Spring Harvest Reflections

Beloved Brothers and Sisters, I go through these experiences so you don't have to. Indeed, only one as strong in faith as myself could be expected to get through this without flinching.
I have seen young people brought to faith, this week. And yet I have also seen women leading worship and even teaching. I have seen a bishop in an open-neck shirt, instead of the Papish regalia I would expect of a bishop. It puzzles and saddens and disappoints me, and I am sore afflicted by doubt.

I have seen lively worship, and people knowing an experience of God. And I have reflected that they didn't deserve it, especially given that type of worship. Too much happiness and not enough fear and trembling.

And at least once in this last week I have heard the word "enculturation". And I have shuddered. For it is this word that above all tells me all that is wrong about the modern Church.

But still I am inspired. Inspired by this example of how to go wrong. How can we hope to win souls if we read from a Bible translation that is easily comprehensible, when the Inerrant word of God was written in Jacobean English? How can we bring the country to its knees in prayer unless we look it straight in the eye and challenge it with its failings of iniquity and transgressions? Surely we must tell people that they have gone "a-whoring with their own inventions" - no matter how much that makes them laugh? We must nail the colours of a 6-day creation to the mast of our faith. Or vice-versa. I am still working on that metaphor.

No, I will guard the souls of my flock and myself, and we will cling faithfully on until Christ returns. And I will  return to stand in the Dunstable Quadrant or the Brunel Centre in Bletchley, and shout at Society through my megaphone until Society sees the error of its ways.  I will climb on my watchtower and watch - although few will hear the call, even fewer will understand it, and maybe none will act on it. That's what Mission is all about.

Altar-ed states

That's the trouble with Beaker Revival Services.
Being by nature the nuanced, balanced, post-modern people we are, people don't really like committing themselves. So even Hnaef's appeal to everyone "who feels, say a little bit different about something" to come down the front for ministry was greeting with some serious equivocation.

But Beldwyn's been playing "Just as I am" for 11 hours now. Can someone please, please come forward?

Moonrise over Crawley Crossing

And it really did rise over Crawley Crossing today, and it's full, and it's lovely.

I know the moon is a lump of dead rock. But then I also believe that, in some way, Neil Armstrong and all the rest spoilt something special when they went up there. Call me an old romantic.

And when you look at that lump of dead rock, floating orangey-yellow and gorgeous and silent over Crawley Crossing and the roar of the M1, it's a special thing. It's no deity - Genesis told us that. And it's not nailed to its position on the inside shell of the sky -  Copernicus and Galileo and all the rest proved that. It's just serene and uncanny and eerie and beautiful. It shines with reflected glory. But then, don't we all?

The Charismatrix

Dear Readers, a strange morning. I went to a talk on Malachite, but it turned out to be all about some Old Testament prophet and not the important ore of copper at all.
And then I listened to Bishop Pete and Vicky Beeching and they were talking about the gifts and attitudes necessary in a worship leader.  And being an organisation kind of person, as you know, I realised that I could use this to help identify the right people for the right jobs. I attach my Gift Matrix  - or "Charismatrix" in the original Greek - to help you, Dear Reader, with your discernment of the proper role for which you may be being called.

In case you are wondering, I have discovered that the role of Treasurer is indeed an artistic one - especially when the Archdruid is trying to "lose" 5 grand here or there.

But the wonder of my chart, I have discovered, is that you can discover what people's real calling might be. So, if you find you have a cleaner with artistic tendencies, you may have found someone with that rare and important Spiritual Gift of Overhead Projection!

Likewise, I have been able to identify shortcomings - or, as I prefer to think of them, "training opportunities" - in the gifting of those who already occupy posts in Husborne Crawley. And with that in mind, I dropped an email to Archdruid Eileen earlier, explaining the areas where she might require improvement. She sent one back shortly afterwards, suggesting that it might be better for my health if I stayed at Skegness somewhat longer than I was planning. So her pastoral skills are improving already! The Gift Matrix really does work!

A veritable feast of preaching

You know, Spring Harvest is like redundancies. It's not the people that go that suffer so much - it's those of us that are left behind to carry on.

Take the people at Drayton's chapel. In  his absence, his deacon - Mr Obadiah Zebulun - is preaching. He doesn't often get the chance, and he's made the most of it. One of the escapees told me that his sermon, "A few thoughts on Nehemiah 3", started at 5 past 10 and he's still in "Secondly". They've got "Thirdly" through to "Fifthly" to go, then the Conclusion and his half-hour Exhortation and it'll be time for the altar call.
Sometimes you're just glad you're not a Baptist.

O'Vienna Epidemic

I'm getting really worried that the Community is suffering from an outbreak of O'Vienna Syndrome.

For starters, we've got Kenneth, the community radio ham. Who will be only too happy to tell you the wavelength he's using. Or, if you ask him nicely, the number of kilohertz he's running at. And Eugene is very handy at chopping logs, although he's got to be cautious with his equipment, if you see what I mean. His mate Bill is equally clumsy, although we always assure him there's no harm done. While their pal Johnny needs to be reminded of the kind of behaviour that is expected of him.

Meanwhile, Rudolph is still in training for his attempt at an Olympic qualifying time. And we're all busy practising our chant to encourage him to go faster. Rudolph's girlfriend, Margaret, is still waiting for him to propose. Although we're not sure whether she'll accept him. Not least because she still longs for Francis,her first boyfriend - although their relationship was wrecked by his amnesia.

Or maybe I'm just imagining this. I really should pull myself together.

Out of the depths I rise

It has been a most challenging day, Dear Readers.

An enjoyable morning - I went along, at Drayton's advice, to hear Bishop Pete talk about worship.  Although Drayton himself went to find something that wasn't being co-led by a woman. And I was most taken by the concept of the "Greeting" - the part where the congregation greets each other - as Eileen sometimes says, when she's in one of her Tridentine moods, "Pax vobiscum", and the congregation responds "et cum spiritu tuo".It's a short life but a varied one, in the Beaker Folk of Husborne Crawley.
And I was musing on the beautiful call and response as I was on my way back from Burgh le Marsh this afternoon on my bike.

I don't know if you know Burgh le Marsh? An interesting place - mounted up on a hill above the fens like Mount Zion. But with less Sanhedrins and general trouble. The Fleece used to sell a nice pint of Olde Trip, but since Hardy & Hanson were taken over by Greene King they've got Speckled Hen instead. Which was still a very nice pint. Slightly sweet, heavy but with a good hop bite. In the Fleece, 9/10 in anyone's money.

And I was heading back to Butlins, swerving along the fen lanes, with the view of Skyline ahead of me in the distance. Like the view of the Celestial City in that book Drayton keeps going on about, or the view of Oxford that Jude the Obscure gets in that book whose name I can't remember, but which the Archdruid likes because there's a nice, pointless and poignant death in in it. Excep in the film with Dr Who in it, where Jude's still alive at the end.

And as I barrelled along the lane, I realised that someone was beeping his horn repeatedly at me. Taking my headphones off (I had been enjoying a nice bit of Kraftwerk) I turned round to see a man driving a Ford Mondeo.

"Whoi don't yew get out o' t'way, you gr't steaming poil o' donkey droppins'?" he asked. (I can't do the accent).
"And also with you," I replied, without thinking much what I was saying.

That ditch was very muddy. And the bike was much harder to ride after I'd dragged it out. And I'm very smelly now. And I'm not totally sure he was into liturgy, now I think about it. It was probably that which upset him.

Fire engine excitement

Mrs Hnaef and the Archdruid have had a lovely morning. There's been an awful fire, but luckily noone was hurt, so the ladies of the Community got to watch burly firefighters shift hoses round all morning, whilst I was sent off to provide hot drinks for everybody and "keep out of our way".

I'm sure that I'll be asked to launch a full investigation into the conflagration (I usually am): I just hope, for Burton's sake, that the expenses receipts and accounts haven't been affected this year.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.8

Relevance

Today, the vast majority of people will get up, go to their Saturday activities (as it may be shopping in B&Q, stressing at the uselessness of their football teams, digging up their allotments or screaming at the children, have a pizza/chinese/meal out/potted meat sandwich, watch something mindless involving Ant & Dec and go back to bed.

They won't feel lost because they're without God. They don't feel a god-shaped hole in their lives. They won't stand outside at 10pm tonight screaming at the empty skies because they've just realised they don't have a meaning.

And as the world turns, and Christian people argue about pre- and post-lapsarianism, universalism vs Gotterdamerungism, lilac robes vs shabby suits and electric guitars vs electronic organs; while organists strop off because of vicars demanding something the congregation can sing, and others walk out because they're being asked to say words they understand, and all of them think that this thing - this pointless, pointless thing - whatever it is - is more important than a crucified Galilean and a billion hungry people and a world of pain - then people in MK's Xscape and the Luton Arndale and people waiting for buses at Greyfriars in Northampton and people heading to Ikea (in MK, N London or Coventry according to choice and/or accent) will continue to do just what they're doing without realising that buses and artificial ski-slopes and shopping centres and furniture with amusing, Swedish-chef names aren't all there is - even though some of these things can point beyond themselves if you look very closely.

And the Lion of Judah may roar, but the roar won't be heard. Because it will be drowned out by the squealing peevishness of his children's frets and squabbles. And a world will go to perdition while a thousand pointless arguments rage.

Sorry, got a bit carried away there. Just saying.

The long, dark audit of the Soul

I often feel that examining the state of your soul is a little like looking at your bank balance at the cash machine when you've not kept any records of your outgoings for a year or so. Or like needing a checkup at the doctor's and not really wanting to go. You think there may be something nasty going on there, but your think to yourself - maybe not just now. Maybe another day. Better just walk away from the woodshed once more.

And we can have a vision of God as the Eternal Auditor. The one who opens the books at the end of time, adds up the credits and the debits, and sees which way your lifetime's P&L has gone. Better have plenty on the heavenly balance sheet, you may think, where you know it's not going to get written off as unrealisable assets. If you think that way. And you could think, in that case, of your confessor, priest, pastor or preacher as your earthly accountant, the one who keeps the books in line and helps you to keep focussed on the final dividend before you the Eternal Auditor gets hold of the books. And if you find there's some unexplained expenses, or a dubious write-off, or something accruing where it shouldn't - they'll help you to see it and deal with it.

All of which is a roundabout way to explaining why I was so keen that Burton went to Spring Harvest when I heard that Drayton was going. He's not finished the Year End yet. And he's going to be ever so surprised when he discovers that this year's Expense Claims have gone up in smoke again. Especially when you consider that he's kept them in that electronically-locked, bombproof, passworded, fire-proof safe to stop them exploding this year.

The password was Fly1ngSc0tsman. It didn't take long.

Chumminess in worship

Burton Dasset has really not taken the idea of a godly holiday seriously.

Immediately after the events at the "Big Top" yesterday he went off to discover what the local pubs are like. He came back two hours later to announce that the three or four he'd visited had no real ale. He said it with deep regret, and the reflection that it was only Guinness that stood between him and despair.

And this afternoon he has unfolded his foldy bike and headed off in the Skegness hinterlands in search of real ale. But before he went he was able to create a chart for me.

It all comes down to some words I have heard from a bishop in the "Worship Zone" - which turned out to be, not a marble-floored chapel with salutary texts on the walls as you might imagine, so much as a big white tent next to a main road. The bishop was hard to identify, since he wore an orange shirt and was working in partnership with a young woman who was not compelled to check that what she said was in accordance with the bishop before she said it. What is the Church of England coming to?  At this rate they will have women bishops before you know it.

As I understood it, the bishop said that there is a range of responses to God in worship, ranging from awe to "chumminess". To be fair he did seem slightly to distinguish himself from "chumminess" as a concept. I prefer to think that Church of England bishops might regard God rather with a manly respect. In the same way that they have exchanged a kiss of brotherhood for the limp handshake of mild regard in their Peace.

But it is not a continuum I have ever considered. For myself, I would see the worship continuum as being from Manly Respect through to Awe. However, in an ecumenical mood - for I am in that "letting one's hair down" frame of mind, even going so far as to have my top button undone beneath my Hope Springs Bible College tie - I have included it in the following chart.

I think this triangle of opposing forces is all fairly clear. It is clear that, as one grows in "chumminess", one becomes increasing devoid of the fear and awe that is the proper response to the one we only dare to cringe as we call "Sovereign and most Awesome Lord". However it is safe, I believe, to move along the line from Terror to Manly Respect - always remembering that even Manly Respect is not to grasp at equality with God, merely to recognise ourselves as men (and, in certain circumstances, women) who are saved and therefore able to approach, with however much fear and trembling, the throne.

In general, the red circle on the diagram identifies about the optimum position - mostly terrified, somewhat respectful (in a manly kind of way - none of that silly emoting) and never, never "chummy".

In concluding I must say that I am delighted that in these modern days that one does not find mildew on the walls in one's chalet. My parents would often take me to holiday camps as a child, and it does rather use up a young fundamentalists's time on such a holiday, desperately trying to find a Jewish priest to inspect your chalet walls.