Sunk down in the Mire

So half the vegetable garden is now down to leeks, and I needed to start work on the other half - and those now rather devastated areas where I dug up suggestive fruit trees.  My task has been given extra urgency from another letter from Marjorie, informing me that she has rented the house out and will be with me early next week.

So I've been working really hard all morning, wrestling by the sweat of my brow with thorns and thistles. By twelve o'clock the whole patch was cleared and I was receiving my order of manure from the farmer.

I note from another web page the appalling use of language in our modern-day workforce.  Sometimes they are so coarse as to approach the foulness of Eileen's language back in Husborne Crawley.  And I can guarantee that the Revd Phil Ritchie's friends' experience is one I shared this morning.  The farmer turned up with his lorryload of manure, and asked - in terms lacking in all politesse - where I wanted the - well, I shall paraphrase what he said. He asked where I wanted the "dung".

I was so disconcerted by his use of vulgar epithet that I stood to upbraid him. Surely, I said, this use of the language of the gutter is unfitting? Think of the power of the human language - the traditional beauty of the King James Version. What would St Paul think, I was starting to ask - when I realised that he had activated the motor and the entire load of his lorry was sliding rapidly toward me.

Truly, l once again was as one that had gone down to the Pit. My head sticking out the top of a pyramidal mound of horse refuse.  But I refused to lose my dignity. I refused to descend to foul abuse. I merely remarked that he would receive his just reward. To which he responded that he already had that, as I had paid in advance.

At this point, Maud and Elsie wandered past on their way to market. I heard the words "Up to his neck in it again", and the reply "Yeah, he's no better than the last one".

I've spent the last half-hour moving as much manure as can be moved, from the drive where the farmer dumped it across to the vegetable patch.  And now I must be off. The shower and the fragrant aroma of carbolic soap in my nostrils await me.

A late-nighter

It is unlike me to be awake so late at night.

I can hear the sound of the drunkards in the Crown and Cushion. They sound so happy in their sin. By what definition do we declare them "miserable" sinners?

I console myself that the day will come when they have to account for every pint of Everard's they have consumed. Then the smiles will be on the other sides of their faces - when they fall into the vengeful hands of a loving God.

Long and winding is the road

A good day's evangelism outside Asda in Thurmaston.

I say "good" as in once again I was treated like the prophets before me - moved on repeatedly, insulted by youths and generally ignored.

Although it is good to hunger and thirst after righteousness, I ended up in the McDonald's across the road, where a young man accosted me and asked if he could join our congregation. He said he was feeling like an outcast himself and thought I seemed like a kindred spirit.  Naturally I was delighted.

But it's only now I'm home that I realise the problem I've given myself.

You see, Arthur lives on the Melton Road. And he doesn't drive. So I promised that we'd pick him up.

We've found it's a great evangelistic tool. Quite often non-drivers who are fed up with walking to their current churches can be persuaded to join the BaptiBus, the old Transit we send round picking them up before the service.
Or that's the theory. In practice, by the time the Baptibus has been to Market Bosworth,  Wigston, Kibworth, Scraptoft, Melton Mowbray and Wanlip and got back to Frisby, we're already halfway through the second worship block of songs. If they have to add a call on the Melton Road, either Oz is going to have to set off at 7am, or  they're all going to miss the sermon as well.

The not-so-merry Monarch

There is in English history a king so evil that his name should live with Stalin, Lenin, Mao, Pol Pot, Hitler and Mr Blobby in the first league of sinners.  He died, syphilitic and hideous, and missed by none.
He murdered his wives, Catholics, Protestants, Baptists and the good people of Yorkshire in equal measure. The Protestants he burned as heretics and - as a means of a kind of via media - the Catholics were hanged, drawn and quartered as traitors.

His name, of course, is Henry VIII. But because the Church of England that he founded (so he could divorce one wife and marry another so he could murder her) has continued to this day - a church of old maids cycling to Communion through the autumn mists of burning heretics - and because a hatred of Spain carried more weight than a love of the Old Religion - and because the Book of Common Prayer sounds so lovely and traditional - he has somehow kept a good name amongst the people of England as a precursor to that truly "Merry Monarch", Charles II.  Although, on the whole, of course, I prefer Oliver Cromwell, who was not so attached to any pleasure except that of banning things.

But enough of this pretending that, though he killed Catholics, Protestants and Yorkshire folk, Henry was basically a good bloke. We must strike back - and in the way that would hurt him to the core.

We must ban Greensleeves.

Healing Service

I know I should say that we were blessed at the Healing  Service last night. After all, wherever there is prayer for healing there is blessing.

But it's also very disappointing. Fourteen people went forward for healing. But none were healed. Fancy out of all those people, not one having sufficient faith. I'm very disappointed in them.

The Wages of Festering Sin

Jimmy is such a rebellious young man.

I saw him today and his eczema seems worse than ever. He tells me that young Arabella has left him, convinced that he has been unfaithful to her and this has caused his ailment.

I told Jimmy that indeed these were just the kinds of side-effects we can expect when we leave the paths of righteousness and follow after lust and depravity. I was going to tell him that, for his own good, I was going to have to bar him from Sunday morning worship for another fortnight, or until he repented publicly - but he'd walked off before I could say that.

The funny thing is that Arabella, who clearly has greater spiritual insight than Jimmy, has stopped attending St Swithin's and is now attending Salem Chapel with us. The vicar's not very happy.  But as I said to Mrs Gently (I hesitate to call her "Reverend") when I saw her in the town this afternoon, God doesn't want her doing that job anyway. She should leave spiritual guidance to her husband. She said quite a few things to me in reply, but none that I could reproduce on a family Blogsite.  No wonder she's losing her congregation when she swears like that.

Flip-flops, Shorts and Rock & Roll

I followed a comment on this blog back to the commenter - or is it commentator - intending to explain why my view on Creation is correct (i.e. because that's what it says in the Bible).
But instead I found myself musing on his choice of dress. Obviously, when I say "choice of dress" I don't mean frock. He's not an Anglican, after all. But rather he refers to attending church wearing flip-flops and shorts - and listening to Rock & Roll.

Which makes me wonder what our response at Frisby Independent Baptists would be if someone turned up wearing flip-flops and shorts.  I'll pass over Rock & Roll as clearly, with the exception of a few guitar-based combos on certain reliably sound Christian channels, that is beyond the pale. Although we might want to save people from Rock & Roll - as you would want to save them from Country & Western or even - whisper its name - Rhythm & Blues.

But suppose someone turned up at Salem Chapel wearing flip-flops. Firstly there is the likelihood that the person might merely be a visitor from the Baptist Union.  In which case we would treat them kindly, but would regard them as at the same level as our female worshippers - i.e. we wouldn't let them speak during the service.  We would also keep a watchful eye over them during coffee in case they started sharing false doctrines.
And if they were wearing shorts - well, clearly out of the question for a woman.  They would be ordered to remove them before being allowed in. No - let me rephrase that.  They would be asked to go home and change. And if it were for a man - well, that's a trickier one. I guess if he were an hairy man we might ask him to cover up. Such Edomish behaviour would not be tolerated. And if he shaved his legs - well, clearly we couldn't allow him in. Don't know why I even thought of it. Memories of Melton Mowbray all over again.
So what I'm saying is that I would allow a man in shorts to enter our place of worship, if he were naturally the possessor of smooth legs. I'm not sure who would be empowered to make such a decision at the front door before Divine worship - I, after all, would be preparing myself for the meeting with my two hours of silent prayer ion the vestry. So on the whole, I reckon that would be one for the Doctrine Sub-Committee.

I hope this is clear enough. God wants people to come to him as they are. But we'll make sure they're moving in the right direction before we actually put them in front of him.

A letter

I've received a letter from Marjorie.

"Dear Drayton

I've been wondering where you got to since we - or I should say - I moved house.  So I am delighted and surprised to have found out your new address.  I can't understand how I managed to lose you in the move, but I'd like to reassure you that it wasn't just you - I also managed to mislay the second-best napkin rings - you remember, the silver ones?  You haven't got them, have you?

In the time that we have been married, I've always considered that your neediness, expressed as an anxiety for everybody to love you, has been matched only by your poor organisation skills and your need to push people around.  I'm therefore delighted that, by obtaining a job as a church leader, you've probably found something that matches your personality

 Since I discover that you are living in a house provided by the church, I reckon I can make some money by renting out my - I mean our - primary residence. I will therefore be arriving in Leicestershire with you shortly. Can you get the spare room ready.

Sincerely

Marjorie"

I can't express my joy. That my new calling in life should be supplemented by the return of the one I love! I am unsurprised by the apparently cool tone on the surface of her letter - Marjorie was never one to let great emotion show, except a certain amusement that day I trapped my hand in the car door.

The Atheist who just wanted his Dad to like him

Who'd have thought, behind the blank eyes of the Door-to-Door Atheist - there was just a little boy wanting some approval?

I've had a busy morning, getting around the village and its surroundings.  I've been trying to visit various of my chapel members for their fortnightly spiritual audits. Unfortunately they were all out, which was quite a surprise. Not least because three of them were homebound. I can only cry Hallelujah! They must have been healed and risen from their beds. Which is quite a a blessing - especially for Mrs Hangem, who is 99 and hasn't left her cottage since the Beatles disbanded.

But I digress. I returned to the manse and made myself a refreshing cup of tea - not too strong, I wouldn't want to get over-excited and lose control of my passions.

And a knock came at the door.

I did what I always do in these circumstances. I opened the door - none of your post-modernism for me.  I have to mention that I was not dog-collared, as I tend to save such dressing-up and frippery for the Sabbath - and there he was. A little chap with greasy hair and an anorak. At first glance I assumed he was a member of our own congregation, but then I read the material he had in his hand.  "Evolution is real."

And I realised I was face-to-face with that mythical creature, the Door-to-Door Atheist.

Who would have thought it? I, a mere Baptist minister, granted by God's grace the chance to evangelise the Door-to-Door Atheist. Naturally I inwardly said the "prayer before going into spiritual battle" that I was taught on my three-week Independent Ministry Crash Course.

He's an interesting character. You think about it - you or I in evangelism, or a vacuum cleaner salesman or a door-to-door psychotherapist - we all adopt much the same technique. We try to establish that the person who opens the door has a problem.  Either they have a dirty soul, or a dirty carpet, or a dirty mind.  And we show how we can cure that problem - with the Jesus Prayer, or a new improved vacuum cleaner, or cognitive therapy.

Whereas the Door-to-Door Atheist starts by telling you that it's your solutions that are the problem, and if you'd give them up your life would be - well, less full of solutions, I suppose.

So we had a discussion about the evidence for evolution. He explained that the way in which fossils lie in the same sequence within rock strata shows that evolution has taken place. He spoke of the measurement of genetic change in modern-day organisms. He spoke of sickle-cell anaemia and malaria resistance, of the breeding of dogs, of the obvious flaws in the "design" of creatures. Of the shared DNA between many species, of mice and mitochondria.  And I read Genesis Chapter 1 to him, to explain to him what really happened.  And I patiently explained to him that fossils were put there by the Dark One, and he wouldn't accidentally put one in the wrong place to ruin the Theory of Evolution.

So he told me of the width of the universe - how it is expanding, and how maths and the Theory of Relativity prove the immense age of the universe. He told me of light from stars long-dead, still heading towards the earth. And I told him that 6000 years ago, God simply put those beams of light in the right places, and the expanding galaxies likewise, and told them all which way to go.

So he spoke of a plethora of religions - of dead religions and living ones - of polytheism and monotheism and henotheism -  and of each claiming to be right - and asked what made me think mine was the right one? And I told him - the Bible and the Holy Spirit tell me. So I'm right. So he could either repent or perish.

And then I changed tack - I don't know, something about him struck a chord - and asked him how he got on with his father.  And bingo.

I had to invite him in for a cup of moderate-strength tea with a sufficient but not luxurious amount of sugar.

Turns out his dad was a terrible critic of the Door-to-Door Atheist's talents - always telling him he wasn't good enough. And the Door-to-Door Atheist as a result had come to hate all patriarchal religions, with a father-god casting thunderbolts and judging people guilty for falling short of his divine standards.
And then he had discovered the One True Dawkins, and had forsaken trying to please his father, and had instead worked hard to try to make himself the sort of sceptical scientist that Prof Richard Dawkins would be proud of. But no matter how hard he tried to write scathing comments about Flying Spaghetti Monsters and Sky Pixies on the atheist forums late at night, he still didn't feel good enough and so he turned to Door-to-Door Atheism as a way of channelling his energies productively.  And how all that walking around having doors slammed in his face had been a way of burning off the sexual frustration that built up from knowing that girls don't fancy geeks in anoraks.

So, now that trust had been established, I opened up a little myself. I told him how I too had always felt myself a disappointment. Hearing my surname, people have always assumed I'm a relative of the great hamster breeder, Percy Parslow. And when I tell them I'm not, they always look like I've let them down slightly. And maybe, in some way, this is what has driven my need to have people look up to me as a pastor and respected preacher.  Maybe even led to my stress upon God as a Judge, and not Jesus as our boyfriend.

So poured him another tea - I'd already had enough - and we shed a few tears, and then I let him out and shook his hand and he went on his way. He has not changed his views. He is still marching towards oblivion, one door at a time.

But for just a few minutes, I like to think that he and I shared something special.

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".

The Power of Prayer

I'm afraid we had a terrible conclusion to our prayer-themed service this morning.

I see it as, in large part, my own fault. It was I who suggested that, instead of the usual time of open prayer - which always runs the risk of somebody "praying" a thirty-minute sermon - we break everyone into small groups to share their own prayers.

I should have spent more time in prayer over this idea myself - maybe I would have been granted the word of wisdom I needed, that this was a bad idea. I should have listened intently.

In the event, Barry prayed for a resolution of the West Bank settlements issue. But in my sermon on the subject, I had advocated being specific in our prayers. Barry was so specific in how he wanted resolution that Gerry disagreed on theological and geopolitical grounds. Gerry therefore prayed for the opposite. Barry prayed his point of view more strongly, and added in some comments about Moshe Dayan that may well have been slanderous had Mr Dayan still been alive. Gerry prayed something rather stronger and said some things about Yasser Arafat that were not strictly compatible with Christian charity. And the next thing we knew there were punches and chairs being thrown. 

Given the state that Barry and Gerry were in after receiving a couple of blows each, and the collateral damage to a number of other members of the congregation, we moved swiftly into a time of prayer for healing.

Truly the Lord moves in mysterious ways. We have seen friction and aggression within Salem, our place of peace. But on the bright side, I have two more people to visit in hospital.