,
as well as God our Father.
A church friend sent me this week – a quote found in a family prayer book:
“God couldn’t be everywhere, so invented Mothers”.

However you hear/feel about that suggestion, it might be helpful to consider:
“Language about God should help us to understand and encounter God,
but we should not confuse the reality of God with the limits of our language.”
Theologian Lynn Japinga: (Feminism and Christianity: An Essential Guide, Abingdon: 1999, p. 64)

“There was a parent who had two sons.”
In quick time, the youngest son turns his back on family,
forsakes the familiarity of his homeland, loses sight of his religious heritage.
Despite the insult, the father gives what the son demands.
Though painful, perhaps the father knows
you can’t return home, without leaving first.

In honesty, we tend to resonate with the elder son; his resentments mirror our own.
Elder brother has been responsible, behaved well,
prudently kept his inheritance secure.
Meanwhile little brother has been profligate,
enjoyed it and is “punished” with the party of the year!
Isn’t elder brother entitled to reprimand his Dad for being … weak?
Why does Jesus tell this story which seems to have an unfairness, injustice at its heart?

The Gospels leave little doubt,
that Jesus made a lot of enemies in a short time.
Broadly speaking, his detractors fell into two categories —
the politically powerful of Rome,
who executed him as a subversive enemy of the state,
and the religiously self-righteous, who are the subject of Luke 15 this week.

Jesus’ trouble is of his own making, hanging out with the wrong crowd.
“… there were many sinful people who followed him.”
This entourage of moral outcasts feel safe with Jesus; sheltered, not judged.
In a society of religious food laws,
Jesus is unfussy about what is placed before him;
and unfussy about who shares the feast.
Hence the grumbling:
Does this Jesus – a drunk and a glutton - not know who these people are?
Does he condone their messed-up lives?
The elder brothers saw and were appalled.

“So he told them this parable.” 
Actually, he told them three:
One about a lost sheep, one about a lost coin and one about a lost son –
or one might suggest – two lost sons.

The abrasive truth is that this most beloved of all tales,
the Parable of the Prodigal Son – the gospel within the gospel –
is a story aimed at the enemies of Jesus.
The son who finds his way home, and the Father running to meet him,
is actually a challenge to the religiously respectable, with their mutterings:
“This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.”

The poignancy of the story - somewhere along the way,
despite his proximity to the father,
the dutiful, loyal, elder son has become just as lost as his tearaway sibling.
The elder brother has reduced the green pastures of home to scorched earth –
a barren land of score-keeping, bereft of gratitude, forgiveness or mirth.
In differing ways, both sons squander their inheritance –
one recklessly over-spending, the other joylessly withholding.

The Brazilian bishop, Heler Camara:
“I pray incessantly for the conversion of the prodigal son’s elder brother.
Ever in my ears the dread warning:
One has awoken from his life of sin.
When will the other awake from his virtue?”

The elder brother is the warning to all of us
when we presume to constrict our vision of who God is interested in;
when we presume – it is us who decides who gets to come home.

We began with the poem, The Parent’s Farewell:
hen I stand and wait for your wave,
that smile that says
“Here I go; stay there.
Be my harbour.”

Echo of the perhaps better-known, C Day-Lewis poem, Walking Away,
The remembering of a scene played out on a school sports field,
between father and son.

It is eighteen years ago, almost to the day –
A sunny day with leaves just turning,
The touch-lines new-ruled – since I watched you play
Your first game of football, then, like a satellite
Wrenched from its orbit, go drifting away
Behind a scatter of boys. 

… … …

I have had worse partings, but none that so
Gnaws at my mind still. Perhaps it is roughly
Saying what God alone could perfectly show –
How selfhood begins with a walking away,
And love is proved in the letting go.

ST COLUMBA’S, PONT STREET
SUNDAY 9th FEBRUARY 2025, 11am
(5th SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY)

The pivots on the thresholds shook at the voices of those who called,
and the house filled with smoke.
And I said: ‘Woe is me! I am lost,
for I am a man of unclean lips,
and I live among a people of unclean lips;
yet my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!’ Isaiah 6

Careless or reverent? Expectant or underwhelmed?
How do we enter a church? Our church, any church?
Designated holy ground?
Is it time to check the socials or should we really be removing our shoes
and covering our heads?

This week, unexpectedly, the voice and stories of an old college friend.
Five years studying theology have fitted him for four decades of sports reporting –
covering Glasgow Old Firm fixtures and Masters golf tournaments in springtime Augusta.
More recently he has turned his hand to a podcast on Faith & Sport.
He is the son of a Baptist minister.
From a recent podcast, this Holy Week account from his undergraduate days:

“A boozy football club tour to Paris in mid-1980’s,
in the company of daft and funny and really brilliant team-mates,
I dragged myself away to be inside Notre Dame Cathedral that Good Friday evening, yearning to be inside a church,
to be somehow in a holy place, away from all the noise,
to have that sense again of the numinous.

That Friday evening, here was I, a Scottish Baptist –
we have bare walls; we don’t do adornments -
here I was inside this most famous, ornate cathedral,
with candles lit and an old Parisian lady sat next to me at the back –
the cathedral was packed - clutching her rosary and praying fervently.
I looked around this scene and I thought of the party and carnage
I had momentarily separated myself from,
and I caught an image of Christ on the cross high up in that cathedral transept
and this became one of the most moving experiences I’ve ever had inside a church.”

Careless or reverent? Expectant or underwhelmed?
How do we enter our church? Any church?
The poet Philip Larkin described how he entered churches –
something he obviously did regularly. In his poem Church Going:

Once I am sure there’s nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church:
Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,
He runs his hand round the font;
declares Here endeth the lesson, at the lectern.
Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.
Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,

In the remainder of the poem Larkin speculates
what these little-used churches will become,
either falling into ruin, or preserved as museum pieces.
Yet, the poem concludes:
It pleases me to stand in silence here;
A serious house on serious earth it is,
… that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
[… yearning to be inside a church,
to be somehow in a holy place, away from all the noise,
to have that sense again of the numinous.]

Careless or reverent? Expectant or underwhelmed?
How do we enter our church? Any church?

Isaiah’s vision in/from the Temple portrays a drama of the holy
way beyond the norm for 11am on a routine St Columba’s Sunday:
In the year that King Uzziah died,
I saw the Lord sitting on a throne, high and lofty;
and the hem of his robe filled the temple.
Seraphs flew – calling to each other:
were in attendance above him; each had six wings:
‘Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts;
the whole earth is full of his glory.’
The pivots on the thresholds shook at the voices of those who called,
and the house filled with smoke.

The prophet contrasts a mortal earthly king (Uzziah), who has just died,
and the Lord of Hosts, whose reign is eternal,
with the divine creatures, attending and singing praises.

Isaiah sees the Lord, sitting on a throne.
Viewing the Divine in the Hebrew Bible is hazardous;
Exodus 33:20: “But,’ the LORD said, ‘you cannot see my face,
for no one shall see me and live.”
Moses was not allowed to see God’s face.
Isaiah however is given that moment.
And before this divine shock and awe, he is transformed.
Shaken and stirred.
God’s holiness/otherness leads Isaiah to a clearer awareness/perspective of his own condition,
and that of the people among whom he lives.
In a combination of awe, reverence, and humility, Isaiah confesses,
“Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips,
and I live among a people of unclean lips,
yet my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!”

Crucially, God entertains Isaiah’s presence,
permits his seeing, despite his stains.
The Divine then asks Who shall I send, suggesting that Isaiah is not alone.
Whoever else is addressed, it is Isaiah who volunteers –
not perhaps entirely recognising what he is being called to do.
But offering the famous: “Here I am. Send me.”

The Gospel (Luke 5) also portrays a moment of epiphany;
another ,“I am a sinful man” moment of self recognition,
in the face of God’s otherness –
another commissioning too.

By the waters of Gennesaret, the lake of the harp, Galilee, as we know it,
Jesus teaches the crowds from his boat-builder’s pulpit.
The fisher lads are sorting the nets.
Weary from a night’s long labours – not a minnow to show for it.
“Simon, put out into the deep water, let down your nets once more.”
You can almost hear the sucking of teeth:
“With respect Rabi, we have fished all night and….”
But Jesus holds his gaze – “Try once more – put out into the deep.”
“If you say so…”

Then, boiling waters, bulging nets, twisting shoals of silver.
More and more they shimmer, till the depths, a churning cauldron,
arms and timbers alike, groaning under the weight of the impossible.
“It is too much” Simon – on his knees now:
“I cannot bear this. This dazzlement. This haul of holiness.
I am not fit for this.”

What happened next?
Then Jesus said to Simon:
“Perhaps you’re right. Yes, this is a mistake.
This is not for you – you sinful man.
I can only deal with unblemished cv’s; reliable types;
a Pharisee, with a safe pair of hands.”

That of course is exactly what Jesus didn’t say;
just as the Divine did not order the seraphs-bouncers
to eject Isaiah, because his name was not smart enough for the guest list.
Just as the father did not shut the gates on the returning prodigal.
Or the Shepherd tell his sheep - you’ve had your chance.

That is why this lakeside tale becomes a story,
not in the end, about fish, but about followers.
The catch of the day
is a handful of ordinary folk,
recruited not from the synagogue, but the workplace.
A reminder that one of the Church of Scotland membership vows is:
“… to serve Christ in our daily work.”

Simon Peter faced with the epiphany,
drawn from the waters of his own life and experience,
can’t imagine that the two – the glory and the grit -
can co-exist or coincide.
To which Jesus replies:
“You are enough.
Frailty, fear, failure and inadequacy are never obstacles to God's love.
God has never asked for perfect messengers.
Wounded healers, he loves to recruit.
Do not be afraid; from now on …..”

From now on, the consequences to, putting out into the deep,
are only just beginning -
for Simon, for his companions -
perhaps for any who discover a hunger/yearning
for their more serious self.
Who see, or sense, the siren call, we sometimes sing:
Will you come and follow me, if I but call your name?
And to their surprise and lasting joy, answer:
“Here I am. Send me.”

SUNDAY 8th DECEMBER 2024 11.00 a.m.
ST COLUMBA’S, PONT STREET
(2nd SUNDAY OF ADVENT)

“In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius,
when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea … Luke 3:1

In 2011, the funeral of the Otto von Hapsburg,
the last heir to the Austro-Hungarian empire, took place in Vienna.
In the tradition of Hapsburg funerals
when his body arrived at the Capuchin church to be interred,
the doors were found shut.
The herald knocked on the door.
A monk from behind the door asked: “Who demands entry?”
The herald read out the titles of the deceased:

“Otto of Austria; former crown-prince of Austria-Hungary;
Prince Royal of Hungary and Bohemia, of Dalmatia, Croatia,
Slavonia, Galicia, Lodomederia, and Illyria;
Grand Duke of Tuscany and Cracow;
Duke of Lorraine, of Salzburg, Styria, Carinthia, Carniola and Bukowina;
Grand Prince of Siebenburgen, Margrave of Moravia;
Duke of Silesia, Modena, Parma, Piacenza, Guastalla, Auschwitz and Zator,
Teschen, Friuli…..” The list went on.
At its conclusion, the anonymous monk replied: “We know him not.”

The herald knocked a second time:
“Who demands entry?”
“Dr Otto von Hapsburg.”
“We know him not.”
A third knock.
“Who demands entry?”
“A sinner in need of God’s mercy.”
“Him we know,” said the monk. And the doors were opened.

“In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius,
when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea,
and Herod was ruler of Galilee,
and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis,
and Lysanias ruler of Abilene,
during the high-priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas ….

Seven honoured titles, seven VVIP’s;
powerbrokers of the day, political and religious;
headline-makers in a time of global empire, military occupation and local unrest.
Yet, according to Luke, their significance is their eventual, insignificance;
They are part of the reality of the age, yes;
but, time will tell, they are not the primary thing;
because the thing of real, enduring worth, happens elsewhere,
its key cut from a very different mettle:
“In the fifteenth year….The word of the Lord came to John,
the son of Zechariah, in the wilderness.”

In the midst of a complex and anxious political context,
Luke trumpets: “Pay attention O world.”
What is about to happen, will not be a forgotten provincial footnote,
but a new beginning, to outlast all proud empires that turn to dust.

Out on the edge, before anyone speaks,
“the word of the Lord came to John.”
Contrast: whereas emperors, governors, rulers, and high priests —
the folks who wield power — don’t hear God,
it is the outsider, from the wilderness who does.

Revd William Barclay minister and biblical scholar once referenced
the play of George Bernard Shaw, Saint Joan:
Joan hears voices from God.
The Dauphin (the French King) is annoyed.
“Oh, your voices, your voices,” he says.
“Why don’t your voices come to me? I am the king, not you.”
“They do come,” said Joan, “but you do not hear them.
You have not sat in the field in the evening listening for them.
When the angelus rings, you cross yourself and have done with it.
But if you prayed from your heart
and listened to the thrilling of the bells in the air
after they stopped ringing,
you would hear the voices as well as I do.”

Is there something about the holding of power, influence or privilege
that makes us hard of hearing?
Location is key.
In the wilderness, there’s no safety net. No Plan B.
In the wilderness, life is raw and risky,
and our illusions of self-sufficiency fall apart fast.
To be at the outskirts of power is to confess our vulnerability.
Unless we’re in the wilderness, it’s hard to see our own privilege,
and even harder to imagine giving it up.
In the wilderness, we have no choice but to wait and watch
as if our lives depend on God showing up.
Perhaps only from the wilderness can we
begin to dream God’s dream
of a wholly reimagined landscape. (Dan Clendenin)

So, out in the wilderness, in the tradition of the prophets, a voice cries out.
All four Gospels place John front and centre, in Jesus’s origin story.
Defiant, urgent; he may have been part of the apocalyptic Jewish sect of Essenes
who opposed the temple in Jerusalem.
A radical dissenter - his detractors said he had a demon (Luke 7:33).
In the end, he would pay the ultimate price for faithfulness to his prophetic calling.

His message – “to all the region around the Jordan:
a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” Luke 3:3

Repent because in Jesus, “the kingdom of heaven is near.”
This is the identical message that Jesus himself will preach
when he begins his own public ministry:
“From that time on Jesus began to preach,
‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is near’” (Matthew 4:17).
It’s the exact same message that Jesus instructs his followers to proclaim:
“As you go, preach this message: ‘The kingdom of heaven is near.’” (Matthew 10:7).

Contrary to expectations, the ascetic with the austere message,
draws huge crowds: “The whole Judean countryside
and all the people of Jerusalem went out to him.
Confessing their sins, they were baptized by him in the Jordan River.” (Mark 1:5).
Much later, even in faraway Ephesus,
people submitted themselves to the baptism of John (Acts 19:3).

“Repent and believe the good news,
that in Jesus, God’s kingdom has arrived.”
It’s the message that summons us each new Advent season:
To repent – literally, to turn around - an indictment and an invitation.
Repentance - not to feel miserable, wallowing in past mistakes or poor choices;
but repentance, “as an abrupt end to life on auto-pilot, or to business as usual.”
An invitation to listen, hear, think and act differently.

Each year our Advent preparations hark back to John’s call
to make ready for the coming of Christ.
They acknowledge the politics of his time, (“In the fifteenth year …”)
but ask us to consider that “turn around and make ready”,
in the very specific context and circumstances of our own days.
Where or what are the prophet voices of our day
and what do they ask of us?

Forgive me if what I finish with appears trivial –
and yes, in the face of so much horror and helplessness around the world,
it is absurdly trivial.
But for some reason, like a musical ear-worm,
the scene, as related to me this week, has stuck.

It begins with the question:
“Is it always as bad as this?”
“Oh yes” comes the answer, “and worse.
If you take your crazy pill, come and see us on a Saturday.
You won’t believe it.”

Location? A well-known central London department store.
(Other department stores are available.)
The question askers: Out-of-towners dropping in for some Christmas shopping.
Overwhelmed by the scrum of humanity, preparing for the season,
trying to purchase the perfect Christmas.

And, somewhat fascinatingly, a member of staff,
(the one who explained that No, this was not the worst);
the same member of staff who advised another shopper,
panicking in search for another Christmas pudding:
“Go home, you don’t need a third Christmas pudding.
What are you doing here?”

Which kind of translates as: Turn around.
The kingdom of heaven is already near.
Listen to the bells, after they stop ringing – hear the voice.
The voice who hears, if we would only knock;
that recognises our frailties and yearning for mercy;
recognises and opens the door into life.
Answering, “This one I know.”