Running the Race

"Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us" (Heb 12:1)

How often it is truly said that you cannot preach from a restricted view of the Gospel. And, brethren (and your womenfolk, to whom I expect you to explain the more complex parts of this sermon), I am therefore preaching from the whole verse this week. Last week's sermon, in which I preached from the word "quail" alone, may have been more suited to the theological specialist.

So we will see what we have in this verse from Paul's letter to the Hebrews. But first, if I may, a short diversion - the self-styled "Archdruid" next door claims that there is no evidence that Paul wrote the epistle. But she is clearly deluded. Because it says so in the Bible. Although not in hers, which is further proof of how far she has fallen.

But let us see what it says. We have a race set before us - and the end of that race is salvation. But there are hurdles - for truly it is an hurdle race. And Paul maketh it clear what some of the hurdles are. Being compassed about with a cloud of witnesses, saith the Apostle, let us lay aside every weight. Clearly the witnesses are that very weight of which he speaks.

And immediately we see what he means - imagine, if you will, the Olympic Stadium as it will be in just a few short weeks. Let us forget for one moment that the Olympics are part of the religion of idolization of the human body and spirit. And let us forget that the International Olympic Committee is part of that godless World Order that will put the Nameless Thing on the throne, as all bow down to the power of the sponsors, and none will trade without approval from the IOC that the product they are selling has indeed the symbol of the Olympics printed thereon.

But let us imagine a pure and noble race. And as the athletes wait at the start of the 400m hurdles, one of them becomes aware of the crowd or audience - that "great crowd of witnesses" with which he is compassed. And instead of viewing only the finishing tape - and the hurdles which he must overcome - he becomes aware that there exists a crowd - ostensibly to "cheer him on" but actually to distract, to confuse and to overwhelm.

Surely he will forget his objective, take his eye from the goal, and trip over the first hurdle. And as he lays there - his face a bloody mess and his feet still lodged on the top of the hurdle - he will know that the race is already lost.

But suppose in the next lane, there is a godly and focussed man - one who does not take account of the crowd of witnesses around him - one who hears only the starter's pistol and sees only the tape ahead (taking due account of the hurdles). And suppose as he runs along, he noticeth the man in the adjacent lane  tripping over the hurdle and smashing to the ground. Then what will that man do?

Surely, brothers and sisters, the answer is clear. He will ignore that fallen man and run on. For to stop, to bind up the fallen - that will mean that he himself loses the race. His job is to get to the end first - to win the eternal prize. For surely this is a race, and not a woodland dawdle, wherein one mayst attend to those companions that trip over holes and divots, or become attached to barbed wire while escaping rampaging bullocks or geese.

Surely, brothers and sisters - ploughing on, leaving the one that is fallen to his fate - for he has fallen already. This is the way forward. For there is no room for losers in the Kingdom of God.

And now we sing our closing hymn - "Over the Mountains and the Water Jump".

Guest Preacher - Geoffrey Boycott

The Parting of the Red Sea  (Ex 13:17-14:29)

Eee I remember that tour of the Middle East with t'Yorkshire squad. Brian Close were t'captain and Moses were team coach.  Well, people from Yorkshire have allus been the chosen people.....

The "Largo" from the "New World Symphony" may be played.

And you hear people today complaining about pitches favouring batsman - well, too right. It's all too easy in my opinion. In my young days we had to play on uncovered pitches. But that 1st Sinai Test - if tha's never played on a sea bed straight after a miraculous parting o' t'waves tha's never seen a spinning wicket.

Still, there were a bit of life in it for the quickies and all. Fiery Phinehas Truman made mincemeat o' the Egyptian lower order. And when it were our turn, Closey told me what with the sand, quails and manna about the place, I 'ad to try and 'ang on in there.

It's not everybody could play a forty year innings. Carried me bat. When Moses went for 120, there were only me left at the crease. And it's a shame the England youngsters can't manage that sort o' thing today.

Sermon on Bobby McGee

It was a conversation on "freedom" that called to mind that sentiment in the Kristofferson/Foster song (recorded so many times), "Me and Bobby McGee". The line is "freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose".

I take it as a bitter line; we jokingly say that people after a relationship has ended (or before one starts) are "free", but free from what? Free from responsibility, sure. Free from the demands that one person makes on another's time, energy, personal space. But as the singer says, if your freedom means there's nothing left to lose - what good is freedom? Sure, he's free to find another love, to behave badly, to do whatever he wants - no longer enslaved to another's seemingly insistent urges to travel the southern United States on an assortment of traffic - but in the process, he's lost everything that mattered.

And yet it reminds me of that great road movie, Clockwise. Given one last chance to make the Headmasters' Conference on time, Stimpson remarks, " It's not the despair, Laura. I can take the despair. It's the hope I can't stand." As long as Stimpson thinks he's failed, he is set free. It is when he still has a hope of success that he can't stand it. For Stimpson, having nothing left to lose is freedom. Is that why Jesus told the young rich man to give away everything he had? By having nothing left to lose, would he be free - as Marley was not, dragging his money behind him through all eternity? Would Stimpson's life have been better had he just given up the Headmasters' Conference, the ambition, the slavery to the clock - and gone to live on a farm and keep chickens?

Or is the message of "Me and Bobby McGee" that we should gather our rosebuds while we may? In that brief half-hour of summer we can expect this year, between the droughty floods of Spring and the floody droughts of Autumn - you may just see the one rosebud. Grab it while you may - assuming that it is legal and safe to do so. I would strongly recommend ye leave any rosebuds alone that ye may see in your local municipal park or trip to a stately home - these are not your rosebuds to gather. But if they are your own rosebuds, then gather them while ye may. For the summer is a fleeting beauty, and we are fragile creatures that flit through the light, and peer dimly into the future.

As the singer of the song reflects, he'd trade all his tomorrows for a single yesterday, holding Bobby's body close to his. Some might reflect that it serves him right for hitching up with a girl who is clearly unhappy simply to accept the name "Roberta", and instead feels the need for shortness and informality so popular in these troubled times. But others will recognise that feeling. As a singer of the same era remarked, you don't know what you've got till it's gone. Best to enjoy paradise before they put up a parking lot - grab the rosebud while it's there - and make the most of hugging Ms McGee before she heads off looking for the home you'll hope she'll find.

And if we end up feeling that we'd trade all our tomorrows for a single yesterday, then it must have been a superb yesterday at the time.

The O'Vienna Sermon

O'Vienna Syndrome is a debilitating illness, causing its sufferers to express themselves in the lyrics of the New Romantic Movement. It  can strike at any time. But this evening it struck while I was writing tomorrow's sermon. 
Worse, I fear that I now have Gilbert O'Sullivan Syndrome, where you even quote from the 1970s. Eventually, Brethren, I had to cut the sermon short before too much of the 1980s' immorality and have-it-all attitude could escape. But I reproduce the sermon here, to show how terrible O'Vienna Syndrome can be.


So we turn to the message , from dear John 3:3, that we must be born again. Time after Time I had asked God, how will I know if I have faith? My daddy was a preacher man, and I would see him on Sunday – bloody Sunday, when he was back in black. He would ask me, have you found your personal Jesus? And I would say, Papa don’t preach. I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.

And I remember, one blue Monday, at a Celebration. To me just one more night. But the preacher believed in the Rapture. He said, “it’s the end of the world as we know it. I can feel it in the air tonight. You gotta have Faith.” And I responded, even though I don’t like Mondays.

And Lord - you decided to lay your love on me. But I resisted – saying “I love rock ‘n’ roll. Although it is a tainted love.” But I heard you saying – “don’t you want me? I know you suffer from temptation. You say, “we’re going down the pub” – consuming two pints of lager and a packet of crisps, hitting the sherry, looking for some electricity with girls, girls, girls. Just want to have fun, don’t you?”

And it was true. I was in love with Roxanne, my best friend’s girl. A maneater. I couldn't beat it. When I saw Ben, I’d say to myself – is she really going out with him? I wanted sexual healing – even though it's a sin - but it just left me hungry like the wolf.

“My Sweet Lord, I’m addicted to love,” I said, “She drives me crazy. I wanna dance with somebody who loves me. Yet when I need you – I can’t live, with or without you.”

And he said to me, “Sweet child of mine, relax. Don’t push it. You don’t need these West End Girls. You’ve been bad. You’re in a rat trap. You’re in a fast car on the road to hell. But walk this way instead. You can live with the Spirit in the sky.”

But I was a rebel... rebel. One of the bad boys. “Who wants to live forever?” I asked. But it hit me like a sledgehammer.

I walked in the cold air. Should I accept the power of love? Or walk like an Egyptian? I knew I had to get back to life. I couldn’t fight the power.

“You spin me right round like a record,” I said. “From now on I’m living on a prayer. I was defeated – you won the war. The winner takes it all – another one bites the dust.”

So, my friends, you may be waiting for that careless whisper, but don’t you forget about me. In the Name of Love, don’t stop believing. The only way is up.

Back to Work Tuesday

"By the sweat of your brow will you have food to eat until you return to the ground from which you were made." (Gen 3:19)

And so as the Christmas break ground to a halt, and in obedience to the Biblical command, many returned to work. Except those who were working last week, like bin-people and shopworkers and warehouse people and firefighters, the police and ambulance - and the Scottish, of course, who get the extra day. And vicars and the like who, after days of sleep deprivation through Midnight Communions, Masses of the Dawn, Watchnights and what have you, need a few days off to get some sleep.

We've packed all the Beaker People with standard office jobs back off today with a sprinkling of water from the Pouring Beaker, and the ironic strains of "I wish it could be Christmas every day".

And yes, as I said in my short address, it's tempting to think wouldn't it be great if there were no work - just sitting round eating Turkey and listening to the Wombles.  Always Christmas but never getting to Easter. But life's not like that. And for all the back-break or mind-ache of the jobs some do, those with no jobs aren't always so happy. Some are blessed with the health and imagination to lead fulfilling lives; and some are blessed with the cash to make idleness happy if they don't have the imagination. But for most of us, worklessness is as bad as drudgery and work part of the rhythm of lives - a place to meet others, a change of scene, and sometimes a place to enjoy.

So I sent them off with those cheering words, then put my feet off and spent the rest of the day dining off crumpets and black coffee and reading "The Return of the Native". I like to think it's not slacking - it's exercising a prophetic ministry.

Drayton Parslow's New Year Sermon

My fellow Funambulist Baptists, it is good to greet you on this first day of the year 2012.

And in keeping with the bright hope of this morning's theme, we turn to my text - "The fourth angel poured out his bowl on the sun, and the sun was allowed to scorch people with fire. They were seared by the intense heat and they cursed the name of God, who had control over these plagues, but they refused to repent and glorify him."

For what more do I need to say than that every one one of us stands at a fork in the path. And there are two paths - one leading to perdition, and the other - if the Merciful One is truly merciful, and treats us with  leniency instead of with the whips and scorpions that we deserve - to salvation. Maybe this year will be the year we see him approaching on the clouds - Lo! Every tongue will confess him Lord and every knee will bow! Maybe this year!

And I know what ye are thinking, my brethren - you remember that the last year was full of apocalypses, none of which ever happened. That the Reverend brother whom we called a sage reader of the times in May - and with slightly more suspicion in October - turned out to be less of a prophet and reckoner of God's times and seasons than we thought. And I say to you - yes, the last few apocalypses have turned out to be false dawns. But there's always the next one. To misquote a line Eileen occasionally uses, I should know all about apocalypses - I've forecast a few of them myself.

But if this year is the Year of Judgement, then in what state shall we be found when the Weigher of our Souls puts us into the Eternal Soul Weigh Station? Let me give you an illustration. The benighted Beaker Folk across the grounds spent three days clearing their garage. And when they had finished, their garage was completely clear and Lo, Eileen was pleased when her eyes beholdeth the empty garage. But is it not like a soul that has an unclean spirit cast out? For no sooner had she pronounced the garage good in her eyes, than it was filled once again with rubbish and the cast-off debris of their sybaritic lifestyles. Indeed, they sleep the sleep of the unrighteous now, having consumed too much of the juice of the apple, grape, grain and whatever you make Pernod out of last night. And while we who are righteous are awake - for those who sleep, sleep at night - the Beaker People are asleep even in the daylight.

And I lost many hours of the sleep of the righteous last night thanks to their loud music, and the enormous firework they let off at midnight. Indeed, the burning iron filings that struck my window in the night actually melted aspects of the glass into what looked - when I woke, sleep-deprived, at 5am this morning - from a certain angle to be a representation of Mary. And in my confused state, to Marjory's alarm, I started to recite the Hail Mary, until she threw a cup of iced water over me and brought me to my senses.

But I know - for I remember this day last year - that when the Beaker Folk emerge, blinking and retching, as if to judgement, into the daylight later - I will hear the clinking of empties as they dump all the bottles into boxes in the garage. And those bottles will there remain until the Day of Judgement, or the recycling collection - whichever is sooner.

Friends, you can walk round to my garage and you will see that it is perfectly clear. No boxes of empty Famous Grouse, no bundles of wrapping paper and old newspaper, no old microwaves - for I keep my garage empty. You can park a car in my garage at any time you need. For indeed, our car will not fit in the garage. But when the Great Day comes, the Recording Angel will behold, in at least one house in Husborne Crawley, an empty garage.

Finally, this is the time of the year that I often like to quote the old poem - I said to the man who stood on the threshold of the year, and he said "Run! Run for your life! Hide amidst the rocks and repent and maybe you will be overlooked." These are wise words, words that we can reflect on. For when the heavens open and the earth is split asunder, when the record of rights and wrongs is reckoned off - we, alone in the sinful world, will be able to say "I have a clean and tidy garage."

Out of the Mouths of Babes and Sucklings

A stray conversation today taketh my mind back to the days when, a young evangelist-about-town, I found my way one dark Sunday night to the environs of the New Covenant Church in Dunstable. Frustrated by the impositions of the Strict and Peculiar Baptists, I thought to find new light in a dangerous and yet seductive new experience - the Charismatic movement.

I was sitting behind a young family - for the New Covenant Church took their evening services terribly seriously. And after a mere hour of the service, after a short time of worship and when the text had been given out, the sermon began.

A strong sermon, which I remember to this day. A warning about the importance of parental discipline. The pastor stressed that the woes of the modern world can be traced to too slack an attitude to children's behaviour. Does the Good Book not command, he remarked, that we should enforce a strong moral code in our children? Should we not teach them that we live not for pleasure, but to please the Lord? Should we not teach them that while all things are possible, not all things are permitted? Should we not, in short, bring our children up to keep within the bounds of the narrow road that leadeth to salvation - eschewing the wide and easy spiritual M1 which leads only to an unfortunate breakdown in the contraflow near Husborne Crawley?

As I say, in front of me was a young family. The Covenant Fellowship in those days encouraged its members to bring with them a notebook, for writing down the main points of sermons for future fruitful meditation. And this family had equipped its younger son - of the age, I should think, of seven or eight, with a pen and spirobound notepad.

And I watched as this young hero of the faith listened to the message from the platform, heard a particularly important point, and reproduced it in his notebook, exactly as he had understood it. He wrote "Always say no to your children".

Friends, it is a quarter of a century since this happened. The young man himself may now be a parent and patriarch himself. I pray he has kept his notepad.

Now that's what I call a boring sermon

Serious news coming across from Bogwulf Baptist Chapel.

Apparently Drayton Parslow's sermon this morning was so boring, the congregation's snoring even woke up Drayton himself.

Now that's boring.

Saying Amen at the End of a Sermon

Another stray thought on sermoncraft today. And I've been having what you might describe as a neighbourly chat across the hedge with Drayton Parslow on this one.

Drayton's belief is that you should always say "Amen" at the end of your sermons. His principle is that, having offered it up to God, a sermon is effectively a kind of prayer. So "Amen" is commending it. Even if you had the most powerfully moving and spiritually effective sermon known to Man you should say Amen to conclude.

To which firstly I had to respond that what he should have said was "known to Humanity" or "known to Men and Women". And secondly, that it strikes me that Drayton is using the word "Amen" as a kind of get-out. I reckon he's using it as a keyword to wake up the congregation (and, after Drayton's 2-hour variety of sermon, probably Drayton himself, and possibly even God. I have a mortal fear that one day Drayton's going to bore God to sleep and who knows what that could mean to the universe).

Either that, or it means that Drayton's sermon conclusion is so indeterminate that Drayton himself is unsure whether it has ended or not. So he says "Amen" as a kind of rubric, meaning everyone knows the sermon is over and they're not all left dangling waiting for the next thought he might be planning to share.

Personally, I never say "Amen" at the end of a talk. Partly because I ensure everyone always knows when I've finished. And partly because there's rarely anything deeply spiritual in there anyway, so what's the point?

If I ruled the world

Sometimes I think that it would be better for all if I ruled the world.

After all, I look round the community and I see Drayton Parslow in his WoManse struggling even to manage his own household - proclaiming the man as head of the household while Marjorie pushes him around and tells him when to cook the pancakes. And I see Hnaef trying to buy Daphne's favour with cups of coffee and unsuitable birthday gifts (a guide to Algol? I mean. Even if it is "retro chic"). And I see Burton writing down the registration numbers of cars going into the Safari Park to take his mind off his Lenten vow not to spot trains. And I think - I wouldn't leave these people in charge of a whelk stall. If I weren't running things it would all go to rack and ruin, and I'd be surprised if the doilies ever got pressed.

And I look at Libya and I think - if I had the power I'd sort that. Chuck out the madman and install somebody better. Except, of course, that's what happened in Afghanistan. And that was a great success, wasn't it?
And I see Japan and think that if I could, I'd stop earthquakes and Tsunamis. Yes, I realise that if it weren't for such forces there would never be life on earth. But that was then and this is now. We don't need stuff like that now. I'd have a much safer world. One where cyclists can ride along the road without having to take their chances with idiot drivers of Audi A8s. And petrol was free and didn't produce CO₂. Except then we'd need more roads, until we'd tarmacced over every bit of the Home Counties. And then I realise that if I really ruled the world like that, I'd just be Bruce Almighty and we know how that works. And then I think - except it wouldn't, because I wouldn't listen to anyone's prayers. I'd know what they all needed - what was good for them - and I'd do that. They'd all be happy. They'd all have just what they needed. Nobody would struggle, or suffer, or aspire. They'd just have to follow me. And that would be great. I'd be like Galadriel but without  the blonde wig.

And if I could climb up the scaffolding around the East Wing extension, without a hard hat or safety boots, and throw myself off without harming myself - wouldn't that be great? A world with no need for health and safety. Or personal responsibility. A world where you can't even find danger if you look for it - unless, just maybe, we roped a bit of the Rockies off from people who didn't want the danger, and only allowed the suicidal and thrill-seeking in. And even then I'd make sure they couldn't hurt themselves too much.

It'd be great. Dull, safe, but we could play Enya when we got bored and make our non-polluting industrial products in direct defiance of the 2nd Law of Thermodynamics. The Universe would stop expanding, and universal heat-death would never happen. And people would pile up until there was no room - but at least we'd be safe. And they'd all love me. If I ruled the world.

Accidental Heresy

Oh my brethren, such an effect as my preaching has had today.

I chose (for the sake of those of my congregation used to a "lectionary", out of charity, and not from the dead weight of law forcing me) the reading of the Transfiguration. But to show there was no blind following of the rules, I chose to use the reading from Mark. I am no slave to tradition.

But no soft words from me about "me-time" or "quality time" or "gazing on the face of the Lord" or "mountain-top experiences". I asked - is the message not clear? Our Lord, glowing in His real nature, casting away the hollow shell of His humanity, shines with the light of heaven. We, human, earthly clay can only look on Him in fear. We must repent in dust and ashes that He may, in His divinity, take pity on our poor, weak frames.

The congregation went away terrified, mortified and chastised. But leaving the chapel, a nagging doubt leapt into my mind. In haste I summoned up the voluminous folders of my Hope Springs Theological College Quick-Start Ministers' course. And found there a short passage on "Early Christian Heresy". And what have I done? I have preached - at the best - a form of Monophysitism - believing that the human nature of Our Lord was enveloped and absorbed into his divine one. At worst, I have preached Docetism - the belief that He only appeared to be human. I am an accidental heretic.

In the circumstances, I have no choice. I have been travelling the great distances between our congregation's homes (this was the week the Baptibus actually got to the chapel in time for the sermon) - knocking on their doors, begging their forgiveness and explaining where I went wrong. I have so far managed seven visits, and have another twenty to make - including some on the other side of Bedford. It will be a long night.

Sermon on the Magnificat

First of all, my tightrope-walking flock, I would like to apologise for using the word "Magnificat". A Latin word, and that is not a language we would generally wish to hear spoken in a church of the Reformed and Baptist traditions. Indeed, in the little patch of garden I have been allocated I have carefully translated all Latin plant names into New Testament Greek to ensure I fall not into the temptation of being baptised in the Tiber.

But that is the word by which this particular text is generally known, and I will face the use of the language this once. But of course our text today is of particular awkwardness, and I will attempt now to face it.

Firstly we have the dilemma of how we receive this text at all. For after all these are the words that were uttered, let us face it, by a woman. And we have long rejected the teaching of women in our congregations.  So how do we hear these words?  I think there are two mitigating features here. The first is that, of course, the text was inspired by the Holy Spirit. Although that now leads us into further dilemma - for if that is the case, how would we regard the teaching of a woman in our midst that claims to be inspired by the Spirit? But I think that we can be re-assured by the knowledge that the actual words we read here were written by a man - that is, the good surgeon Luke. And he will have remedied any minor theological defects or terminological inexactitudes from what was originally uttered, and converted it into inspired and mellifluous Greek.

Then we have the next issue - that all generations will call Mary "blessed". Which of course is true. She was blessed by God. Blessed to carry God's son. But just because she was called Mary, blessed and had not known a man, I see no reason to describe her as "The Blessed Virgin Mary". Simply to have been the provider of human nature to Our Lord, the one who brought him into the world, and the one who brought him up, does not in any way imply that she had any special importance. I think the best thing we can do here, as I know you have done for so long in the Independent Funambulist Baptists' Church, is move along quickly and not delve too deeply into these questions.

But now let us move onto the words that follow. The ones that are liable to cause even more concern to those of faint heart and shallow faith.

"He hath showed strength with his arm; he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He hath put down the mighty from their seats,and exalted them of low degree."

And to some - such as the "Archdruid" of the Community next door, who will hear apocalyptic in any reading of any part of Holy Scripture - or even Thomas Hardy novels, so dedicated is she to the overthrow of all things godly - this is a prophecy of the future. She sees the day when all unfair tyranny and unjust economic structures - apart from her own, I hasten to add - will be overthrown.

But how blind could one be? For behold, these words of the Blessed Surgeon, tidied up from Mary's original song, are in the past tense. The throwing down and raising up have already happened. The new order has - to a large extent - come in. The comfortable economic position in which we currently live is the blessing God has bestowed upon us for our holy, capitalist, free-enterprise spirits. But not so - you will notice - the Catholic Irish, who ran away to the foreign gods of Economic Monetary Union - flagged, you will notice, with an emblem of 12 stars. And truly they are now punished, unable even to buy a pint of Guinness to cry into.

So rejoice, brethren, and be exalted. For truly we the humble have been lifted up, and the oppressors and ungodly have been cast down. And so will it be until the End.

Now let us forget this awkward little reading as we climb upon our tightropes once more, to sing "Nearer my God to thee".

The Pharisee and the Tax Collector - Luke 18:9-14

Truly was Our Lord right to castigate the Pharisee. For he stood boldly in the temple and declared himself righteous. And yet we know he was not so. For did the Pharisees not try to stand in their own strength? Did they not claim their own righteousness - yet still in their hearts they lusted after women (and possibly, for all we know, men) and desired wealth and coveted power and the admiration of others. So they were sinners, sinners, sinners and we know it and they knew it. Hypocrites and play-actors and dissemblers. And the publican - surely he was lost in his sin. Yet he knew his sin and confessed it, and stood in the temple and was justified in his confession.
Although if he went away and sinned again, of course, then his sin was the worse - for the possibility of repentance was still before the Pharisee, yet the publican had now received his chance (Heb 6:4-6).

And what for us? As a minister, clearly it is my responsibility that I show in public the perfect nature that can be attained by all those who are washed clean. I must not fall - and I do not mean in the sense that I demonstrated in Frisby on Soar, that day when I threw myself into the compost heap to avoid the doubles-entendres of Mrs Collins. No - I must be seen to utter no coarse words, to drink no alcohol, to avoid the lustful glance of the eye towards the hinder quarters of women of the opposite sex (and especially of Eileen, who would surely smite anyone she considered to be acting in base manner towards her, particularly if it were me). But I feel I can share with you for, while the presence of you honeymooning Slovakians brings up our attendance here to 3, representing 200% growth in two weeks, you don't speak a word of English, and you'll be off back to Zvolen tomorrow morning. So I can tell you that - although I work hard to be perfect in the light, yet in the darkness of my own house I often sneak more than the regulation number of Fox's Glacier Mints, a luxury I despise and yet love so much. How far I have fallen. Can I be forgiven? I strive with fear and trembling to repent. And yet the next day I'm off to the Glacier Mints again. Sometimes I am so overcome with my sinfulness with respect to my mint addiction that I can't even raise the energy to check how my Nestle, Halliburton and Ryanair shares are doing.

The Importunate Widow (Luke 18:1-8)

This morning's sermon was won with much struggle and soul-searching. For indeed, I read "importunate widow" as "unfortunate widow", assuming they meant the same thing. And I wrote a scathing sermon on the concept of "good" and "bad" luck - explaining how there is no such thing as luck on the earth, but rather that God gives his blessings to the good and his rebukes unto the naughty, for their education and edification.
Except where he gives blessings to the naughty and rebuketh the good - for he is an almighty God and this seems to be the case occasionally - except wherein we wait for him to reverse his decision, nigh unto the Lib Dem view on tuition fees.

But no - it turns out that in fact "importunate" means "being by nature importuning" - and not like those ladies in Leicester, that evening when I tried to find Baptist Bob. But constantly asking for help. Constantly bothering God. Coming before him in prayer and laying before him your needs - be they for a Mercedes Benz, or a colour TV, or a night on the town. Although my requirements are somewhat more modest and yet godly- being that the congregation here at Bogwulf Baptist should grow.

And I believe that my prayers have been answered in dramatic way. For truly our numbers here have doubled.
It's lovely to have you here, Mother. So kind of you to stay for the weekend.

Sermon: The woman with a bent back

On a sunny summer's morning such as this, it can be such a delight - in a chaste and holy way - to notice the young ladies of our congregation coming to chapel.

In their light, summer clothes they are like a bunch of flowers, bouncing into the church full of joy and youth and the life of the summer time. Or, if caught by a summer shower on the way in, those same light clothes flattened and clinging to their... no, sorry. Lost my train of thought there. Centre, Drayton. Centre.

Yet the temptation is there, when girls are pretty and the weather is warm - for them to revel in the fiendish attractions that can cause holy, respectable men who are old enough to be their fathers to lose sleep on hot, sultry nights. Or even get a dig in their ribs from their sharp-elbowed wives for allowing their thoughts and eyes to stray for a moment too long. For be well aware - such a man is not to blame in this. No, he is merely as the one who is held for a moment by witchcraft.

Yes, witchcraft. Let us not mince words. For what else could it be that allows a young slip of a thing, through the application of a summer dress and a temptation of lipstick, to control the thoughts and spirit of an older man who should - who, indeed, does - know better?

And so I tell you, young ladies of the church. Shun the lipstick that Max Factor and his evil friend Lori All try to push upon you. See them as the sticks of damnation that they are. Let your eyes shine as they are, and not with the evil lures of mascara. Do not lift up your heads and reveal your faces to tempt those of weaker faith. Do not lift up your head to see the opportunities around you of advancement - of those things that are beyond your station - even, that we should whisper such a word - of leadership.

No. Keep your pretty heads down, and your eyes focussed on the Way that is before you. Strait and narrow as it is, do not let your sight waver from the holy ground on which you stand for a moment. Or you might lift your heads, and lose the path, and gain ideas above your station.

And now I must close, as I see the arrival of the Baptibus outside the chapel. And we sing the 90th Psalm as a reminder that physical attraction and flaxen hair are as dust.

An all-night sermon session

Looks like being an all-nighter.

As well as tomorrow morning's service, for which I've had to produce an emergency sermon due to Reverend Bob's sudden departure, I've been working on my talk for tomorrow evening, session 2 in my series on 1 Timothy.

But Marjorie's read through it and told me I really ought to re-write it.  She says I've not emphasised the theme of male headship enough.

The Rich Fool

And what a reminder that great Parable of the Rich Fool is to us, of the importance of the way we use money.

I reminder when I first came for my interview with the Church Meeting, and to preach with a view to ministry, that I was informed that this was a church which believed in the biblical principle of tithing. I am therefore sad to report that, based on the discussions I have had with Mr Saunders, our Treasurer, the average member of this congregation earns around £27 per week.
I must admit I am shocked. Shocked by the obvious level of poverty by which I am surrounded. Who could have believed that, behind the net curtains of the executive 5-bedroom homes of Grebe Way, people struggle to live on such small incomes? I feel that by drawing my ministerial salary I am letting you all down. Maybe I should go back out to work in my former role as a ball-bearing salesman in the roller-skate industry, in the hope that I can, through giving my own tithe, support you all.

We must look closely at the story of the Rich Fool. For it is a story of priorities.
The Rich Fool had a large harvest. He could have used it to the glory of God - donating a tenth - or even more, for the Law was but a fence around sin, not a wall around goodness. Had he given his share to the synagogue, a rabbi might have been freed to spend more time in study of the Scriptures - in the process coming closer to God.
Or had he given it to the temple - the priests would have been freed to spend more time in prayer, purifying themselves in that Divine Fire for the service which they gave.
Or were the Rich Fool an independent Baptist - he could have granted his share to the minister, who thus  would be able to buy an iPad like all the Anglican priests, or a proper lap-top, instead of having to publish his sermons on Blogger by texting it into his £30 Nokia mobile telephone. And could have spent less time shovelling shire-horse droppings in the back garden, thence to grow vegetables with which to prop up his meagre ministerial income.
Not that I do not enjoy tending my garden, you understand. There is nothing I like better than to spend a long Saturday digging manure into garden beds followed by wasting God's beautiful cleansing water on a half-hour long shower to remove the rather ripe smell I acquire. I am truly working in God's vineyard - even if I am struggling to produce non-alcholic and godly grape-juice.

I should explain, in case you do not know the arrangements - I am unlike the ministers of the Church of England.  They are on a fixed stipend - and therefore earn the same regardless of whether they take any services or marry thousands, whether they save 100 lost souls or none. Where is their incentive? Unless they truly believe the Gospel, why would they work in the holy vineyards when they could sit around all day on Mr Twitter's time-wasting device?

Whereas I am paid - on top of a frugal base salary - a share of all giving. I have incentive to produce fruit that will last. I work every hour that I may gain the lost - and in the process, maybe enough left over to buy a tin of Ambrosia Cream Rice. Which goes very nicely with fruit that lasts, as it happens. I become all things to all men, that by all possible means I might save enough for a holiday.

But I am rambling, and maybe giving the impression that I perform my ministry for the love of filthy lucre, that rots or is stolen. If I build barns to hold my wages - then they would be fairly empty. And even if they were full, the Lord would still say to me - "You fool! This very day your life will be demanded of you!"

Faced with a threat like what else can we do but give graciously - give biblically - give generously - give till a great heap-offering of love is given for the work of the Church and the ministry of its minister. Given until all that is left in our pockets is lint.  For you do not muzzle the ox while it is treading grain, and the workman is worthy of his wages - meagre as they are.

And now we have our hymn - during which we will take an offering. "Silver and gold have I none".

Joshua

I feel I have to ask this.

Some might say it's sinful even to ask this question. Some might say I should not test the faithful. Some might say I have no right to ask it. But then some might say that there's no heaven - and go and tell that to the man who lives in hell.

Some might say I should just preach on being bold, being strong, for the Lord Your God is with you.

But it's this.

Joshua - a paragon of faith, bravery, dedication to the Lord. He is told to cross the Jordan, go and find out the various tribes of the Canaanites - I would list them all, but we're due to have another service next week, and I'm not sure I can get through them all in time - and he has to...

There's no easy way to put this. He is told to kill them all. Mostly just the males, but in some instances - Jericho, for instance - everyone. Man, woman and child. And destroy their belongings.  And, in the case of Jericho, obliterate the place.

Some might say that I'm just a bleeding-hearted old liberal. But I have to ask myself - how does that work? How can a loving God do that to people that He created?

And I've thought hard about the answer. And this is what I have concluded.

He did it because they deserved it.

I mean - what other answer can there be? There they all are - men, women and children - living in the Land of Canaan. A land that they may have thought was named after them - after all, they were  the Canaanites. Joshua turns up, blowing his own trumpet, as it were. The walls fall. The Israelitest kill them all.

So they must have been guilty. It stands to reason.  Baal-worshipping, Asherah-pole-building, Molech-stoking. What else could they expect? Genocide was too good for them.

But it still seems a bit rough on the children.

And now we sing that great old hymn - "Troops of Midian Prowl Around".

Martha and Mary

We meet this morning on a challenging day.  The unusually high levels of rainfall this last week left the slurry pond on Willow Farm at an abnormally high level, and I'm afraid that it broke its banks this morning just as I was leaving for chapel.

I give praise that the builders of the Manse built it like a house on a hill, that its light might shine upon the surroundings. And therefore though the slurry may rage and pour down towards Lower Lane, my manse, built on the rock of solid sandstone, will stand firm.

Not so for those who live in Lower Lane, many of whom now have to look forward to an afternoon of clearing slurry from the lower levels of their houses and wondering what they will ever be able to do with their gardens. It is not normally my way to offer words of worldly wisdom in sermons but on this occasion - firstly I am sure that the Lord won't mind if you break the Sabbath just this once in these circumstance, and secondly the authorities have made it quite clear you can't clear the slurry out of your houses straight into the brook. You'll have to hire some skips and pay for it to be taken to landfill.
I see on the faces of some from Lower Lane a gathering realisation. You left for chapel early this morning, to prepare the tea-making equipment, hand out the hymn books and Bibles, arrange the flowers and ensure that all was in order and ready for this morning's Divine Worship. You had no idea that a flood of slurry was even then preparing to sweep all your belongings out of your lower-floor windows. But consider.

What would Mary do?

Imagine that same tidal wave of slurry were rushing towards the little house in Bethany. Martha - practical, silly, worldly Martha - would be rushing around, boarding up the windows - putting sandbags round the door - in short, worrying about all the things the Gentiles worry about. And where would Mary be? At the feet of her Lord. Listening to his words. Knowing that she was safe there, in his presence, even though her sister at that point was up to her waist in the most hideous fluid known to Mankind, beating about her helplessly with a shovel in an attempt to keep the house clear.

Only one thing is needed, and we will pray for the people of Lower Lane, considering the hideous afternoon and evening they will face, during our Intercessions for the World, even Though it Doesn't Deserve it.
For the avoidance of doubt, the doors to the Chapel are locked, and will remain so until Divine Worship has completed. And now we sing our next hymn, the one with 27 verses that we all love so well, Trust and Obey, For There's No Other Way, Except Condemnation for Harbouring Evil Doubt in our Hearts.

Inaugural Sermon - the Good Samaritan

Firstly, can I say how blessed I feel to be here with you as your new pastor. My dear wife Marjorie would no doubt be equally blessed to be with you, if only I knew where she was. But be assured that she is no doubt only mislaid, and as soon as we get back in touch I'm sure she will be only too pleased to meet you all in person.

I'd especially like to the think the Ladies' Bright Hour, who've organised the welcome lunch for us. Without spoiling the surprise for you - I think I can honestly say that the cakes they've baked would make any Christian think twice before engaging in carnal sins of an energetic nature.

And so to our text. And what do we see here? Our Lord teaching through a series of allegories.

The Man - clearly Everyman. On his way from Jerusalem to Jericho. We can see the plain sense here - he is heading down from the Eternal City of Salvation to the City of Blood - the city that was overthrown through a prostitute's treachery. The city that was rebuilt at the cost of two lives. The city of thieves, liars, blindness and death. He is heading the wrong way. Oh - can he not see? Can he not see that he's heading down from the cool of the Judean heights to the heat and oppression? Can he say that he is walking indeed through the Valley of the Shadow of Death - heading away from all that is good? But onward he relentlessly goes.

And the thieves are those that would steal all goodness from humanity. The purveyors of popular beat music. The Disk-Jockeys. The chat show hosts. The Women who Get Above Their Station. The adulterers and the pool-table hustlers and the people who work in Morrisons.

So the man lays there - beaten down by the evils of life. But where does he look?

The Priest goes by. And in the Priest we see symbolised the Roman Catholic Church, that home of priests, Cherie Blair and Anne Widdecombe. And the Priest sees that the man - battered, bloody, bruised - might die, rendering him ceremonially unclean. So he passes by. He has to keep his holy robes clean, for the "sacrifice" that he will be performing.

And the Levite goes past - like unto the Priest in descent, and in his reliance on the handing down of his holy privileges. But he is no real priest - his inheritance is inferior, and he can only be a pale shadow of the real thing. The Levite represents the Church of England. But he too goes past. There's probably a Synod to get to.

And the Samaritan comes along. Richer than one might expect of such a despised race, he puts up money to look after the man. He cleans him and pampers him and then clears off about his business, no doubt in the meantime forgetting all about him, and yet leaves the Inn Keeper with a blank cheque to waste as he sees fit. The Samaritan represents the Taxpayer, and the Inn Keeper - the Welfare State.

So where, you are no doubt asking, is the True Church in all this? The place where the Gospel is proclaimed in its glory and simplicity? Where the Rock of Ages is clung to while we shelter beneath the shadow of its wings?

Obvious. Back in Jerusalem, worshipping the Lord. Where it is supposed to be. If the man hadn't gone off to Jericho he would have been fine. It was straying from the Lord's presence that did it.

What more need we say? Here we have truth. The Gospel preached 4 Square. Out there is strange, scary, dangerous. Feel for those out there. And let's all pray they find a Samaritan, so one day they may find their way here.