Still Quarrying: The New Normal.

 There have been a number of celebrities who have been willing to speak publicly about their personal experience of cancer, how they coped with the diagnosis and how they are coping with continuing treatment.  It can be helpful, indeed inspiring, to hear people who have the attention of the media speaking about their experience.  None more so than the Princess of Wales.  

Unfortunately, anything to do with the ‘royals’ is apt to get people’s backs up, even to the extent of hostility.  But this is an example of a 43-year-old married women with three children willing to step out of her perceived privileges and to speak honestly about her personal experience, not to mention that of her family.

Not long ago, the Princess sent out a press release thanking those of the public who had sent messages of encouragement to her which had also been appreciated by her family.  She also made other comments about her cancer experience which connect with many other suffers.  She described the ‘ups and downs’ of chemotherapy and the importance of making the most of the ‘good days. (One of my good days is enabling me to write this blog!).  She also spoke of ‘learning to be patient, ‘especially with uncertainly’ and allowing herself ‘to take time to heal.’

All of this rang a bell with so many of us who have experienced the ‘unwelcome diagnosis’ and continue to live through the cancer experience.  

Recently, the Princess visited a cancer well-being centre in Colchester when she spoke about the ‘new normal’ she and her family are having to live with.  She may be in remission but that doesn’t mean all is well:

‘There is a whole phase when you finish your treatment, everybody expects you to be better – go!  But that’s not the case at all.  You put on a sort of brave face, stoicism through treatment.  Treatment’s done, then it like, “I can crack on, get back to normal” but actually the phase afterwards is really difficult . . . you have to find your new normal and that takes time . . . and it’s a rollercoaster . . .’

It is difficult and it does take time, especially when remission comes to an end and you have to adapt not only to changes in your condition but more intense treatment.  That’s when it is a blessing to be in good medical hands in a place like the Beatson. Cancer Centre.   And to know the prayerful support of family and friends.  

I find the ‘new normal’ difficult.  From living what I considered a full life in parish ministry it’s is now about clinical appointments and debilitating treatment.  The exercise, study, and active social life are now to an extent the ‘old normal’.  But I am kept going by Gabrielle, the kindness of friends, our new Church fellowship in Renfrew Trinity, and the opportunity to lead worship in various churches – my preaching ‘gigs’ as I call them!  All of this gives me a spiritual boost and helps me to be content with what is and not fretting for what was.  Paul once wrote:

“ . . . one thing I do: forgetting what is behind and straining to what is ahead, I press on towards the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenwards in Christ Jesus.’  (Philippians 3:13-24.)

Still Quarrying: Light Never Overcome.

 It was 24 December 1988 and my first Watchnight Service as minister of St Paul’s.  It was something I had looked forward to.  A guaranteed pack out in the church and the opportunity to preach the greatest event in human history: the birth of the Son of God as one of us and the hope of all humankind.  This year, though, a shadow had fallen on the whole Christmas season.  On 21 December Pan Am Flight 103 had exploded over Lockerbie as the result of a terrorist bomb.  All 243 passengers were immediately killed along with 16 crew, and it would be revealed later that lives had been lost in
Lockerbie itself.  The events were powerfully dramatized in a recent BBC mini-series.  

As I prepared for the Watchnight Service, I was conscious that this would be in the minds of all those who would gather for worship.  I was conscious, too, that families in St Paul’s had been affected.  We had several police officers in the congregation.  All police leave was cancelled, so no Christmas celebrations with the family.  Not to mention the harrowing experience of duties related to the aftermath of the bombing. 

So, preparation was challenging.  Writing of another tragedy, the Dunblane massacre, a journalist wrote that preachers had become ‘theologically disarmed’.  That could have been applied to Lockerbie.  The persisting argument against the existence of a God of love had gained new momentum in face of this senseless loss of life and the horrified grief experience by those close to the victims.  But people would be there at the Watchnight Service, and I had 20 minutes or so to grapple with this and, by the grace of God, bring some reassurance from the Word of God.  

It's 37 years ago.  I can’t remember all that was preached.  And I’m not one of those who carefully files away all his sermons so no archives into which I can plunge .  But I do remember focussing on the name that arose from the prophecy of Isaiah concerning the Messiah: ‘Immanuel’ which means ‘God with us.’   God with us in every circumstance of life, and the fragile baby honoured in the Christmas season is the ultimate assurance of that.   He would become ‘the man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.’  (Isaiah 53: 3).  The apostle Paul absorbed this and was convinced that there is nothing in heaven or on earth that will ever be able to separate us from the love of God.  

So many people had been saying that this was just the worst time of year for something like this to happen.  I preached that this time of year was the best time for this to happen.  Forced to face the evil in the world we are called to focus on the One whose birth, life, death and resurrection provides an assurance that there is a hope that no darkness will ever overcome.  Not even that which arises from a terrorist’s bomb.

‘The best time for this to happen.’  As I set this down, I can see that I was asking a lot of those who gathered on that Christmas Eve 1988.  Words are powerful to convince but the same words can also be taken in various ways.  Not to mention the politicians get out, ‘taken out of context.’  But in the end, we are not called to be theologically disarmed but to face the darkness generated by broken humanity and proclaim the light that the darkness has never, nor will ever, overcome.  (John 1: 5)

Still Quarrying: Ghostly Presence?

 Detective Inspector John Rebus is days away from retirement after more than thirty years as a police officer.  But rather than just seeing out his time he is under pressure to draw a line under a double murder.  It’s the run up to Christmas and as he walks through the centre of Edinburgh, his adopted city, lights are shining, the funfair is under construction, music is coming from the open–air ice rink and the inevitable shoppers are walking with purposeful tread.  What caches his eye more than anything else is the groups of young people ‘weaving their way past the shopfronts, paying him not the slightest heed.’

‘When did I become the invisible man? Rebus asked himself.  Catching his reflection in a window he saw heft and bulk.  Yet these kids teemed past as if he had no place in their version of the world. 

‘Is this how ghosts feel? He wondered.’

This is from Exit Music, Ian Rankin’s eighteenth Rebus novel.  As usual he not only weaves an intricate plot superbly but also opens the complex mind of his main character.  Along the way perhaps touching the psychology of his readers.  It’s not uncommon for us to be in a crowded room or a bustling city and to feel detached or even ignored.  Like Rebus we might wonder if this is how ghosts feel.  

Paul once found himself in one of the foremost cities of his time, Athens.  Not only a centre for government and law but known for its vast and varied cultural life.  It was where people would gather in the marketplace to debate all the latest philosophical and religious ideas. As Paul drifted through the city centre he would not be recognised but his surroundings had a strong effect on him.  We are told that ‘he was greatly distressed to see that the city was full of idols.’  (Acts 17: 16). This was obviously a religious people but wildly off the mark in Paul’s mind. 

But Paul was not content to drift through the city like a ghost.  He wangled an invitation to preach in the local synagogue and to share the revelation he had received concerning Jesus.  He also gathered a crowd in the marketplace and as a result of this he was brought to address a meeting of the Areopagus, the political and legal hub of Athens.  Paul worked hard to connect with this audience and, although he received a mixed response, some were drawn to the message.

It's a truly remarkable story when you consider not only the cultural heft of Athens but also its spiritual complexity.  It was said: ‘All the Athenians and foreigners who lived there spent their time doing nothing but talking about and listening to the latest ideas.’ (Acts 17: 21). But Paul, the wandering preacher, probably bedraggled and not particularly prepossessing, was not intimidated.  He had a message which even the sophisticated Athenians needed to hear.  And how did he get going?  By simply sharing what he was convinced was true concerning the God who created the Universe, who had revealed Himself in Jesus, and was seeking to draw all humankind to Himself through His Holy Spirit.     

Christians may feel detached even ignored because of our faith but no matter how great the challenge we can never be satisfied being like ghosts in our communities.  Jesus has called His disciples to engage with men and women, telling the story of Jesus.  This was never meant to be an option among many, something for the Athenians among us merely to kick around in debate, but a call to face the reality of Christ who is the way, the truth and the life.    

Still Quarrying: Sharing The Strength.

It wasn’t a day loaded with interest and incident.  Dropped off by my chauffeuse for an early appointment at the Beatson, a train from Hyndland to Queen Street, a wander round some shops, lunch at the Wild Olive Tree, and then the real reason for being in town: an urgently needed haircut.  What surprised me was how content I was just to drift along in this bubble, no pressure to be places or to see people.  

Contentment has been a big challenge for me over the past five years.  Time and again I have turned to Paul’s challenging words:

‘ . . . I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances . . . I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want.  I can do all this through him who gives me strength.’  (Philippians 4: 11-13)

I’ve often though of this as learning to sit out the challenging things in faith, knowing that you are in good hands medically, and trusting in the unfailing love of God and His good purpose for your life whether you live or die.  

The temptation is to indulge in a kind of spiritual navel gazing.  Someone once said that when you have a toothache you are only thinking of two people: yourself and the dentist.  That’s understandable but do you really want that attitude to define your life?  Whatever you are going through you are not the centre of the Universe.  You need to work at maintaining a wider perspective.  

The challenge to be content in my circumstances is different to the Ukrainian waking up and wondering if she will have a roof over her head by the end of the day.    Or the Christian in a country where the Gospel isn’t welcome gripped with anxiety that the knock on the door means imprisonment and torture.  Or the addict whose whole being is consumed by the need for a drink or a fix or a visit to the bookie.  You can pile up the examples of those whose challenges place contentment as far away as a distant planet.  

So where does this leave me?  Maybe I can take the strength I receive as a resource to reach out to others who are struggling.  Like the man I met in the waiting place at the clinic.  He had a number of health problems even apart from his cancer and was anxious about the future.  But he told me he was grateful for the chat we had.  It was a small thing, but it underlines where all Christian spirituality should lead.  It’s not just about feeling good within yourself but being aware of others in their pain, finding room for them in our lives, giving what we ourselves have received. 

Back to Paul:

‘Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ , the Father od compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we have ourselves received from God.’  (2 Corinthians 2: 3-4)

Still Quarrying: Fixed On The Eternal.

 

I once attended a Presbytery meeting in which a retired minister was congratulated on the fiftieth anniversary of his Ordination. He was obviously quite frail and losing his sight, but he spoke movingly of the privilege of being a parish minister over so many years.  In particular he expressed his gratitude for the people in all the parishes he served who on reflection gave him more than he ever gave them.  

I had just been ordained when I heard him speak and fifty years seemed a long way in the future.  But when I look back now, I see the truth in what he said about the people he was called to serve, those who gave him so much.   On of those who comes to mind is John.  He was diagnosed with cancer around the same time that abnormalities were detect in my blood which would in course of time lead to a cancer diagnosis. 

It was a long and hard road for John which falls to many in this cancer life.  But the sense that you are not alone can be a boost and John and I would often get together   The joke was that we were meeting to compare test tubes!

The inspiring thing was that whenever he was able John was faithful in his attendance at church.  It was a time when people told me there was a new emphasis in my preaching.  I think that probably had to do with my heightened awareness of the fragility of our lives, the strength the find in Christ, and the hope we have in God’s good and loving purpose in life and in death.  

John and I were together not long after a particular preaching when I was majoring on these themes.  He said: ‘It dawned on me that you were preaching about yourself.’  I suppose I was.  It’s one of those things people don’t often realise but in the process of preaching the preacher is seeking the impact on his own soul that he prays for in the souls of his hearers.  So, John and I were together on that day, preacher and hearer seeking the same assurances. 

When his illness finally overwhelmed him, I was present at his graveside with the wife and family who had supported him so well.  It was in my heart to share the great promises Jesus makes for all those who face the death of a loved one.  But something happened which was way beyond any preparation.  Just before the coffin was lowered into the grave a butterfly flew out.  In a sense there was nothing more for me to add!  Everything that we believe as Christians was symbolised in that moment.  As the butterfly wears out its life as a chrysalis and takes on the beauty of a new creature, light and colourful, so we believe that Jesus’ resurrection promises us a new life with everything that has ever made us cry behind us. 

Reflecting on Jesus’ resurrection Paul wrote:

Therefore, we do not lose heart.  Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day after day.  For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.  So, we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary but what is unseen is eternal.

2 Corinthians 4: 16-18.

With all the things that will be vying for our attention in this Easter season, and especially if we are feeling fragile and hope is weak, we need to pray for grace to fix our eyes on the eternal which Jesus shows us is real and to be enjoyed even in the midst of those things which threaten to weigh us down. 

We believe that Jesus died and rose again and so we believe that all those who sleep in death will also be raised.  

I Thessalonians 4: 14.

Still Quarrying: A Day Of Silence?

 

We call it Holy Week but for most parishes in the Church of Scotland it is Holy Two Days: Thursday when the Lord's Supper was instituted and Friday when the death of Jesus is commemorated.  Saturday is ignored.  Even those churches which have a programme of special services throughout Holy Week do nothing on Saturday.  This is deemed appropriate by some.  Apart from Matthew’s sparse account nothing is said about the day when Jesus lay dead in the tomb.    And so Saturday in Holy Week has taken on the name, the Day Of Silence. But do we have to leave it at that?   

Alan Lewis taught theology in New College, Edinburgh before moving to Austin Theological Seminary in Texas.  His major printed work is an examination of Holy Saturday and its significance.  My copy of his book ‘Between Cross and Resurrection’ covers 477 pages and draws on a wide range of sources throughout Christian history.  So there really is no need to be silent about Holy Saturday.  

Think about it.  Jesus was dead.  All His vial functions were stretched to their limit until they gave out.  Of course, this happens to every man and woman, but this is Jesus, the Son of God, who existed with the Father from  all creation.  Charles Wesley draws us all in when he has us sing:

‘Tis mystery all: the Immortal dies!

Who can explore his strange design?’

 

Wesley goes on to comfort us by saying that even the angels can’t work it out!  But it is still worth our reflection.  What does it mean to us that Jesus died?

Alan Lewis says in the Prologue of his book: 

‘The non-event of the second day could after all be a significant zero, a pregnant emptiness, a silent nothing which says everything.’  

It takes all those pages in his book as he tries to work it out. Which makes me wonder what I can possibly add. Certainly, I have tried over the years whenever I have taken a service on Holy Saturday to ‘sound the depths.’ But in the end, there is one thought that echoes in my soul: Jesus died.  As all of us must do.  In His humanity he identified with us to that extent.  He shared our flesh and our psychology and like us, at a certain point, He was subject to death.  But let’s get back to Alan Lewis’ words.  Jesus’ death may well be thought of as a ‘zero’, an ‘emptiness’, a ‘silent nothing’.  But it is a ‘significant zero’, a ‘pregnant emptiness’, ‘a silent nothing which says everything.’ 

There has been much imaginative speculation about Jesus’ experience between the Cross and the Resurrection.  It’s most helpful to ne, however, to simply acknowledge that He was dead.  And in that He shared our humanity to the end.   But that death accomplished so much that is in any way significant to humanity.  Dietrich Boenhoffer said it all as he approached his execution: 

‘This is the end.  For me, the beginning of life.’

When Alan Lewis was researching what would become his book on Holy Saturday he was diagnosed with cancer in 1987.  It finally overwhelmed him in 1994.  In the final chapter he gives an account of how, in effect, he was living out the truths at the heart of his work.  Reflecting on the diversity but ultimate togetherness within humanity he writes:

‘. . . our single human nature was raised to wholeness and new possibilities from the one grave wherein it lay on Easter Saturday.’

Still Quarrying: Ten Thousand Places.

I have a thing about kingfishers.  Kingfisher curtains in my wee study, kingfisher print on a house wall, kingfisher ornaments.  I don't try to analyse it too much but the shape, the colour, the flight, it all just seems to come together and make a deep impression on me.  Not  to mention the thought that this is just one more evidence of God's Goodness to us in Creation.

Yet in all my seventy  years of life I have only actually seen one kingfisher in flight.  I was walking on the bank of the Forth and Clyde canal with Gabrielle and one flashed across the surface of the water, brightening up an otherwise overcast morning.  Just one sight of a favourite living creature but the impact has lasted with me and, please God, will last forever. 

Gerard Manley Hopkins touches on this in his poem: As kingfishers catch fire . . .’    The things we hear, touch and see have the power to touch us in the depths because they all come from God.  Those great lines:

‘For Christ plays in ten thousand places,

Lovely in limbs, lovely in eyes not his

To the Father through the features of men’s faces.’  

So, it’s not surprising that even a brief glimpse of something beautiful can stay with you forever.  This is Christ playing out in ten thousand places!  Even more so when the Word who was there in the beginning speaks clearly to you and draws you close to His heart, perhaps for the first time.  Or perhaps with a word of assurance when live is hard and challenging to faith.  Or when He strikes you with a truth hitherto not completely understood.

In the long run of things these are moments, drops in time, but in Christ  they are eternal.  ‘As kingfishers catch fire’ and touch the heart of one man forever so, as the apostle Peter would say, the Word is a seed eternally planted.