Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me; and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, “Where I am going, you cannot come.”

On a related subject, this came in the post!

My talk, titled:  ‘Whose Eyes?’

I seem to visit a lot of people – funny that – but most are not regular church goers.  Those who profess to have a faith, are I find more often saying things like, ‘The vicar wouldn’t do this’  or ‘Me mam never went to Church after such and such an event.’  Families will talk happily of days spent singing in choirs or being involved some way or another in church activities, until some event.  The latest made me ashamed to belong to this institution.  The doors of our churches have been shut in the faces of too many people, the hurdles, hoops and obsticles that churchmen (they were all men in those days) put in front of people who were seeking God, a blessing or simply asking questions about meaning in their life were out of reach for many, making God seem distant and uninterested.

It is amazing that some still kept faith in such situations.

It is shameful on those who rejected them.   I just feel empty and sad for those who were denied, angry at those who felt it their place to judge and make choices for others.

I did this a few weeks ago and was quite surprised by the results.  Not that I should have been really… It only really works if you know the people in your congregation!

This is what I came up with, albeit after the event, trying to remember what I had thought at the time.

The hands that come to the rail, Anoint, Bless and Baptize.  Hands that have crafted wood, been creative, have the Care of children.  Hands that can Comfort, Cook, Clean, Caress, Console, Cling and Carry.  Hands that Dig, Drive, Dress, Feed, Grab, Heal, Hold, Mend and Nurture.  Hands that have Picked up, Prepared and Planted, Played and Polished.  Hands that Repair, Support, Serve, Sew, Shield and Shelter.  Hands that Type and Talk, Write, Wash and Wipe.  Hands that are Young, Old, Clean, Dirty, Lined, Smooth, gnarled, Missing fingers, Cracked, Well manicured, Cold, have Bad circulation.

All the hands that come to the rail to receive have spent at least part of their life offering skills, time and talents for the benefit of others.  Here they are come to receive a simple blessing from God when all the while they have been blessing the world in their own way.

This is a poor picture, I only had my phone on me – sorry about that!!  I’ll have to return another day with a proper camera.

The impression I get of these trees is one of sentries standing guard over whatever is at their centre, knarled fingers reaching out to catch the curious who might just wander close by.  Rooted (literally of course) to the spot they cannot move from their position, nor can they turn to see what is in the centre, nor can they see the others around them.

They just stand bent outwards watching the world pass by daring it to try to break through their cordon.  On closer inspection there is nothing at the centre.

Careful management has ensured that no saplings have been allowed to grow up around them, so the crop of trees behind them is not replicated here.

Perhaps whatever they stood to protect has gotten bored and moved off…

I guess I hope I never get quite so ‘rooted’ to any one spot!!

So what does ‘back to Egypt’ mean for us?  How far back, back to the so called ‘Golden Age’ of the Victorians who built far too many churches for their own good, and then sometimes to quite a poor standard?  The endless streetwalking and door knocking seemed to have had very little effect in getting people to go to church.  There was a lot of activity, but in reality the legacy was of redundant buildings and overly organised groups of people.

Ok, then further back, perhaps to the medieval period, no heating, cloths on the windows, confession on saturday to receive communion on sunday??

Neither of these is particularly interesting or inviting.  There is, however, a gleam of hope in this ‘back to Egypt’ malarky, it comes in the form of the style of churches and religious observance which was around in the middle-ages.  Large monasteries were dotted around the country, some wealthy towns could afford to support a Priest, but not many.  Religious observance was far less than it is today, but, when there were festivals on, most people turned out.   They would travel to the large monasteries and cathedrals for whit, lamas, harvest, christmas, easter.  These festivals were the people’s religion.  The small communities of monks and religiously minded people would organise the festivals for the people, they would also in some cases be land owners and would provide employment and food for the people in their neighbourhood.

There are many things about the middle-ages that would not be welcome today, but the principle of a smallish community providing for the surrounding area, in both spiritual and edible food is worth returning to, at least to give it some thought.  It would stop the constant bickering over bums on pews, and focus the attention on practical tasks.  It would also draw a community together rather than dispersing it, I love the idea at the end of the morning service on Iona that there is no amen.  Standing for the closing responses people are encouraged to go straight out into the common tasks for that day, to serve one another in all manner of community minded activity!

(this comes with a nod towards Graeme Smith and his book ‘A Short History of Secularism’)

I was distracted from writing by an excellent few days, but I did pen this – almost as it was happening.

The course material started this train of thought, focusing on who we are…

There is a chapel atop a rocky outcrop near St. Beuno’s, the key to which is normally on the hook in the boot room, or so we were informed.

No key…

But the sign said something about a sticky lock and not to lock it.

I climbed the hill full of expectation about what the chapel might be like, the views, the nature on the way and was pleased to arrive at the chapel’s east end, a stone building, small and well formed. It stood waiting to be explored.

I investigated the door, it was locked – no way in.

I was in a little despair, what now?

I sat on the step looking away from the chapel, contemplating – writing!

The key arrives, my heart leaps, I can go in, but I can’t turn around, I can’t look, it has been built up to now it is too much.

Forcing myself up I turn and go in. I hate it.

It is full of tat, rubbish, too many trappings for God. An ugly tatty crucifix, incense sticks, prayer cards, statues, candles, modern art paintings, loud noisy clutter. I close my eyes to rid myself of the images and sink to my knees in silence.

I bow my head to the floor, it is cold, beautifully cold, the fresh stone makes me wish the whole chapel had been like that, plain cold stone, refreshing.

I kneel for what seems like ages before getting up and very quietly going out, (the nun is in silence)

As I step out of the door, the sound hits me, the light is too bright, the volume has been turned up fully, children, cows, birds, the wind, a horse. I heard it all inside the church of course, but dully as if through earmuffs, but now it is as bright as the sun. I am fully awake, alive to the sounds of God walking though the garden, waiting for me to emerge from the gloom to enliven me with the spirit.