Midnight Train from Paris

Not used to trains leaving on time
And unfamiliar with the need for
Hurried steps in a station
We pelted along the Parisian platform
Launching ourselves through
Ominously closing doors

Our reserved carriage, full to the brim
With unbudging French skiers
Whose indifference and wry smiles
Ejected us Anglaise to a
Downgraded allotment:
A corridor floor crammed with skis

I remember nothing, nor does Neil.
We Brits, we band of two brothers
Making silver purses, perhaps, from pigs ears
Descended into the abyss
Of unsought and the unlikely
Torpor of deep sleep

Mercy arrived in the form of the ticket collector
Shouting ‘Billet, billet’ until we stirred
Then, ushering us off the train,
In a frenzy of ‘Vite, vites!’
Unceremoniously dumped at dawn
On an unknown platform

One stop from disaster
The Chamonix tunnel to Italy

In broken French and faith
Somehow, we wove our way
On buses and steep ravine-sided trains
To Chamonix, our destination
For a friend’s wedding
For a wedding

Idyllic in the snow
Idyllic in the horse-drawn sleigh
Whisking bride and groom at speed
From Church to reception
Idyllic in much wine, song
Food, and feasting

A taste of heaven.
Almost missed.

The Power of Words

Words paint pictures, and pictures have a habit of drawing us in, to find the story, the setting, and the physical space…we end up smelling the incense, feeling the fabric, tasting new wine, hearing voices, and imagining what it must have been like to be there.

Here are three short phrases that have leapt off the page and hauled me inside recently, like some Star Trek tractor beam:

‘Bless the Lord all you servants of the Lord who stand by night in the house of the Lord’ Ps 134 v 1

‘This man, Nicodemus, a ruler of the Jews, came to Jesus by night’ John 3v2

‘And it was night’ John 13 v30

Whilst it’s tempting to unload what these passages have been up to moving around in my imagination, I’m really focussing on the authors: the unnamed author of Ps 134, and John, the apostle and close friend of Jesus.

I see them in the cool spot, in the evening. They’ve found a table, and a chair at the right height, some ink, a roll of parchment, and quills poised, they feel impelled to write, to describe a scene, not elaborately but with as few words as possible.

Maybe there are a few attempts before a sense of completion, having shown a few others. And there it is - ink-dried, a rolled-up scroll, submitted to the scribes to copy and distribute.

Maybe money had to change hands. But when all is done, candles are extinguished, and it is night.

And the world and countless lives have been illuminated by a few words.

In thinking about this blog, I have wondered if anyone is hesitating, pen-in-hand, wondering whether to include direct or indirect experiences of ‘standing by night’ in their latest writing. But also as a ‘note-to-self’ to use a minimal number of words to evoke a sensory link to whatever scene I’m attempting to convey.

https://morethanwriters.blogspot.com/2023/11/the-power-of-words.html

Deus ex Machina

Chris-ti-an-ity:
Christ pouring out His life-love
As us in His world

Mystery of Christ
In us, the hope of glory,
Saturating all

Bridges we become
For the Almighty lover
To bring the Shalom

Take the shot

Light glancing and flashing
From a needle held high
Piercing a delicate membrane,
Beneath which sits lurking,
A dose or two of an antidote
That rejoicing chemical

Atropine by name, whose

Alkaloid molecules lie in wait
Poised to dismantle and
Destroy unbidden invaders
The paralysing poisons
That shrivel and staunch
Bringing life to naught

The true purpose of anxiety

The all-pervasive nerve agent
The great distractor
The gnawing, low-level
Stomach-troubling life-friction
Slowing and braking,
Shuddering its victims to a halt

‘Til we cry out in our
Anger and our shame *

‘Til we submit our recipient flesh
To prayers sharpened and
Uttered like fork lightning
Piercing, tearing open
Liminal membranes into
The fiery love of God

Swords and shields yielded:
Our fruitless aggressions,
Our flimsy fig-leaf
Protection rackets that do not
And casting aside all masks
That fail us, we

Take the shot

Let the fiery love of God
Permeate, baptise us
Deep diving into our troubles
And turmoil, our churning seas
And paralysed wills until
We re-emerge into the light

Our dancing feet unglued

*Simon & Garfunkel – The Boxer

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝: '...𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐲, 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐜𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐜𝐡....'

A comment on the word 'apostolic’.

Greek ‘apostolos’ - someone who is sent

Just as ‘catholic’ refocuses our modus operandi as church to be in the world, like yeast in and throughout the dough, so ‘apostolic’ turns us outward, to the world, rather than inward.

Jesus sent his disciples, later called to be apostles, ‘sent ones’, into the world, village by village to preach the gospel having watched him do the same. (See Luke 8, Luke 9, and Luke 10). Jesus was the prototype apostle, others followed on, first the 12, the 70, and so on.

True apostles do not install a church culture, a bureaucracy, an organisation, a denomination, or a stream, but Christ in individuals, some of whom become elders and oversee the church from that point on – not under the authority of an apostle, rather they are released by the apostle - who has moved on to do some more installing elsewhere, whilst retaining a fatherly relationship with the new church. They are fathers not CEOs.

Apostles instal Christ in individuals…not denominations

(Fathers are not paid by their children. If a church wishes to give money to an apostle or into their ministry, they are free to do so, like the many who gave money to Jesus and supported Him from their private means, but they did not give as a requirement; there was no coercion, it was given freely. Compulsory ‘tithing’, for example, is an indication that the relationship between an apostle and a church, or between elders and a congregation, has become unhealthy).

When the church in Galatia had turned away from Christ the apostle wrote to them: ‘My little children, for whom I labour in birth again until Christ is formed in you’ Gal 4v19

The work of an apostle is therefore more than the work of an evangelist. An evangelist preaches the ‘evangel’, the good news, the gospel, and issues the invitation to follow Christ. An apostle, through their teaching and example, installs Christ in the person and church who wishes to follow or put their faith in Jesus, so that their life is no longer lived by their own resources (as if that’s really possible, which it isn’t!) but by Christ’s spontaneous life lived from within the person.

To the extent that apostles plant or form churches, it is that new disciples are called to grow so that they collectively know that Christ has been formed in them as a church, and that they are operating from His life not their own abilities, philosophies, political convictions, or well-intentioned good ideas, or under the direction of an apostle, but His Spirit.

As Paul put it: ‘For as many are led by the Spirit of God, these are the sons of God’.

‘children…young men…fathers…’ 1 John 1v12-14

There are many passages that deal with this expected spiritual growth towards maturity, for example: ‘I could not speak to you as spiritual but as fleshly, as babes in Christ. I fed you with milk and not solid food…you are still fleshly’ 1 Cor 3v1-3 or ‘by this time you ought to be teachers…but…you need milk not solid food…babes…solid food belongs to those that are mature’ Heb 5v12-14 or ‘children…young men…fathers…’ 1 John 1v12-14

Once such a church has been formed it is true that it is ‘one, holy, catholic, and apostolic church’

I suspect Paul would write to many groups that we call ‘churches’ today with the same concerns and conclude that he would have to ‘labour again until Christ is formed in you’.

If the church is a group of believers who are living out life from the spontaneous life of Christ within, then, by definition, the church is truly apostolic as it is loved, cared for, and led by the Apostle, Jesus Christ, into the world.

Book Review: Gilead

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐲𝐧𝐧𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐈𝐒𝐁𝐍 𝟏-𝟖𝟒𝟒𝟎𝟖-𝟏𝟒𝟖-𝟔

𝔀𝔀𝔀.𝓿𝓲𝓻𝓪𝓰𝓸.𝓬𝓸.𝓾𝓴

If you’re looking for a fast-paced thriller don’t read Gilead. If you’re looking for a gripping romance, look elsewhere. If it’s an injection of international intrigue you’re after, forget it; it’s intensely local.

And if you’re expecting chapters and traditional literary divisions you won’t find them here.

What you will find is an old-fashioned kettle left on the flames from page 1 until the whole book boils over and sings 280 pages later, its whistle running through you as it reaches an unanticipated climax in the final scenes.

The critic of the Sunday Times said simply: ‘A masterpiece’. That’s what it is.

Set in the small fictional town of Gilead, in 1956, it is written as a long letter written by John Ames, an elderly Congregational pastor, as an autobiographical memoir to his seven-year-old unnamed son, to be read after his death.

He’s not a man in a hurry and will make you long for a simpler lifestyle if life has become too cluttered

There are five main characters: elderly Reverand John Ames; his much younger wife, Lila, Reverand Robert Boughton, a retired Presbyterian minister and John’s lifelong friend, and Jack Boughton, his son.

It’s written carefully, and you realise early on that Reverand John Ames is a crucible for theology, philosophy, meditation, and prayer. He’s not a man in a hurry and will make you long for a simpler lifestyle if life has become too cluttered. His relationship, and unlikely romance, with Lila, is sweetly told, but the triangle of the men, John, his old friend Robert, and Robert’s wayward and unpredictable son, Jack, is full of mature love, kindness, failures, sadness, and tension.

Marilynne Robinson somehow has woven into this book, set in a small town with very few characters, and the two statesmanlike characters closing in on death, a telling commentary on aspects of American society in 1956 Iowa. This comes near the end of the novel and I, for one, found it completely arresting and moving. It took me by surprise and left a few tears running down my cheeks.

‘A masterpiece’. Yes. 280 pages. Paperback. Recommended.

Pain woke up one morning

Pain woke up and pulled on socks
The stout shoes of a marcher
Pain splashed cold water on an unshaven face
And drank a cup of tea
Without noticing

Pain met with the hurting
To flock like starlings
Unaware of the terrible beauty
Of their black murmurings
And flow like blood

From Portland Square to Westminster
Pain-painted placards held aloft
A river of anguish, chanting
Like bewildered children
‘Free Palestine
From the River to the Sea’

We humans,
We import and export traders,
Now in toxic waste, to and fro
Violent convulsions
Of sorrow-full souls
Invisible retchings of pain

Hamas, Hezbollah, Fatah
A trinity less united
Except in receiving foreign funds
Billions of dollars, rials, and euros
Their investors’ blushing faces
Turning away too late

Disgusted by a Supernova massacre
By Kfar Azar’s defilement
But the blood sticks to your hands
Tehran, Brussels, Washington
No amount of cold water
Can remove the stain 

The Kfar Azar pain
The Supernova misery
That woke up that morning,
Discordant, a few miles
East of Gaza, in the Negev -
All of that pain

And the pain of the pogroms
And of Hitler’s henchmen
Has woken up this morning
And painted Stars of David
On F16 fuselages -
Sickened Israel vomiting

Her laser-guided agony
Of despair in bombs and missiles
Her promises to end Hamas
Unbearable, carrying her
Towards poor Gaza

Ruled not by peacemakers
But those fuelled and fed
Funded and fattened by whom?
Which fund paid for your banner?

Who set brother against brother?
Ishmael – which means God listens
Against Isaac – which means laughter

Let the Miserere be sung
Let the tears fall

Let hot tears sear and
Wash away the pain

And let the children sob
Themselves to exhausted peace 

Lord, have mercy, let
Isaac’s laughter be heard

Once again.

Bing Videos

Is there a purpose in forgetting?

12.55

My fork is raised, and
My eyes are feasting on a
Steaming chicken pie

The fork fails to touch
Even the exterior skin of
The golden pastry

A silent alarm
Sounds in my head, I see
Seventy pupils

Pushing and shoving
Peering through a window a
Hundred yards away

Waiting for me

Waiting for me to rattle some keys

A miracle. God,
Secular humanism
Notwithstanding, has

Fished out a large crowd
Away from football, ‘seconds’
Not enough girl chat

To the Thursday Club
A Christian Union
Stripped of tradition

12.56

Like the woman and
Her coins I tear around
Searching for the keys

12.59

The key turns the lock
And the door opens wide, no
One is the wiser

Privately I am
Beside myself with horror
And excessive joy

1.00

God did not forget -
His selectively robust
Memory, forgot

My frail frame and
Sluiced all my iniquities
Forever downstream

Our lapses - signs of
God maybe? Marinading
Us in the divine

Israel, Hamas, and the BBC

I feel the need to say something. Not to speak runs the risk of allowing evil to take root.

I share these reflections from the depths of shock and grief over Hamas’s murderous campaign on Saturday 7th October 2023 which has left 1000+ Israeli citizens dead and many others injured and traumatised.

And also anticipating the inevitable Israeli response taking its toll not just on Hamas and its supporters but on Gaza Strip civilians who do not support Hamas and are subject to their rule.

One weeps with those who weep.

There is something quite indefensible, despicable, and distinctly cowardly in using military firepower against defenceless men, women, children, babies, and animals. The massacres at the Supernova Music festival in which 250+ young partygoers were slaughtered, and at Kfar Azar, leaving 100+ grandparents, parents, children, babies, dead, some burned in their homes, and some children and babies beheaded, were barbaric and sickening.

War is evil enough, but even in the depths of war, there are limits. Hamas and its supporters have ignored those limits and revelled in the ‘triumph’ of the attacks, celebrating publicly – even on the streets of London - the massacres, jubilant at the flow of Jewish blood, and the capture and abduction of Israeli citizens. This is unspeakably evil and shameful.

Hamas’s actions, like Al-Qaida’s 9-11 attack, are despicable and cannot be justified, whatever the grievances held, legitimate or not. To convert grievance into hatred and hatred into targeting rockets and bullets against defenceless civilians is beneath contempt.

One weeps with those who weep

If I held any hope that Hamas could rule the Gaza Strip for the sake of its citizens and interact with Israel to forge some kind of peaceful co-existence, this has been shattered and irrevocably torn to shreds. The world now waits to see whether the Israeli military response will succeed in uprooting Hamas, which appears to be the aim.

But, in terms of respect, I feel I must address an institution far closer to home. The BBC. Our BBC.

I am ashamed now to pay the Licence fee.

Hamas is a proscribed terrorist organisation which has carried out a shocking massacre of Israeli life on Israeli soil and the BBC continues to use the word ‘militant’ to describe Hamas instead of ‘terrorist’. The distinction is important. This is not a time to downplay, contextualise, politicise, or dilute the horror of the events of last Saturday. This was a pre-determined, pre-planned, pre-rehearsed attack as part of the overall strategy of the terrorist organisation called Hamas to execute vile terrorism on Israeli soil against unarmed civilians, Jews.

What to pray? What to hope for? I sit in silence before God

I call upon BBC journalists to refuse to cooperate with their editorial chiefs and use the word terrorist where it is the only appropriate and accurate word to describe premeditated military attacks on defenceless citizens.

And that, surely, includes the attack and twin massacres carried out by Hamas on Saturday 7th October in Israel.

What to pray? What to hope for? I sit in silence before God. He hears our inability to find words. The mute longing for grief and suffering not to be prolonged. For human hearts in Gaza, in Israel, to find courage, to grow beyond any ideologies of hatred, to limit the justification of retribution as a way of defining life and the future. And, in time, to displace war in favour of mercy and a deep desire to live in peace with one's neighbours.

Ain’t gonna to study war no more

‘…they shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore’ Isaiah 2v4

Are you outside my city limits
Or corralled in my deepest parts?
Are you in heaven
Or walking down country lanes
To all our Bethlehems
Unseen?

Why do I find that
Other-worldly chuckle
A spring of water
Speaking to me:
It’s in the asking that
You stumble over the answers

You do some intriguing tricks
Unexpected engineering
Like workmen setting up
Orange fences before dawn
Cups of tea in hand
The steam appearing to
Work harder than they

Rising up but the work
Is out of sight, below,
Unseen

Your last incursion
Took me by surprise
Incoming wounding words;
Missiles lobbed and landing
Like sharp swords but changed,
Somehow, into ploughshares
And set to work

Plough me Lord
Plough my heart
I open the gate
Bring in your metal
And turn me over and over
Run your oxen over me
Turn my stones to soil

I ain’t gonna study war
No more
The fight’s gone in me
I have a new weapon
Durable and immovable
The peace of the Lord.
Ploughing may not be over

But I see seeds held
In your hand
I’m going to wear my
Long white robe
And not budge
From the riverside, I ain’t
Gonna study war no more

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝: '...𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐲, 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐜𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐜𝐡....'

A comment on the word 'catholic'. It's easy to think this refers in some way to the Roman Catholic church with a capital C. It doesn't.

But its meaning is also more than simply 'Universal' i.e. all believers in Christ, whether Catholic, Protestant, or Orthodox, The problem, even with this, is that Universal can suggest an 'us' and 'them' as if the church is to be distinct, separate, or cut off from the world.

It's more subtle, or richer than that. It really means (kata) 'throughout' the (holos) 'whole' like yeast in the ingredients, we are to be like Jesus in the world, not separate or superior or threatened but incarnate, doing our yeast thing.

Protection Racket

The fruit and veg shop
With shabby paint
Is well stocked in celery,
Sweetcorn and Cox’s apples
And sells freshly baked bread,
Oddly, on a Wednesday

Customers stream in
From dawn to dusk
Cashflow runs riot
The Books topple over
Unbalanced in the black
Yet the paint still peels

Lunar months come and go
Taxes are paid, but until
The Other Tax is settled,
There is no peace;
And then there’s no money
Even for a lick of paint

Mafia Voluntá and Ragione,
Crowbars in hand, beat and
Beat spirits into empty silence
And Sentimento, no better,
Crushes all in his path
With pitiful weeping, our

An apostolic cry shatters the air

Infernal self-protection racket.
Unsafe in our own hands, we
Like dried plums and apricots,
Take on weary old age:
Hearts shrivelling as sure as
A veg shop with shabby paint

An apostolic cry shatters the air:
‘Wretched man that I am!
Who will deliver me
From this body of death?’
Guttural, the cry of the Israelites,
Weighed down with bricks.

God, it seems, is only waiting
For our appearance on stage
To scream, to let our spirit roar,
Then whisper in disbelief
‘Thanks be to God –
Through Jesus Christ our Lord’

And, suddenly, there He is
Fresh pot of paint in hand
Pockets bulging with
Milk and honey
Smelling of fresh bread:
Every day is Wednesday.

Voluntá - our will, Ragione - our reason, Sentimento - our emotions

Book Review: Forty Farms, Amy Bateman

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐅𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬: beautiful photographs from forty Lake District farms, inspiring writing – all the farms are transitioning from high dependence on agrochemicals and antibiotics and towards working with the environment, there are maps – I do like a map.

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐅𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬: do not misread Forty Farms as Farty Farms. Don’t do it.

336 pages of sheer delight, it’s informative, honest, inter-generational, beautifully put together hard back a blend of gorgeous photographs taken by the author, Amy Bateman, and text, maps, inserts and a helpful glossary for those like me who drive past farms and know next to nothing about farming.

I’m also a chemist and love the ingenuity of science and how fertilisers, pesticides, vaccines, and antibiotics have transformed yield, health, and productivity. But…and there are increasingly some very big buts – if the soil and the general environment are abused disaster looms.

So, farmers, like many in society at large, are involved in a re-think and the stories from these forty farms have given me fresh hope that we’re not slithering down an agrochemical slurry into an inevitable arms race with the environment, pests, diseases whilst the world starves, and that a return to a sustainable agricultural model is not only possible but underway.

ISBN: 978-1-915513-01-4

𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐞: £𝟐𝟗.𝟗𝟎...𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐗𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭?

So scared

Fear makes her entrance
Uninvited
A surprise package. But
What happens next?

She came in disguise
A teacher, a friend
The one meaning no harm
The other – what drove him?

At four, a statue in the corner
When other boys and girls
Danced to the music that
Acted like glue to my feet – why?

And the other John
Who stood on my stomach
And confused me
And taught my heart to fear

Maybe, like a clever dog,
He could smell my fear
Of the music
And it bared his teeth?

Or, later, when tied to a tree
Or held captive
In a tree house
Or abused in an alleyway?

Behind it all
Was God. Loving God.
Not the author
But the cage-fighter-God

The One whose love
Casts out all fear
Like a wrestler launching
All his opponents -

Over the ropes they go
Yes, He has come
To supplant
Like a bouncer

To eject it all
All that damned fear
And turn another victim
Into a lover of enemies

Into a fisher
Of the sons of Adam
To call to my friend,
The other John,

Have you found
The One who is stronger
Than you?
Than your guilt?

So scared of love, still?
That bares all in its path?
Love divine: The music that
Unglued my feet.

What is a Christian?

To answer this question I’m going to borrow the illustration of ‘Coffee Pot Christians’ I first came across reading When the Spirit Comes by Colin Urquhart.

It both amused me and helped me figure out what it means to be a Christian. So I’m passing it on.

Coffee has moved on with its recent resurgence. Apart from all the Italian names – mocha, cappuccino, latte, expresso - and so on, the containers on offer today are many and varied – moka pots, French press, percolator, and filters.

The coffee pot used in the illustration, however, is a simple ceramic container that can hold maybe 4 cups and has a removable lid and a handle.

If the coffee pot represents a person, the contents are everything that makes up the individuality of that person, their resources. When shaken or tipped up, what is held inside comes out. But to make coffee first the lid has to be removed and water poured in. The lid represents everything that is a barrier between a person and God: anger, bitterness, unforgiveness, jealousy, self-reliance, pride and so on. Sin is a much misunderstood and maligned word these days but the contents of our ‘lids’ do amount to what the bible calls ‘sin’ which ruins us and spoils our relationship with God.

Whilst the lid is in position God is external to you. You are living, to all intents and purposes, a life independent of God.

But Jesus showed us that God loves us ‘God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son…’ and wants to come in, to be poured in, but first the lid must be removed.

When Jesus hung on the cross the New Testament says He was the ‘Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world’. Even in the Old Testament, this sacrifice was described in the following verses:

‘Surely He has borne our griefs and carried out sorrows…he was wounded for our transgressions, bruised for our iniquities…the Lord has laid on Him the iniquity of us all’. All our jealousies, pride, self-reliance, bitterness and so on, Jesus took on the cross to take away the barrier between us and God, to restore our relationship with God.

When Colin Urquhart used this illustration for those who wanted to remove their lids and let God in, he encouraged them to write a letter to Jesus confessing the things in them that made up their lid, then to thank God that Jesus has taken it away on the cross, and finally to ask God to pour Himself into them with the gift of the Holy Spirit.

‘you can no more become a Christian by going to church than become a burger by going to McDonalds’

When the apostle Paul wrote about the Holy Spirit he said this: ‘the love of God has been poured out in our hearts by the Holy Spirit who was given to us’. If it is unforgiveness we have confessed, He comes with forgiveness; if it is bitterness, the love of God brings peace, if pride or fear, the Spirit brings faith in God.

This simple illustration worked for me: Church attendance, saying prayers, singing hymns, good works, being kind to our neighbours, baptism, taking communion, even believing in God…all these Christians may do, but these things do not make us Christians.

It’s easy to put the cart before the horse.

Someone once said ‘you can no more become a Christian by going to church than become a burger by going to McDonalds’.

Lastly, when the apostle Peter preached to the crowd on the Day of Pentecost (Acts chapters 1 and 2), they asked him what they should do. This is his answer:

‘Repent and let every one of you be baptised in the Name of Jesus for the forgiveness of sins, and you shall receive the gift of the Holy Spirit’.

• The word ‘repent’, to use the coffee pot illustration, is to confess to God all that makes up the lid in our life and to recognise that Jesus took it all on the cross.

• Baptism in water follows on…it’s like having all those barriers washed away, like being cleansed of all that makes us feel unworthy of forgiveness.

• And, finally, the promise that God will come pouring in – the gift of the Holy Spirit. It’s a gift, not something we earn by our religiosity or attempts to please God or efforts to live a moral or a good life.

I hope that helps. And makes sense.

If it makes sense to you and you want to become a Christian, why not do what Colin Urquhart told his listeners to do – write a letter to Jesus. Tell him about your lid that needs to be removed. See that when Jesus died on the cross, He took your lid. And ask for the gift of the Holy Spirit to be poured into your heart.

If you have a bible nearby maybe read the following verses: John 3v16, and John 14 v 16-20.

Fingernails

It’s unorthodox, this constant life
Its interior ocean
Washing up tides, with
Winds from nowhere
Surfing waves that carry
A heart, a will, far beyond:
The trick, it seems, is to wait

The me-in-me wanted to
Travel into Arabia with the apostle
Fresh from Damascus
Or with David into Adullam
Or the Messiah away from it all
With the wild beasts of
Heaven and earth

But mostly the apostle
What happened there, Paul?
In Arabia?

And all the time
Like some drugged sluggard
Like Frodo with a ring too heavy
I am helpless
And cannot be enthused,
Rocking in the sedative
Of some interior ocean wave

And in its place a manky image
Of ordinariness gone wild
Seemingly unworthy of
Contemplation, but
This thought will not rot
‘If you want to know about
All things’, it says
‘Look under your fingernails

Look in places no one else will
Rummage away in bins, or, like
A five-year-old nestling
On a carpet
Feet twitching on the sofa
Rolling plasticine balls
Or folding and refolding
Silver foil, lost in wonder;
Then you’ll know all things.’

That day, under my fingernails
Lay foreign DNA, the
Fragment of another’s hair,
The innards of a wasp
Clapped to infinity
Some earwax, tile cement,
And salt from Beer Beach:
A sharper, more vivid log
Than my phone history.
Thank God.

And so I let Arabia subside
To learn what I needed to learn
To find what I’m looking for
Treasure lying in strange places
A Messiah in a manger,
A food trough, surrounded by
Angels and steaming dung,
Frankincense and stinking hay
There, ridiculously there,
On a remote Judean hillside

He’s a hunter, that Messiah,
A treasure hunter,
A finder, a fingernail finder,

A proof of incarnation
A prostitute here, a leper there
A Pharisee-by-night…Nicodemus…
…there’s a bit of him
In us all.

But only some go searching
Will we find Him hiding in you?
Under your fingernails
His DNA?
Inadvertently transferred
When your heart
Last reached out to Him

Not kneeling, or in a
Sanctuary made by man,
But in your tidal unorthodoxy
Something undeniable
A zephyr, a breath,
A breeze that made you
Look up.

The mystery of the gospel?

The point of this post is to contradict the title.

Introduction

The perception problem is with the word ‘mystery’, as if the gospel is shrouded in a dense fog, and as if it is rather wonderful to be caught up in this fog, unsure of any boundaries, uncertain of what anything means.

And I must confess, I do like a fog. They are rare in Bristol, where I live, whereas in my youth, in Whitstable, Kent, the whole town would periodically disappear into a ‘pea-souper’ as thick mists rolled in off the North Sea and enveloped us all.

But the image of the word ‘mystery’ as used in the New Testament by St Paul is more akin to the context of a murder mystery. Until the final denouement, we are left with a diet of clues, hints, false trails, and suspicions. But then, in the final scene, all is revealed, as the murderer or murderers and their desperate motives are exposed and come to light.

the point of this post is to contradict the title

Perhaps an even clearer picture of the concept of mystery in the New Testament is the unveiling of a new building, sculpture, or the launching of a new ship. A dignitary is invited, and the ceremonial moment arrives; a cord is pulled, and curtains are drawn back to reveal a plaque commemorating the event.

The mystery (the plaque) that was hidden is now revealed.

The New Testament

The Greek word for the New Testament's twenty-two occurrences of ‘mystery’ is mysterion.

Once in the gospels (Mark 4v11); seventeen times by St Paul in his letters, and four times by St John in the Book of Revelation.

‘To you it has been given to know the mystery of the kingdom of heaven’ Mark 4v11. The important word here in Jesus’ statement to the disciples is to ‘know’ i.e. not to be left floundering around in the dark or in some vague spiritual or philosophical fog.

In the Book of Revelation the clue is in the name ‘Revelation’ e.g. the curtains have been drawn back so that we can see clearly ‘The mystery of the seven stars…are the seven messengers of the seven churches’ Rev 1v20. Had these visions not been given to John, the mystery of heaven would have remained hidden, but they were revealed.

In Paul’s epistles, he uses the image of curtains being ceremoniously drawn back as the foundation of his understanding of the gospel:

‘…the mystery which had been hidden from ages and from generations has now been revealed to the His saints…amongst the gentiles…Christ in you, the hope of glory’ Col 1v26

‘He made known to me the mystery …which in other ages was not made known to the sons of men as it has now been revealed by the Spirit to the His holy apostles and prophets that the gentiles should be fellow heirs of the same body and partakers of His promise in Christ through the gospel’ Eph 3 v 3-6

‘…to make known the fellowship of the mystery which from the beginning of ages has been hidden in God who created all things through Jesus Christ’ v9

‘…according to the revelation of the mystery kept secret since the world began but now made manifest…made known to all nations’ Rom 16v26

Imagine the shock to St Paul

The New Testament does not tell us the details of where, when, or how God revealed the mystery of the gospel of the kingdom to Paul…but I’d like to indulge in some speculation, some educated guessing perhaps, and put together some clues.

Paul’s timeline can be constructed with some accuracy as follows:

AD 5 born in Tarsus in present day Turkey

AD 20 graduates from theological studies under Gamaliel in Jerusalem as a Pharisee

AD 33 Official persecutor of the church

AD 34 Conversion on the Road to Damascus, taken to Damascus

AD 34-37 Three years in Arabia

AD 37 Returns to Damascus briefly but has to escape to Jerusalem and then on to Tarsus

AD 46 Fourteen years after his conversion Barnabus finds Paul in Tarsus and he begins his ‘apostleship’ and missionary journeys

AD 66 dies in Rome

Paul relates his account of the encounter with the risen Jesus Christ on the road to Damascus as follows:

‘At midday…I saw a great light from heaven…brighter than the sun…I heard a voice ‘Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting Me…I am Jesus who you are persecuting but rise and stand on your feet for I have appeared to you to make you a minister and a witness to the things you have seen and things I will yet reveal to you…to the Gentiles to whom I now send you’ Acts 26v14-17

We might summarise it like this: on the road to Damascus God revealed Jesus as the Christ (the Messiah) to Paul, but at a later stage He revealed Christ in Paul, the hope of glory.

My hunch is that the ‘things I will yet reveal to you’ occurred in the three years of obscurity in Arabia.

Although Paul speaks elsewhere of the unsearchable riches in Christ, in the above verses two aspects of the revelation of the gospel to Paul appear to be emphasised:

1. Christ in you the hope of glory

2. Gentiles are fellow heirs

Both of these revelations – quite apart from the absolute shock in finding out that he had been persecuting Jesus the Messiah, the King of Israel, the son of David and that the stories of the resurrection were true not false – would have been shocking to Pharisee Paul.

Christ in you

Saul, the Pharisee, later called Paul, viewed his fellow Jews who had apparently been duped into believing ridiculous notions that Jesus was the Messiah and had risen from the dead, as a dangerous fifth column, a church, a called-out people, who should be exterminated, to rid Judaism of its latest virus. ‘Christians’ were viruses and should be either brought back into the Jewish fold, eliminated from society, or stoned to death.

He felt his murderous campaign to be righteous and pleasing to God.

But once he had discovered that Jesus was not only alive, but was the Messiah, he spent little time procrastinating before proclaiming his discovery to all and sundry:

‘Saul spent some days with the disciples at Damascus. Immediately he preached Jesus as the Messiah in the synagogues, that He is the Son of God’ Acts 9v19,20

we see in the New Testament a process of progressive revelation

At this stage, there is no hint that he had realised that Jesus the Messiah was in Him the hope of glory as he would later preach. At this stage God’s revelation to Paul was limited to revealing His Son to Paul but not in him.

He later wrote of this progressive revelation in the letter to the Galatians:

‘But when it pleased God…to reveal His Son in me that I might preach Him among the Gentiles…’ Gal 1 v 15,16

This must have been a complete shock to Paul who, like all fellow Jews, had longed for the promised Messiah to Israel for generations. But no one had spoken of the Messiah being ‘in’ individuals.

We, I, could be sidetracked at this point from the purpose of this post, to understand that God has revealed the mystery of the gospel of the kingdom, it is no longer hidden, and explore this new identity of believers as ‘Christ-in-you’ individuals.

To the Gentiles, Christ in you the hope of glory

It is important to note, I think, at this point that all of Jesus’ disciples, Peter, John, and the others, had to grapple with the triplet concept that Jesus was the Messiah-raised-from-the-dead, and of the Messiah-in-them, and that the Messiah was equally available to the Gentiles.

Jesus had taught ‘I am the vine and you are the branches’ John 15 v 5. If you have seen a vine, you’ll know the vine is the branches and the branches are the vine. There is an intimate unity between the branches and the whole vine. The concept of the ‘Messiah, Christ, in you’ and ‘us in Him’ is made no clearer than with Jesus’ illustration of the vine.

When Jesus interrupted Saul on the way to Damascus he said: ‘Why are you persecuting Me?’ From Christ’s point of view, there is no distinction between Him and all in Him. If Saul stones Stephen, he is stoning Christ, the Messiah, if he arrests believers and puts them in prison, he is persecuting Christ.

On top of this Jesus-as-the-Messiah, Messiah-in-you identity, God then reveals to Paul that the gospel (good news) is for the Gentiles as well as for the Jews, for Israel.

It is difficult for us Gentiles with 2000+ years of Christendom, largely held in Gentile hands, to appreciate just how unpalatable this must have been for Paul – as it had been for Peter and the other apostles.

Jesus had tried to explain this before his ascension: ‘you shall receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you and you shall be witnesses to Me in Jerusalem, Judea, and to the ends of the earth’ Acts 1 v 8 but it seems that the early apostles interpreted that to mean they would be sent to the Jewish diaspora dispersed around the known world.

In the intriguing run of events as recorded in Acts 10 with Peter’s vision on the roof being commanded to eat forbidden foods and then being taken to a small gathering of Gentiles to preach the gospel, we read of a real-time, albeit slow motion, revelation to Peter ‘I perceive that God shows no partiality. In every nation whoever fears Him…’and ‘while Peter was still speaking…the Holy Spirit fell upon all those who heard the word…’ and so the gospel had suddenly escaped from its Jewish confines and made its way around the whole world in accordance to Jesus’ words ‘to the ends of the earth’.

Conclusion

If we see in the New Testament a process of progressive revelation for the apostles we should not be surprised if the same process in us, twenty-one centuries later, may not be completed in the moments of our conversion. It wasn’t for Paul or for Peter.

Here’s the three-step revelation to Paul (and Paul)

1. Jesus as the Messiah, Christ, raised to life after three days – Christ revealed to you. His true identity.

2. Christ in you the hope of glory – Christ revealed as our life, in us, in union with us, as us, vine and branches, ‘why are you persecuting Me?’ Our true identity: Christ in me.

3. Christ to Gentiles and Jews who believe – the revelation of our fellowship in the gospel

In the New Testament, the ‘mystery’ of the gospel is a mystery that was hidden for ages past but has now been revealed; the fog has cleared, and the curtain pulled back. One of the aspects of the work of the Holy Spirit dwelling in us is to open our eyes, to remove the veil, so we can see what has been revealed ‘nevertheless when one turns to the Lord, the veil is taken away. Now the Lord is the Spirit and where the Spirit of the Lord is there is freedom’ 2 Cor 3 v16,17

Lastly, God took Paul to Arabia and interrupted Peter praying on a rooftop. In a similar way, I am sure, He will choose His moments with us.

‘When it pleased God…to reveal His son in me’ Gal 1 v 15,16

Halfway to Cambridge

For the first weekend of September, I attended the British Christian Writer’s Conference at Ridley Hall in Cambridge, since when I’ve been hard at work editing a historical fiction I’m writing that just may see the light of day later in the year or, more realistically, in 2024.

As a member of the Association of Christian Writers (ACW) I also contribute to the ‘morethanwriters’ blog each month.

If you’d like to read that blog titled ‘Halfway to Cambridge’ please follow the link below, where you’ll find that ‘Halfway to Cambridge’ is a phrase that came to me spontaneously in a dusty layby whilst texting a friend who’d passed an important exam.

Since then ‘Halfway to Cambridge’ seems to have taken on a life of its own and, really, is a description of a state of mind.

To discover whether you are ‘Halfway to Cambridge’ please, be my guest, and follow the link!

Halfway to Cambridge (morethanwriters.blogspot.com)

Unmade Road

And beyond the front gate
My feet find an uneven path
Dislodging stones
And, if it has rained,
Puddles, or the
Road divots, potholes
Fill with snow and ice
On winter mornings

There’s a certain sound
Of slow traffic, of
Wheels turning and
Loaded suspensions
Less adept than feet
Tamed nonetheless,
Brought to heel,
By the lack of tarmac,
Stop signs, white lines,
Pavements, and
The rules of the road

The illusion of order

Here, on the unmade road
There’s time for
The crackle of gravel,
The distant, steady
Growl of a tractor,
Wood pigeons
And piano notes
Or the sounds of
Paddling-pool children
And the aroma
Of a Sunday roast

Only the foolish set out
To tarmac the future
Only foolish cerebellums
Contemplate whether
Controlling life’s traffic lights
Is in his gift, or hers;
We all were born on
Unmade roads.
It is the wazzocks,
Life’s plonkers
Who think otherwise

All I/we can hear,
And taste, and feel
All sights and sounds
All the ungainliness,
Even the roughness
And the unpreparedness
Demanding detours around
Around unfilled potholes
And jutting out rocks…

…all are gifts…

Beyond the front gate.

The Bicycle Poems (iii) The Pursuit of Wisdom

I can’t think of anything else
That is worked on upside down
Farriers and upright horses are plenty
As are car mechanics, vehicles hoisted maybe
But always uninverted
Even doctors examine the human body
Held in an upright position or prone
But rarely, you know, upside-down

But a bicycle, unless on one of those
Elevated frames in a workshop,
Is commonly A over T
Sat serenely, we wonder,
On its saddle and handlebars
Awaiting a service, a clean,
An inspection, from an eight-year-old boy
With his can of 3-in-1, a rag or two,
An old toothbrush, shaking
The pink rust-removing fluid

At least that was back in the day
Before the aluminium-alloy takeover.
Once, it was shiny steel
Beneath the weathered and grimy
Wheels, spokes, and hubs,
And any exposed part
Out there in all weathers
Neglected.

Until your father looked at you,
And there was no escape.
It’s strange how heavy wisdom
Lies on top of a child, or later,
As if the sheer thought of Now
Ramps up an interior inertia,
The inability to shift one’s
Limbs towards the Promised Land

Periodically, we are
Faced with the truth; the rust-truth,
The accumulation of days:
Of the legitimate, unavoidable,
Courage-catapulted lives
Into and among the living,
Leaving its wear and tear
Increasing the effort, the grind
Nevertheless, we plough on
With our “I’ll do that tomorrow,
So I will”
Backward glances.

But the eight-year-old,
Kneeling in the morning,
Toothbrush dipped, starts
Between the spokes
Chasing down the ruddy barnacles
Yielding with surprising ease
To the see-sawing of the toothbrush
Its hairs bent over like windblown trees
With the relentless oscillations.
An hour later, though, and it’s done

Lemonade is brought to him, with ice,
By a watching mother he didn’t see
And, like a real man, he wipes his brow
And smells his worked fingers
A layer of skin missing
Muscles aching, proud and tired.
Then to resume, drink downed
And a fresh cloth to buff
The bike ‘til it shines like the Sun.

First – remove the rust
Then pour on the oil.

On the chain spinning now
Like a mad dog running after its tail,
Free, no complaining squeals,
None remain, a silent whirr, that’s all.
And more oil is sunk
Into the hidden hub-caverns
To do some interior good
Out of sight.

First – remove the rust
Then pour on the oil.

Rider and machine reunited,
The upside-down world
Has run its servicing course.
The rider, full of promises,
Flies round the block,
Careers along well-known
Ten-foot-ways and down to the beach,
To watch the pounding waves
And let the sea-spray land
On face and frame,
Stopping off at a shop for who knows what
Bike flung to the ground, the pavement,
It’s all joy
Before heading home,
Leaning the shining one
Against the garage wall

Intending to put it inside.

After tea.