Moving On

Last day in Switzerland today.

The sun is still shining, and I am still writing! But I thought I'd include a photo of me actually on skis, just to show that I don't just take photos of views...

The group from St Catherine's are here now, and having fun. It has been great to see Andy and Esther and Steve and Julie and all the Youth Group/Kids as well. Also, Miles is in town with a different group, and I spent yesterday morning skiing with him.

Actually, I spent yesterday skiing everywhere! From 8.30am till 4pm. I just about wore my skis out. It was great fun. And today it has been a solid writing day to make up for it. Lots of progress there - though I need to do a bit more, which is hard, because I have reached a sort of break point, and to start again today would mean beginning a new section which needs to have its own momentum. Hmm.

This photo is Joanna and Al Copley. Al is the pianist at the Falken Hotel, and and it has been my great pleasure to eat with them these last few evenings, and to talk about faith, and to listen to Al's wonderful jazz and boogie woogie piano playing. He is a phenomenon, and their friendship has been a genuine gift aswell. One of the joys of coming here regularly is the renewing of friendships, and this one has been special this year.

But in the morning I leave. A brief trip back to England, and then on to the States.

Two further things to record before I finish for now.

As I walked across at Mannlichen yesterday, basking in the warm afternoon sunshine, glorying in the mountains, rejoicing in the freshness of the snow, I poured out my thanks to God for this whole experience, and I felt the presence of his Spirit gently lift my own. I record this because I will confess that it has been a while. With all my heart I know that his Spirit is always with me, helping, sustaining, guiding, speaking - these things I know and see. But I just haven't felt it for a while. The weight of work, responsibility, the sheer pressure of life and the intensity of a timetable. And yesterday, I felt it. It was simple, brief, wonderful.

Second, I had a remarkable dream the other night. About three years ago, a friendship I valued ended badly. I have many times since reminded myself to forgive that person, and prayed that I might be forgiven. Don't ask. In the dream I was speaking of this to an older, wiser person, but not just of this - we spoke of the many years of friendship that preceded; and towards the end, the older, wiser person spilled his glass of red wine over me. A clumsy act? Or a symbol of forgiveness, the blood that cleanses all. And I was suddenly aware that over many years there was much to forgive. And to be forgiven. In writing about forgiveness, I suddenly saw in this one friendship a microcosm of a whole world of relationships: we think one thing is the problem, and there is so much, it never ends, it all ties together, and we have to constantly work out hearts and lives where forgiveness is everyday speech and thought and life. And I can't make one person forgive me; but I can make sure I have forgiven them, holding nothing back, by forgiving time and time and time again. Till it's all gone. Till it's as natural for me as it can be.

Because then, I think, life looks different with the restraints removed. It's not about the past - it's about the future. And suddenly I think I'm getting a sense of what my sabbatical is about.

PS

And tonight I went back up to Wengen with Andy and Esther and Matt Jones to see Maggie at the Falken, to enjoy Terry's bar one last time, to listen to Al's piano one last time, to remind myself that saying goodbye here is one of life's temporary impermanences. As I said, it's about the future.

Second Saturday in Sabbatical

...Or, Update Number Two!

Right, so how are things going then? Well, the book is progressing nicely. This week has been a bit slower, but that’s for two main reasons. First, I’ve been going back over last week and tidying up, as well as just doing a bit more research as well as writing. Even so, I’ve hit the 40,000 word mark, which is half way. That’s a false mark, obviously. I intend to write about 120,000 words and edit it down to 80,000 in the end, so really I’m a third of the way, which is about where I ought to be right now. But I need to keep this rate going, which is going to be pretty intense.

Secondly, I’ve been a bit less prolific this week because I have actually been skiing! Yes, I decided to relax a little as well as work, work, work. So it’s been up early, out before the crowds, and get two or three hours on the slopes before eleven. Then back to the computer and off we go.

Church has been lovely. There have been some super people in resort this week. A lady who became a Christian here 25 years ago and was visiting again with her husband. Jennifer is a piano teacher, and I have seen her a few times. Antoinette is from Edinburgh and belongs to a tremendous church there, and has been very encouraging. Antony and his wife from Oxford know friends of friends, and time with them has been great. Then there has been evangelism, and that has been really good, with several wonderful people, in all of whose lives I am sure the Lord is working.

The weather has been varied: some fresh snow earlier in the week, and some strong winds, have given way to more blue sky and sunshine. Actually, the lower slopes saw rain one day, and this followed by a freeze and then snow led to quite treacherous conditions. The bottom parts of runs all turned to ice, and the Down Hill Only Club’s MacMillan Cup had a couple of casualties as early finishers careered off the course and into the car park. I spent a treacherous morning that day getting down to Grindlewald, feeling I needed ice skates more than skis, and treated myself to a large piece of apple tart in the rather fine backerei in town afterwards.

Prayer requests? Same old same old. Discipline and creativity in the writing. Creativity at good times of day, also, as I did get up in the middle of the night on one occasion, and fine as that was... Plus a real edge to my preaching this weekend, to touch the hearts of all who come to church, drawing them to Jesus. That’s what it’s about.

This is such a gift. Such a joy. Such a privilege. Nearly two weeks gone! It is flying by.

Fab-ulous?

I had the great pleasure of watching England beat Switzerland 2-1, the first match of Fabio Capello’s reign as manager, in Rock’s Cafe, a little bar here in Wengen. In fact, it’s where I am right now as I post this on the web.

Rock’s shows a lot of Premiership games, and so as you can imagine is very popular with British football fans. And, it turns out, with the Swiss, who came in cheerily shouting “Up Schweiz!” one by one during the early stages of the match. (Pronunciation guide: Oop Schweetz is as close as I’m going to get. Many of the Brits had no idea what they were saying, and cheered it with them!)

2-1 is a win. Better than that – it wasn’t like watching Steve McLaren’s England. Everyone seemed to be playing in position. They knew what they were there to do. They passed the ball!!! When someone passed the ball to Peter Crouch’s feet, I felt like standing and cheering. It was the 91st minute before the long ball appeared. Sure, Wes Brown looked a bit dozy; he does at Man Utd. Ashley Cole looks a shadow of himself. Wayne Rooney isn’t a lone striker. These are quibbles.

It was a different ballgame entirely to this.

And I spent it very happily in the company of a couple of Scots, Graham and Lynn, who had come to church on Sunday, and who then turned up again in the piano bar in the Falken last night. Most agreeable.

Fabulous Fabio? Not quite, not yet. But a great start in a friendly the manager wanted to win, which showed the right attitude after too many meaningless such games in the last few years. We look forwards with anticipation.

Skiing!

Finally, I made it out onto the slopes today (Tuesday).
Yesterday we had another blizzard, a terrific dumping of fresh snow, and the forecast for today was good, so I got up good and early, took my skis to be waxed, bought my lift pass – and off I went.

A beautiful clear sky, amazing snow under foot, a sharp fresh wind. Stunning. Down the Mannlichen, then across to Kleine Scheidegg, running through the trees to Brandegg, and finally down the long trek back to Wengen. Two and a half hours of blissful skiing in perfect (if cold) conditions.

For a first day back on skis, I feel remarkably fit, and my technique wasn’t too appalling. Decent rise and fall, decent control, good speed, no mishaps. I have a weak right knee at the moment, but it’s strapped up, and it gave me no problems at all.

Then it was a brisk walk to the Hunenfluh, where Jutta van Eeghen lives. Her husband, Ernst, died last year, just after I visited. So it was strange to see her alone in the house. She asked if I could recall what we talked of, and actually I could. We had a lovely hour together, and she provided me with a super lunch. We prayed before I left. The Lord bless you, Jutta.

This evening it was supper with Maggie Gerber, good friend and church warden here in Wengen, and her husband Ulle, who cooked rabbits for us. His own rabbits. Also there was Karen Jones, my original ski teacher too (for those of you who have read Salvations Song the book – she gets a mention there), and two other of Maggie’s friends, Paul and Sarah, who were really good company. Paul writes books on vintage racing cars. Fantastic food, splendid wine, and far too much of Ulle’s homemade schnapps. Quince schnapps. Blackcurrant schnapps. Apple schnapps. It’s going to be a slow start on Wednesday, I feel.

On the writing front, just a couple of thousand words today. But I did a word count on a couple of novels. First novels often come in at maybe 70,000 or 80,000 words. I’m at 31,000 or 32,000 after one week and only about a quarter of the way into the story. So it looks like I’ll have plenty of editing to do later on...

Saturday

Sun and snow, pleasure upon pleasure, endless gifts and joys without ceasing. Saturday is here and already I have to check each day which day it is - oh the joys of life away from a desk and a routine and a life of responsibilities!

Here's a photo of St Bernard's Wengen I took this morning. The cloud was down and the snow was falling, though as I look out now the sun is already breaking through again. There is a pristine beauty in the freshness of each morning here, whether there has been new snowfall or not. Each morning I pull back the curtain by my bedside to see what kind of day it will be: blue sky and sun, or wondrous, magical snowflakes falling like blessings from the sky.

I still haven't actually been skiing yet. Maybe Monday. I am enjoying writing too much. And day by day, my output is remaining high. Yesterday was a long, hard day. I hit an important point and wanted to just get it right. It will need re-working, and the end was rushed. But I was pleased with a solid day's work.

A book on forgiveness needs light and shade. You have to deal with things that need forgiving. They have to be faced. And if everything gets forgiven too quickly, everyone looks at it and goes, "but my life isn't like that", which won't do. Yet the power of what Jesus has done for us has to shine through, or the weight of what we face is too much. It's a balance. There will be time at the end to adjust if I need to. Yesterday was a day to face tough things. Today will take that further. Tomorrow - is Sunday, the joy of worship and Matthew 17, the transfiguration, which will be great.

Thanks for the prayers. I appreciate it.

Writing

A day and a half into writing, and six thousand words are done so far. That's not bad.

Are any of them any good?

Day one - yes. Today - has been mixed.

I have lived with these words, with these ideas, with the characters and places that will populate these pages for so long that as I begin to commit them to the page, they are old friends. But they live, they breathe, they have histories and shapes and theologies and futures that take me by surprise. I love this process!

And I have to give them their due. My voice has to rule, but only in order to give life, not to take it. There was a moment this morning when I knew I had to express a thought that was not within my normal expression. It was hard to frame words in that sentence.

I have not put on my skis yet; I have loved writing too much.

I am learning so much, enjoying these days, this journey. What joy.

Even my morning worship is new, with time for songs of worship unlike anything I have experienced in ages. This is a total privilege.

I guess it will get harder; but for now my sabbatical is sheer pleasure, sheer joy. Glory. keep praying!

Interval

The very first post I entered here was entitled “Overture”: it was simply to get the ball rolling, to begin the blog by setting the tone for the site.

But now we have the Interval. Not for the blog, but for something far greater in my life.

I’m on a train, just leaving Geneva, heading for Wengen. The rising sun is breaking through the last wisps of morning fog, glistening on the lake beaneath me to my right. We stream past slower trains with less to do, more people to carry on shorter journies perhaps. This train is all but empty as it speeds to Lausanne, Bern, Luzern.

And I speed away from St Catherine’s for my Sabbatical. Always a capital S. I have been looking forwards to this since the idea first occurred perhaps two and a half years ago, and more solidly since I began planning the book I shall be working on – let’s give it a working title, let’s start calling it Forgiveness – for over a year now.

On my left fields, a chateau, tall trees and then forestry covered hills with snow-capped mountains peaking out from behind them.

But not just a Sabbatical. An interval. When I came to St Catherine’s, I set myself ten years and then a review; it soon became apparent that that would not be long enough to do the work I was called to do. So I re-set my parameters to fifteen years. On that basis, this is half time.

Half gone. Now a break. Then the same again, that’s all.

Of course, it also became apparent that fifteen years was a totally arbitary thing. Goodness, I have no crystal ball here, and no idea what the Lord will call me to do. But yesterday as I said goodbye at morning and evening services, I was aware of that idea, and aware too that one day I will leave for good – and it really hurt!

I saw my old theological college principal last week; and I commented to him then that I didn’t remember anyone telling me at college how much I would love my church. It is my family, my home, where I belong, where I see God working and loving people, where I want to grow & grow old.

Half way? I sincerely hope not! But I know I am only there because he has given me the wonderrful gift of being there.

So this is an interval. Between Acts One and Two. Of how many, I cannot say!

Sun, almost too bright now, making reading my screen hard work. Banners flying from buildings. Winter countryside. A ruined farmhouse.

An interval. To breathe, to consider what has happened so far. To take stock. To anticipate what will come. To give thanks.

And then the curtain rises again – for I won’t take aseat for Act two, I’ll take the stage: Christian life is no spectator sport. And where Jesus shines his spotlight, I want to be found standing right there.

In a creative mood

So I'm geting ready for my sabbatical. Seven weeks to produce a first draft of my next book. And this morning as I sat and worshipped in church before the day began (I always go in early on a Sunday) I must have been in a creative mood. For my fingers wandered over the keyboard, my mind settled on the words, and in twenty minutes the following just came to pass.



Which kind of expresses where I am right now. Ready to listen, ready to follow, ready to begin an adventure. Three weeks in Switzerland & four in the States are all lined up - but the big story of writing another book outshines the locations. And for the opportunity, my heart is simply fit to bursting with thankfulness.

And my dreams are filled with images and words from God. I'll try and take time out of the organising of the next two months that has to be crammed into these hours in order to record some of them for you, and for me! For tonight, that song will have to do.

"Take my mind, take my heart, take my all in all,
Take me at my word I pray."

Snow, Scaffolding, and Psalm 23

Which have nothing to do with each other - except they all featured in my weekend.

Snow.

On Friday I had lunch with Catharine Morris in Cirencester. Lovely - arranged for quite a while in order that we would have a chance to meet up before I disappear off on my forthcoming sabbatical. It was terrible weather, pouring down, indeed so much so that on the drive there I almost turned back.

But I had booked a ticket to go on to Hereford in the evening to see the Syd Lawrence Orchestra, and I did want to see Catharine, so on I drove.

I left Cirencester at 4pm, the rain having turned slightly sleety. I looked at my fuel guage - quarter full. Should I put more diesel in? No need - I'd fill up in Hereford later. But ten miles or less out, on the A417 towards Gloucester, I am stuck in snow. There's no snow on the forecast. The radio is only talking about flooding. But for the next FIVE HOURS I move one and a half miles. Quarter of a tank of fuel. Am I going to be here all night? Slight panic. It's a dual carriageway so I can't even turn back. I have a blanket, & snow boots in the car - though my mobile is dying fast.

When I can turn off the dual carriageway, I do - only to get stuck in those floods!

I eventually reach home just after midnight. A journey of 70 miles took eight hours, and I missed the concert - though so apparently did Chris Dean, leader of the Syd Lawrence band, who was also in the same snow drift as me, though he found a pub to hole up in. There's a committed musician for you.

Scaffolding.

Ian, site manager on the car park next door to us, rang yesterday (Saturday) afternoon.

"It's late notice, but we're a bit stuck, it's a money thing for us now, we have to work through this weekend, and we're pulling the scaffolding down off the site, so I'm just letting you know."

"Which side of the site?" I ask.

"Yours," he replies, embarrassed. "We don't want to disturb you obviously on a Sunday, so when are your services?"

"8 till 9, & 11 till 12.30," I reply.

"Oh, that's most of the morning," he says, unhappily. "We're going to have to do it I'm afraid, as I say it's a costs thing, we're behind and have to make up time. We'll try not to make too much noise."

And I'm thinking, they are pulling down a mountain (eight floors) of scaffolding right next to us. That ain't going to be quiet. Plus I know the planning permit for them, so I have a question:

"Ian, doesn't the planning permit have a condition on it that you don't work on Sundays?"

"Er, yes," he says.

"And have you sought an exemption from that for this weekend, cos I haven't seen any of the bills around the place that I'd expect to see if you have?" Because if they want to change any of the conditions of planning they have to put notices around the site and get permission to do so.

"No."

"Well, then I don't think we have a problem, do we?"

"Is that it?" he asks plaintively, hoping for mercy. And we chat a very little more, and that is how it is left.

Till 8am today, when just as I start the service, the scaffolding starts to come down. So I leave the service in Richard's hands, whispering to him "I'll be back", and I go outside. Because as far as I can see, the business of the construction of a car park has made a choice: their money is worth more than the people sitting in front of me coming to worship. And I disagree, and actually so does the Council who gave the planning permit. These people have rights. Money isn't everything.

You have to get the picture. It's still semi-dark. We are a Victorian building with a spire. Next to a building site covered with scaffolding. I am robed up - cassock, surplis, stole.

I call out to the nearest worker - "Excuse me!" He looks at me, shocked.

"What's the matter?" Irish accent.

"It's a Sunday, and by planning permission you can't be working here today." I was not at my most eloquent and most charming. I was straight to the point.

And then this guy was brilliant. Motioning with a cutting action across his neck, he called up to all the workers and told them to stop. "Guys, stop, stop!" he called, "the priest's here! Stop!" Then he turned to me: "I'm going to have to call the guy in charge, can you wait?"

"Sure," I said.

He gets his mobile out. "Kevin, get here now, the priest's here & he says we've got to stop!"

And I'm thinking - Irish Catholic. You've got to love them. I'm one picket line he is not going to cross.

Kevin comes: Ian has told him it's OK to work today, he told him on Friday. Which makes me slightly irritated that Ian waited till late on Saturday before mentioning it to me - in the hope that I wouldn't do anything, I guess. And that he then didn't get back to these guys. And now he isn't answering his phone (he never does on Sundays - I could have told Kevin that).

The scaffolder says: "Would you mind if we worked on the other side of the building, on Mill Street?" He's not upsetting 'the priest'. But he's got men there & he wants them to work. I admire his style.

"Technically you are still breaking the planning permit," I said - "but if I can't hear you, you can do what you like." And the scaffolder took control, and moved his men to the other side of the building, leaving me to arrive back in church just as Richard had read out the Gospel & I was due to begin my sermon. It is possible that Ian will be calling me in the morning...

Psalm 23

After Ian's Saturday phone call I headed out to the hospital. Gladys was very ill. At 92, she was diagnosed with cancer last year, and has been failing for a while. She was taken in to the Royal Glamorgan this last week. A lovely faithful lady.

When I arrived, her son Stuart was still there, and I chatted to him briefly before he left me alone for a while with his mother. Stuart was one of my church wardens when I first came here. He's always been a member of this church. Gladys tells stories of them coming up from her home when Stuart was a lad, of choir trips to Barry Island, of church days gone by.

When it was just the two of us, Gladys said, "I've lived long enough now". And so I told her I was going to read her a Psalm & pray with her. Those Irish Catholics would have a name for this; as a Protestant, we don't call it "Last Rites", but that's what I was doing.

I'd pulled an old, tiny white King James Bible off the shelf & popped it into my coat pocket. I think it was my Gran's, or maybe Dad's from school days. It seemed the right version for the occasion. And I opened it at Psalm 23.

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.

"I learned that as a little girl," Gladys said, as I finished reading it, "I could say every word with you." And we talked about the Psalm briefly.

Then I took her hands and blessed her, assuring her of forgiveness & the love of Jesus. We prayed the Lord's Prayer together. At the end she added, "Thank you Lord for helping me".

We sat in silence a while. Her breathing altered, and for a moment I wondered if she was going to go there and then. Eventually I took my leave. I told her I would see her again, but we both knew I meant in heaven. She blew me a kiss. I squeezed her hand and said thank you - for the delight of being a friend.

I walked out, & turned back in the doorway to see her waving.

It was lovely, peaceful, wonderful. We said goodbye, and knew what we were doing. I committed her into God's care, and she was ready to leave. This job has so many sides to it, but being the gatekeeper is the most sacred, precious thing.

My phone rang again at 9am to tell me she had passed during the night.

A Christmas Memory

This is a song I wrote for our choir at the Pontypridd Carol Service this year. It's not what you expect on this site - no jazz, no worship band. Just a choir & organ. And a bit of Christmassy nostalgia with candles and a far-too-big tree stuffed in the pulpit!

And it's a little thank you for all the folk who worked hard to be involved in what we did at Christmas this year - trying to use where we are & who we are to reach out to as many as we can with some real Christmas hope & love. There's enough of the fake stuff that shines & sparkles & disappears with your bank balance & the decorations & the gifts that get forgotten or taken for granted within moments. Don't get me wrong - I enjoy the fake stuff as much as the next bloke; not for a moment would I stop it. It's just important to know the difference & to make sure that as Christians we put the real in the mix. That's what we were trying to do this year.

Did we get it right? Well, I've no great conversion tales for you... I wonder if the wise men asked this question after Herod ordered the slaughter of the innocents. Our "getting it right" is often a confused thing; there are different levels - who am I to judge? At times I was too stressed out to know! At times, I was thrilled with what was happening. But I would far rather the confusion of the attempt than that we didn't try at all. We had a go! And next year we will again.

And people heard about Jesus.

Glory.

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year! Or as Gethin said on TV last night, Blwyddin Newydd Dda.

Chris, Ruth, Eleanor & Tim Holmwood have been staying, and for New Year's Eve we had a super party with Dan & Kirsty, Rhian & Gill as well, with much wine & pork casserole consumed by all. Charades from the Radio Times were duly performed, though "Masterpieces of Vienna" took some doing.

Today we went to Cardiff Bay, which delighted Tim as we saw site after sight of Doctor Who filming. "This is where the Slitheen had a meal with him..." or "this is where Mickey said it was cold..." or "this is where the rift opens up" and so forth. (Though at one point I whispered to C& R, "for adult Torchwood audiences, this is where John Barrowman had his civil ceremony...")

Unfortunately for Tim, he & Chris had just walked into the cinema to see The Golden Compass as Eleanor & I were sitting at a table by the Doctor Who exhibition outside, when Russell T Davies, writer of the new DW shows, walked right past us.

Unfortunately for me, Eleanor & I went to see the St Trinians movie.

The photo? C,R,E&T (not in that order) silhouetted against the afternoon sun in the Bay.

It's an homage to this photo, taken at Penarth four years ago to the day. Only four years. My computer assures me this is the case. But the kids do seem to have grown somewhat in that time!

And now to prepare for the year ahead. What are your hopes? I'm going to write a book this year. Murder, rape, betrayal, hope, loss, and ultimately forgiveness - and that's just the first chapter. Like all first novels, it's a thinly veiled autobiography really...

Now, back to the bubbly, I think we have some left -

Iechyd da!

Hacked Off

I got an email message from a friend - a musician friend, someone I got back in touch with through MySpace. Asked me to check my MySpace site. Thought I might have been hacked. And there on the site were two other messages - one from someone I don't know, one from someone I'd seen after he'd left the message, but who hadn't mentioned it when he saw me.

The bulletin feature had sent out a link to a porn site. From me.

Yep, I reckon that's a hack.

Now - changing a password is easy enough to stop that going on too much. But you do start wondering all sorts of things. I have anti-virus, spyware, anti-hacker protection. The password is not anywhere on the site. How did they do it? How did they get my password? Just as a precaution I have rotated a number of passwords across a number of sites as a result.

They only did one thing. I think. One mildly embarrassing thing. A useful reminder these things happen.

And why did they do it? I have 70 friends on MySpace: how much bother was it to find a password and then send out a bulletin to 70 people? If I'd had thousands of links, that would make a bit more sense, I guess. But to 70?

I guess they just weren't enjoying Christmas Eve telly.

So: if you got a link to a porn site from me the other day - I apologise, it wasn't me that sent it; though if it made your day, I'll keep your secret. Your comment won't get published!

Merry Christmas

... to one and all!

In my time-honoured fashion, I have left it far too late to send cards and write letters, so this is all you get- nothing to hang up or throw out, just a quick click and a browse through a festive greeting. Like you are really dying to hear about what I've done for the last twelve months.

And after all, what is a blog for if not to keep you up to date? So here on these pages are stories of doubts, triumphs and failure, stuff at church and big band gigs, weddings and holidays (none of the former my own, all of the latter definitely mine), meeting up with friends from past and present, home and abroad, and various kind people's responses to all the above. Feel free to add your own.

It has been a varied year. I'd love to proclaim unfettered joy and success, but that would be untrue. In my forties I find different certainties and doubts, which keeps life interesting. Migraines and depressive patches haven't been as prevalent, and general health has been on the up - could it be that lots of exercise and a healthy diet really are good for you? In church life I am grateful for new colleagues - Gill and Kirsty - who are superb, though saying farewell to Naomi was really hard, and there has also been a new dynamic of spiritual expectancy in healing and teaching. The Furnace at New Wine Cymru was an unexpected highlight of the year. In music, new opportunities keep opening up, notably with the National Big Band of Wales this year, but also with the small group stuff in and out of church. Though I often feel that jazz is most properly a young man's game, & I can only cling onto that by surrounding myself with kids these days & borrowing their energy...

I should say something profound and spiritual: and I think the most profound thing I can offer is this - thank you. Thank you for the friendship of years that this time of year brings to mind. Presents abound, and we give because God gave to us the most precious gift; but for me, in simply human terms, and though we may only share in it occasionally and even then for some of us who live far apart mediated by the wonders of email and internet, the fact that you read down to here says an awful lot about our friendship. Thank you.

Nadolig llawen. Come visit. Peace be with you.

It's Snowing!

Though you might need Broadband to see it...
Click here!

More Big Band Gospel

Just to say that I've now heard Byron's audio recording of the Big Band Gospel concert - and it's the best recording of a "live" event I've heard for ages.

I've posted one track from it on my audio songs window on my MySpace page. When you go there, something will start playing - but click on "Fly Me To The Moon" (one of the two none-Gospel tracks I sang!) and have a listen. The National Big Band of Wales sound great, and I don't think I spoil things either!

Enjoy!

Many, Many Pleasures

So I got a comment from "MMP" and didn't know who this was.

Who did I know with those initials?

Well. MMP wrote another comment, and this time I had the common sense to click on MMP and trace back to their blog, entitled The Muddled Market Place. MMP. Not their real name! But instantly recognisable, and a pure pleasure - Camillofan you need to go there: it kind of looks like Pleasant View School House, but all skewed and turned on its side, and made real. It is a total joy, and made me smile for ages.

The fact that I know MMP really well made it all the better, but I commend this site to all my friends - a wonderful & unpredictable read!

The picture - just a random pull off the site. You'll find city streets and roses jostling for position. Or this; from this entry, as a taster. Enjoy!

another year

After the grand celebrations of last year, this was always going to risk being a let down.

Still, past the decade year. Though as my cousin-in-law Simon says, I will try not to start looking forwards to my next just yet.

The photo is Matty & I in the garden at the end of the afternoon today; we had a good walk in the sunshine this morning, & then I went down to the Millennium Centre in the Bay to enjoy a piano recital (Chopin & Schubert) at lunchtime by Richard Lewis, music director at the big Pentecostal church in Cardiff. (Kirsty asked: which Schubert? Franz, I replied.) Dan, Kirsty, Matthew & Flo Jones joined me there, and Richard was excellent.

On my way down there I popped in to have communion with a parishioner, 92 years old, housebound, suffering from cancer, not on great form. It was lovely to pray with her and to see her visibly perk up as we prayed and as the Spirit touched her. She smiled for the first time as we stopped praying. Bless her, she doesn't deserve this pain.

And on my way back I called at the Heath hospital to see another member of the church, in her late eighties, suffering from some form of dementure and having had a recent hip replacement. Last time I called she had no idea who I was; this time I don't think she could quite place me in time, but she got my name right, and we prayed together - she remembering all the Lord's prayer, and being delighted to see me on my birthday. It quite made my day.

Big Band Gospel Video

So here we are!


That's "Everything to Me" from last Saturday's Big Band Gospel concert. Me, Gareth Roberts and the trombones of the National Big Band of Wales. The song is on the "Every Breath" CD, but just with rhythm section and trombone solo; the section writing was new for this concert, and I was quite pleased with it!

You'd like more? Try this:




"Jesus is the Name we Honour", also from "Every Breath, but slightly re-arranged, as the original had an unplayable trumpet part! Well, it was playable by the incomparable Andy Greenwood, and even then on a recording where he took a good run up.

And I think you should see the band without some guy in black out front taking the limelight. Here's "Be Still Me Soul", a Ralph Carmichael arrangement of the hymn tune based on Sibelius' Finlandia. Who said Finns can't swing?

Big Band Gospel

Here I am, singing last night in Cardiff with the National Big Band of Wales, at a concert entitled "Big Band Gospel".

Byron Jenkins, who gets the guys together, is orchestra manager of the BBC National Orchestra of Wales and this is the second concert he has organised like this - a big band gig, using members of the BBC NOW plus friends from the Cardiff jazz scene & one or two Salvation Army players, playing swinging arrangements of hymns and gospel songs to raise money for charity. This time the chosen charity was the Isubilo project in Zambia, and the concert raised something in the region of £1200, as all the ticket money goes straight there - everyone performing giving their time for free.

I need to say a few words about Byron. He is a star. Unassuming, humble, effective as anything, his enthusiasm and knowledge of the music is infectious. And his gentle love for Jesus inspires him to share his faith through the music with as many as will listen. Gold-dust. It seemed to me that the guys in the band responded warmly because he never lost his cool or came all heavy, he just got on with things, knew his stuff and did what needed to be done with great grace and good humour.

The band was fabulous. At the second rehearsal I missed a couple of entries cos I was enjoying listening to them so much I forgot to focus on my job! The classical guys - great precision and attention to detail; the jazz guys - adding much of the soloing and the zing in the swing. I love working with such pros - real musicians don't vaunt themselves and tell you how good they are; they don't need to.

It was a total privilege to be involved.

I loved singing with them. Two of my songs were from the "Every Breath" CD - a slightly re-arranged "Jesus is the Name We Honour" (but still with most of that high trumpet part! Thanks Andy Everton et al); and a new arrangement of "Everything to Me" for the whole trombone section, which was a real highlight for me - gentle mid-tempo swing, perfectly placed, doing just what I was aiming at. I loved singing with Byron conducting - so reliable, so easy to work with. A joy. And I felt wonderfully relaxed and able both to worship and perform all at the same time.

Two songs were Denver and the Mile High Orchestra tunes - "Blessed Assurance" and "Jingle Bells". Pure fun. One was a gospel track, "Cabin in the Corner", and finally a standard - "Fly Me To The Moon".

I broke two mike stands. One in rehearsal. One in the show. Oops. I am a very physical performer, you know.

What a joy. What a blessing. The crowd seemed to love it. The band certainly enjoyed themselves. I got to meet some wonderful new people and to have the most fantastic experience of performing with these guys.

And my heart is filled with thanks. Thank you Jesus. Thank you, thank you. Just wonderful.

Bittersweet? No, just bitter

Going, going, gone.

Out of Euro 2008.

Like many England fans, the thought was bittersweet; I mean, even if it was unthinkable that we should miss the competition, at least surely this way we will be rid of the worst England manager we've ever had?

When the team took to the pitch, it was typical McClaren England. Men out of position, a new formation we've never played for a major match, new players who've not played before in a key game. It had disaster written all over it. My pre-match prediction was 2-1 to Croatia.

Croatia were 2-0 up in 15 minutes. We were dire.

But when we eventually equalised I was ecstatic. Blow McClaren. I am an England fan. I want us to qualify. I want us to be at the championships next summer. Beckham back in the team, things starting to work, belief rising -

Then wham.

The third Croatian goal.

I hope McClaren goes; I'm sure he's a great guy - just a hapless England manager. But the hope that he goes does not make this result bittersweet.

I'm an England fan. It is still just bitter.

Past & Present Touching

I love this photo, from The Times.

Marking HMQ & the DofE's Diamond Wedding celebrations, they have found two photos that mirror each other perfectly. Though it seems to me that HMQ was less sure of herself in her younger days and rather more in control now!

And knowing some are quick to speak of failings in a public union, I do feel that we who are far from the depths and heights of any other person's intimate lives should refrain from a temptation to judge others; I find this emblem of commitment and love strangely touching.

Tracing Rainbows

Reading JD Walt's blog I came across a link to another blog by Mark Benjamin. I met Mark in Asbury Seminary a couple of years ago; he led worship the day I preached in chapel there.

This article brought tears to my eyes. I found it profoundly moving. Have a read and see if it speaks to you.

A Good Day

A good day!

Bruce Collins, from New Wine Cymru, came to preach here this morning, and brought some friends to pray with people during (and after) the service.

I do like Bruce - though his style occasionally scatter guns provocative thoughts round the room without pausing to check the damage (I could sense odd gasps from one or two folk), his focus is pure gold. And he gave us a great sense of expectancy in coming to Jesus for a touch of his Kingdom breaking into our lives today. Not just when we die - but real change, real healing, real authority here and now. On earth as in heaven.

His simple and engaging manner is wonderfully unthreatening, and people genuinely warmed to him. Those who queued for prayer took me by surprise - not just the usual suspects. And at this evening's service, four people spoke of real answers to those prayers - two healings, there and then (both back related - and even if they prove to be temporary relief, that was great; I hope we will see more than that) and two more inner concerns, but again met by a deep sense of the presence of God touching them and meeting them as they prayed.

To see this in our 11am service was wonderful. I always feel that a basic rule of thumb as to how much people have sensed God in a service is how quick they are out of the door: if they all run, it wasn't great; if they linger, it is because they sense Jesus here and can't bear to go. We finished way over time, and no-one left.

Though I did suggest to someone who came late and and whose car may have been blocking people in that they stayed for prayer, so that may have had an effect...

Afterwards, one couple who came with Bruce told me of two images they had about the life of the church here, and I record them on this page as much for my memory as for your information. But both struck me deeply.

The first saw the church held in cotton wool, and wondered what this was. They thought it might be that we needed care, and then saw it as showing what a place of care and gentleness the church offered.

But when they looked again, they saw that the cotton wool was in fact ermine, the base of a crown, and that this gentleness was also authority given and the power of the Lord to bless.

All through the service they had been struck by the love of the Lord in this place, and the way God's love shone through the worship. I pray that we may indeed be a gentle place of power, the Lord's servant heart shining through us to do his work here. And we will cast our golden crowns down before him, for he alone is worthy.

The second image was of a herald standing on the altar, raising a trumpet to his lips, and proclaiming God's Kingdom in our midst. We then, as a congregation, lifted the herald up, and took him out of the church into the streets of Pontypridd.

Well, I think that the lady who told me this probably wasn't aware that my head was going - that's a great understanding of euaggelion, the Greek word from which we get our word "Gospel". In St Paul's day, the "Gospel" was the announcing by a herald of the reign of a new emperor, and the idea that we have that reign proclaimed in our midst as we worship, and then we take that out from our corporate worship to our daily lives to see people affected by the reign of God around us - this is the mission of our church.

Worship, evangelism (euaggelion), compassion.


Footnote.
So I've been wrestling with stuff, as regulars know. But that Jacob story has blessing in it; and so, my friends, does mine.

Waiting for Heroes - a life in microcosm

So it's Wednesday evening and I'm waiting for Heroes to start on BBC3. We're near the end of the first season, and it's getting all exciting as the story starts to warm up to its finale.

I've enjoyed the ark of the tale, the development of characters, the basic premise and especially the pacing which has really increased in the last few weeks.

But as I'm waiting there is a programme about kids doing a talent show for aspiring classical musicians, and despite myself I get caught up in it, It's the final. There's a basoonist (like she stood a chance), a guitarist (the definition of geek in the musical world), and a pianist with a long green dress, long red hair, and a deft, romantic touch at the keyboard.

Hardly a fair competition.

Anyway, the pianist played the Shostakovich Second Piano Concerto - or at least we got to see edited highlights. Very well edited too. And I simply fell in love with the piece. There's a ballet suite by Shostakovich I love - I think it's number 4, the introduction is one of my all time favourite pieces - but on the whole I hardly rate him as someone I'd go out of my way to listen to.

And here I am, waiting for Heroes, sci-fi on TV, and finding one of the most beautiful things in music I have ever come across via a talent show.

If only it had football and Jesus in it it would be my life in microcosm.

Wrestling - further thoughts

I think I dismissed a comment from Richard too quickly the other day. He made an analogy with Wayne Rooney going through a goal drought in games but scoring freely on the practice pitch, and his point was that if we walk with Jesus day by day in the private place - if we wrestle with God when & where no-one sees - then everything else will follow. Wayne Rooney started to score again in matches.

And I am grateful for the prayers of friends and for a nature that is stubborn, and for a God more stubborn still who does not let go.

In my private moments I am reading "The Way In is the Way On", a collection of John Wimber writings to mark the tenth anniversary of his death this year. He remains I think my favourite Bible teacher, and I commend this super little book. I am only two chapters in, but I am so restored by what I am reading I cannot say. He faces my weaknesses and failings head on with a humanity and wisdom that is wonderfully godly and biblical, seeing into my heart and giving me sight of how to walk forwards from here.

To paraphrase a couple of the things which have so far struck home:

A pastor's call is not to succeed but to serve.

I got here by being forgiven, and I'll only get any further by the same route. The way in is the way on.

The book is filled with simple truths simply taught with great authority. I loved listening to John Wimber in person when I had the chance, and this book is reminding me why. He brings me closer to Jesus than most other preachers I know, and he does it be opening the Scriptures wide and clear. I miss this voice, and this book is a treat, the treat I need just now.

By the way - Richard is right. And Wimber makes the same point, though he uses more straightforwardly Biblical language and doesn't refer to Wayne Rooney:

"The results of our abiding haven't been tallied yet; however, they are being developed. The tabs are being taken daily... Day by day, week by week, and year by year, God is making something beautiful out of you and me. He is producing in us the character, qualities and fruit of our Saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ...

"This is not primarily a theological discussion, but an active decision and habit of the heart."

Little Glimpses of Heaven

So I went to see Harry Connick Jr in concert at the Royal Albert Hall. Enormously pricey tickets. Great seats. Jazz has never looked so expensive - I mean, this is how jazz looks in the movies, but not in real life! Perfect spotlights cutting through the general blue haze around each soloist and putting the rest of the stage in darkness, with Harry in a follow spot so well drawn it was cartoon-like.

And jazz it was - unlike Buble who puts on an easy-listening set with his faux-big band, Harry's slightly smaller line-up (nine horns, upright bass, drums, Harry at the piano and a guest trombone soloist) was simply a very classy jazz gig. I think probably to the shock of some of the crowd - cos the CDs recently get a bit on the pop side. But even the most contemporary tracks on the CD get a makeover "live" and become jazzy, or jazz-funky, or even slightly avant garde...

Glorious.

Because it was great. Fantastic playing, immense soloing, good band work (occasionally swamped by a mix that was piano heavy) - and then Harry.

Not here the sheen and flawless perfection of Buble. But the flaws are part of the joy. The quality is in the character. The depth of musicianship. The understanding & intelligence of it all. Little glimpses of heaven in the constant riches of layers of musicality and brilliance. I loved it.

Highlights? Come By Me, Sleepy Time Down South (wow!), a frenetic Bourbon Street Parade, and then after the band had left the stage a typical encore - just the bass and the tenor sax and Harry's voice for It Had To Be You (well, it had to be, didn't it?) and stripped bare we had everything we needed and a nostalgia trip added as a bonus.

It will be a while before I see gig this good.

The video clip is from Canada three years ago. But you have to see the guy in person. Film does not begin to convey the magic. And if you have the chance - take it. I would go again right now.

Wrestling

Jacob wrestles with the angel. He is across the river from his wives and people. Some don't notice. Some gawp. Some feel the separation. One or two pray for him. One or two are embarrassed.

He is by himself with God, but not alone. Never so solitary and never so supported. Afraid and loved. He will now always bear the mark of this encounter in his body and in his naming. People will call him differently because of this struggle. (Though few - that day to this - will comprehend what went on or why.)

I am preaching regularly about commitment; about the God who calls and supplies the needs of the ones ones he calls; about the blessing of a pure and a whole heart. And as I speak the Lord tells me words I need to hear.

I do not prepare sermons for my own benefit, but I hear them.

For I am wrestling. Why? I know God is good and his ways are best. I am not fighting him; I am fighting that my life be his in every part, with integrity and honesty and without exception. That my worship not be a matter of words and music alone but of deeper harmony of life and soul and bone and marrow.

I find myself often to be basically Christian, and I do not find that to be enough. So I am wrestling. And it is lonely. And it hurts. And it is confusing. And I am not sure I always prevail. I feel like Jacob, struggling across a river from my friends, who probably have no idea how I feel or why.

I don't know why I feel this way either. But with God's help, I'm not giving in.

Is there a Doctor in the house?

So I took my nephew to see the BBC National Orchestra of Wales last night. They performed a "Halloween Spooktacular", a concert of light classics and film score bits with a seasonal slant. A screen over the stage had an owl in flight during the Harry Potter segment, a clip from Pirates of the Caribbean, and they played some incidental music from Doctor Who with the scene showing above them (my personal favourite). It was a great concert, well performed, and introduced by some children's TV person. And my nephew loved it - especially when Dracula gave hime a goody bag in the interval full of BBC NOW bits and pieces (thank you Byron!)

Clearly, here in the photo, after the show, all was mayhem, with ray guns and monsters prowling around. Some poor kid tried to make it to the safety of the TARDIS but was mercilessly gunned down by a Dalek. Enlarge the picture and you'll see his skeleton in that special x-ray light that Dalek weapons provide. Somehow I lived to tell the tale.

At least in the current climate I'm not a Spurs fan.

Family Time

Two pictures to represent two family times this week: my Gandma's 92nd birthday, and my cousin Howard's wedding.

Different sides of the family - Grandma is Mum's Mum. Suffering from cancer, and it seems pleasantly confused, she was on terrific form. Apart from a little deafness, allowable I think at such a venerable age, you would never have guessed she was in any way under best form. She was good conversation and all smiles, enjoying her meal (which she ate with gusto - especially her chocolate pudding) and we had a wonderful time together.

Gill is over from Florida with Ben, as you can see, and this photo is actually taken in the room where ten years ago we took another photo with Gill, Mum, Grandma and Ben after I had baptised Ben. He's a bit bigger now and no longer being held in his mother's arms.

Howard is Dad's nephew, his sister Judith's son. Ten years my junior, a magician, and great company. He is very much his father's son - though his Dad died I think fourteen years ago. Many people told him during the day how much he reminded them of his father, which must have been tough to hear and wonderful all at the same time. He doesn't look like Roy; but he has his confidence and ability to warm a room and welcome people in, to be the host and he certainly has his father's smile. It was a pleasure to be at his wedding.

And to see lots of family there - for I have a wonderful family. They are an eclectic and strange bunch, and I love every one of them. Some are shy, some brash, some brittle, some brassy, some funny, some dry, some long-winded, some almost silent. I love being with them. We are a Victoria Wood sketch in action. It is never dull.

And Ben maybe growing up in Florida, but he is getting the hang of it well. His Grandma asked him: "Ben, shall we go out for a meal?"

Ben: "OK".

Grandma: "Do you like Italian?"

Ben: "No."

Grandma: "What do you like then?"

Ben: "French food."

Me: "Ben - give over, stop teasing your Grandma. You've never had any French food!"

Ben: "Have too!"

Me: "What French food do you know?"

Ben: "Fries."

With which it was hard to argue.

Seeing clearly, humbly

I have upset a colleague. Goodness, I have done that enough times. This time I have upset the area dean. And other local clergy.

We are looking at re-organising parishes in our area (deanery - a collection of parishes within the diocese) as in six years time the diocese is cutting clergy numbers, and we have to work out the best way forwards. If we try to keep all the buildings and congregations we currently have, the reduced number of clergy will be running around like headless chickens, and very little ministry with vision and outreach will happen at all. If we were a rural deanery with lots of tiny villages seperated by miles of winding roads, this might be inevitable (might) but we are a town, and frankly (to adapt the old joke) wherever we are going to - you wouldn't start from here.

There are currently five parishes in this part of the deanery, with five clergy, and ten churches. In six years time that will be three clergy. And really only one town with one slightly seperate village.

Now, I'm not going into the detail of how I think it should be sorted here. In months of preparation the clergy have worked things through by themselves and finally with the archbishop. We then had a meeting with a working party including members from each parish, & this was when I was taken off guard by the area dean, who presented a plan to this group which I have never agreed to and which was superceded by the plan suggested by the archbishop. None of these groups make any decisions - these are all planning groups. Any decisions have to be taken by the parishes themselves. But as the plans we put before people shape the decisions we come to, and as I will have to guide one of the new parishes through the re-shaping and make it work, I need to believe in any plan we agree to.

So I asked why we weren't talking about Barry's plan. And that's what upset the area dean. Cos he didn't want to talk about that plan. Which I didn't know.

And next Wednesday we have our second working party meeting.

Now, I have a simple agenda for this - I could use the word vision, I think it appropriate, but as soon as I use that word I am dealing in spiritual blackmail. If I have a vision it is from God and you can't disagree with me.

I want to see clearly, humbly. I might be wrong. I do want to be put right if I am wrong. Because if I am wrong, I need to be put right before I scupper something altogether, and my opposition to the area dean's plan could do just that.

So we'll stick with the word "agenda".

This is my agenda: I want the church to grow. I want it to be about building for the future, not about preserving the past. I want it to be about people not structures. I want it to be a strong body of Christ, strongly witnessing to the love of Christ, effectively drawing others into that love. And at this point I think the Archbishop's plan achieves that better than the area dean's.

If I am wrong, then I need to see that clearly. Pray for me that I would do so.

If I am right, then I need to see that clearly, humbly. Because I will be unpopular again. And at least I should do that with humility.

Oops.

Well, I asked for it to be short. And I was kind of fed up. I mean, nothing much grows on top. I did make that comment. Tidy it up, I said. So he got out his clippers, and a moment later it was all gone.

All of it.

Oops.

I suddenly realised this was a little more severe than I intended.

Still, some will grow back. At the sides. Up my neck. And I always liked hats...

Vacanze in Italia

So here I am, outside my favourite ice cream shop in the world. Gelato, not ice cream, of course. An important and not-so-subtle difference.

What's the difference? A MacDonald's to a fillet steak. I sort of like chocolate ice cream, but from Vivoli's, I am in love with it. It is the essence of all that chocolate should be. Even from the Llanfaes Dairy, my favourite ice cream shop in the UK, I can take or leave the chocolate, and usually try something else. At Vivoli's, they have mined the essence of chocolate, its texture as well as its flavour. Shall I have the chocolate, the chocolate mousse, the chocolate mousse with coffee, the chocolate orange, and so on and so on. Anything else is hard pressed to get a look in.

Except, of course, they also do the most perfect raspberry ice cream - it's more like a sorbet in its texture, colour and the depth of its flavour, and filled with raspberry seeds. Perfect. I usually combine it with a chocolate, though for one crazy experiment I had it with Amaretto - which ended up being like the most wonderful trifle.

Yes, I flew to Florence for the gelato. Art is art, but ice cream - this is eternal.

And I did walk around to try and burn off a kilo or two of the good stuff. So this is from San Miniato al Monte, with the Duomo in the background. My good friend, and former church member here at St Catherine's Miles Maylor took the photos. He wasn't up for the ice cream, but enjoyed the city and the walking. And the one or two bits of art I let him see.

Which included the Anigoni here, my favourite painting in all Florence, which can be found in San Lorenzo. Its use of light and colour, with Joseph watching over the infant Jesus who is contemplating nails in his hands. Joseph wants to stop him, but can't - the earthly father's concern for his son is natural yet misplaced, for nails in these hands will bring ultimate joy through suffering. And over the scene, a blood-shot sky cannot hide the light that the cross will bring. It is a place of paradox and understanding, of God seeing our struggles and standing with us, though in the picture he is the small one and we the large, as so often we feel we are (and of course are not).

Then a day to San Gimignano. Yes, yes, touristville. But heaven on earth too. And a new hat, just for the trip. The main church there has stunning frescoes, which I will try and Google.

Just a short trip. But wonderful. Thank you Lord for such blessings as these.

7

Seven.

The Hebrew number for completeness, perfection.

The days in a week.

David Beckham in an England shirt.

Deadly sins.

Wonders of the world.

The smallest number that can't be represented as a sum of fewer than four non-zero squares.

The number of bones in a mammal's neck.

The number of spots on a ladybird.

The stellar objects in the solar system visible to the naked eye.

The hills of Rome. Or Bristol.

S Club.

The completed symphonies of Sibelius. Or Prokofiev, for that matter.

The number of Brides and Brothers in the 1954 musical film featuring Howard Keel.

Or Samurai, if Kurosawa is more your thing.

Or Sinners, if Marlene Dietrich does it for you.

Put a couple of noughts before it, and you have Britain's most famous Universal Export.

And of course, a recently completed series of children's novels has this many books.

And Star Trek fans are waiting for a Borg reference. I could give several. Of nine.

But really, the reason for all this is that today is the seventh anniversary of my time as vicar of St Catherine's, and though I could go all deep and theological on you - actually, I just want to be happy, and grateful. I love being here (though I'm not here - I'm on holiday!) - it is a blast. A privilege. A wonderful thing. Sure, there are moments, but I am where God has called me to be, doing what I am called to do, and that is the most that anyone can ask for. I love it.

Thank you Lord. I don't know what tomorrow holds, but for these seven years past, I am extraordinarily grateful, you have been wonderfully kind to me. I pray for dreams of what may come, and greater grace to see those dreams come to pass.

Isaiah 65.17-25

Yes Indeed!

So I am learning some new tricks. I have found a snazzy bit of software that allows me to edit snippets of video really easily (it has to be easy for me to do it!), and I am filling YouTube with bits and pieces of St Catherine's worship...

This one is a sort of "Come Holy Spirit" song, though not necessarily in the Vineyard tradition.

There are more excerpts on my MySpace page - Beautiful One and How Great Thou Art from the same evening back in November 2005, and on the St Catherine's newspage we are attaching all sorts of things... And now that I know how to do it, I have all sorts of plans to make that site well and truly multi-media!

Or for something a little different - with a gently swaying Bishop David Yeoman - try this gentle version of Chris Tomlin's excellent song:

Stoking the Embers

I've been meaning to write more about The Furnace week at New Wine Cymru. But in all honesty, it's still eluding me a little.

I think it is because it was a week that took me entirely by surprise, and as a result I am having difficulty in processing it.

I mean, when the expectation and the experience are connected, it is easy to find a suitable place in one's heart or mind or whichever internal filing system is appropriate for the occasion. It can be locked away in the right place. Like Mary, we can ponder it when time permits, and (perhaps less like Mary, but more like normal life) make it a part of us in easily digestible bits.

When the expectation and the experience bear no resemblance, this ain't so easy.

I went to Furnace without high hopes. Some vision, some excitement, but not a lot. The previous year (and every other time I'd had anything to do with Flames of Fire) had sort of innoculated me against it. I was glad some of the church were going; we'd be OK together - I could escape to them. There would be good stuff along the way (with people like Bruce Collins and Kenny Borthwick how could there not?) but I had no idea how my bit would go, or if many would come, or how my team would do, or anything really. Yes, I had low hopes.

And it was amazing.

I was blown away.

Day by day.

There were times of worship where God was powerfully present, and I just needed to dance for joy. Never mind the kids from our youth group standing there, looking. I just needed to dance for joy. I can't remember the last time that was true. I thought I was too old for that sort of thing! I used to dance at Soul Survivor or Delirious gigs, but this year at the Furnace, I was just filled with so much sheer pleasure at being in the Lord's presence, at the freedom of having such music and such songs, and such a chance to let my spirit soar, I had to dance. I tried not to. It didn't work.

I could see young people catching a glimpse of the possibilities of letting Christ in: words and healings and praying and talking and sharing and learning together. And I remembered that I enjoyed working with this age range. There is a yearning in me, because coming here has been about giving this up, and yet I enjoy this work. So much. The choices and the influences and the time to make right decisions. Lives won in these days for Jesus - oh, what a privilege.

Always a privilege. Maybe again, some time. After all, we have our youth group, and a few students, and the thing I am reminded of is that the words spoken here at these times are key words, not to be wasted, with the Lord blessing those who will listen and follow and those who will guide and show the way.

And I met some wonderful people. Gary and the Ignite team. Diana in the cafe. Andy Booth - heart of gold. Tim our sound man, whose efforts become more and more super-human the more I think about it! Lord, bless these people, and give me grace to keep contact with them.

And above all, I am left exhausted by grace. By God's generous gift of that week. And my gratitude in return is feeble and weak, but true. I am grateful to have been there. It was awesome.

Burning Bush

Click here for a fascinating article in the Times about George W Bush and his public statements about Christian faith.

The comments which follow the statements are a mish-mash of anti-Christian and anti-church-and-state polemic, but the 50 chosen comments from Bush are revealing in all sorts of ways.

Some are just silly.

Despite myself I enjoyed the idea of him denouncing anti-Catholic "bigacy". (Is that the idea that the Protestant denominations get more people attending? We're "bigger" than you?)

And he's probably right to say Osama bin Laden wouldn't really enjoy Hanukkah.

There is also a confusion of culture and faith - though he claims that Freedom isn't America's gift to the world - it is God's (or the Almighty's, or an Almighty's), the terms of that gift sometimes sound very "American Christian" - the alternative being either an aside, an add-on or false religion.

And of course, lots of Christians all over the world want to support a Christian man in George's position but find themselves wincing and running for cover every time he opens his mouth on the subject, as he fails to explain everything from why they switched from an Episcopalian to a Methodist church, to then being recorded on another occasion as saying, "I don't think you order suiciders to kill innocent men, women, and children if you're a religious person". Not suiciders, just regular forces, then it's OK for a religious person to issue those orders.

We wonder - is he for real - faithwise? I pray so. I think. I could not wish him not to be. But he will have to answer for what he has done. As we all will. Though most of us have not had the world's fate and the lives of millions dependent on our judgement and malapropisms, which in that context lose their humour.

A serviceman home on R&R from Iraq this week told me that the place was death and destruction everywhere - worse than he had ever seen it. I had a cold call from a stationery salesman on Wednesday - an ex-serviceman who left the miltary after his wife gave birth to their first daughter earlier this year. He told the same tale - pointlessness and mayhem and soldiers obeying orders that mean nothing.

So I think I pray that George W Bush is for real, faithwise. Because he is beyond a joke for me as I watch families here sweat it out as their boys serve out there in Bush and Blair's warzone, with too many dying for the vanity and stupidity of leaders who mouth statements of faith as if it lets them off the hook. It does not.

We who live by faith don't find you funny, George; just plain offensive. And the less you talk about God, the better that might be for everyone.