Wandering Attention in Sermons

It is a sad day, Dear Readers.

I have come out to Catthorpe to say a sad farewell to the old M6 viaduct, which is being demolished this weekend. One of my favourite motorway viaducts in the South Midlands.

Still, as Drayton very kindly drove me up here I "redeemed the time" as he kept referring to it, by completing my analysis of the differing expectations and actualities in where preachers and their congregations are focussing their thoughts and attention during a sermon. I hope the following diagrams make this clear.

Preacher's Focus - As the Congregation Expect it

The preacher is spending a good part of his or her time focussing on the congregation - although also paying plenty of attention to the text, thus staying on course and honouring the time spent during the week / last night / in the loo before the service writing the sermon. The preacher is also staying alert to the Holy Spirit (golden arrow) so as to be responsive to both the congregation and the text.

Congregation's Focus - as the Preacher expects it

We will pay little attention to our old friends "A" and "B", as we know where their attention is.
The other people in the other side of the congregation, however, should be splitting their attention between what the preacher has to say, and the "still small voice".

The preacher's focus - reality

 What can actually happen is that the preacher gets hung up on the relationship with the congregation - are they all watching me? Are they looking out for me to fail? Have I got a spot on my nose? Am I making a fool of myself....?

Congregational Focus - Reality

Whereas in fact, of course, the congregation aren't thinking any such things. In fact, they are splitting their attention between the wall-hangings, the trouble at work last Friday, the baby in the back row that sounds like it might be about to cry, the attractive person in the row behind, and a serious consideration of what's for lunch. Every now and then they'll notice someone at the front still appears to be talking - and occasionally ask God whether he can make it stop. Or, for I would not want to appear overly-cynical, they accidentally catch something inspirational and/or controversial, and refer it to God for adjudication.

So my conclusion, Dear Readers, is this. Preachers pay too much attention to themselves because they worry what the congregations think about them. But they shouldn't because, on the whole, the congregations don't worry that much. In fact, they'd quite like the preachers to do well. I think there's the start of a virtuous circle here, but best not draw too much attention or we'd all start looking at the wrong things again.

Farewell to Bob Holness

The man they invented "avuncular" for, but not in a bad way.

When Bob Holness appeared on TV in the late 80s, a generation of students knew it was time to get out of bed. While a generation of people now in their middle age are immortalised, spot-covered, on video with their favourite teddy or other embarrassing good luck charm.

We'll have a "T" for "Thanks", please Bob. And let's hope you're going on the Gold Run.

Quick Epiphany Joke

And so the Magi entered into the house and saw the child and his mother. And they worshipped him and offered their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.
And Joseph said unto them,
"Can you come back in a couple of days? Only we're transferring you this year. Makes it so much easier."

Twelfth Night

Total confusion last night, I'm afraid. Crossed wires on the Somerset Mummers booking. Instead we got the Mummerset Plumbers, which wasn't the same at all.

They were kind enough to tell us what was wrong with the pipes, but unfortunately in a fake West-Country accent so strong we couldn't understand what they were saying. Then they all had to clear off. They're all auditioning for parts in "Midsummer Murders" and "Lark Rise".

Chimera Monkeys

Just two years somebody invented glowing monkeys for a bit of a laugh, Scientists are celebrating the creation of monkeys made from cells taken from two or more separate embryos.

The team that carried out the work says the advance could have "enormous" importance for medical research. Although one member of the team, Dr Igor, added "Buh-wah-hah-hah-hah".

Burning the Holly

O You are sad on Twelfth Night,
I notice: sad on Twelfth Night;
You are as sad on Twelfth Night
As any that I know.

"Yes : I am sad on that night,
doubtless I'm sad on that night.
Yes; I am sad on that night
For we all loved her so!"

Why are you sad on Twelfth Night,
Especially on Twelfth Night?

Why are you sad on Twelfth Night,
When wit and laughter flow?

- "She'd been a famous dancer,
Much lured of men; a dancer,
He'd been a famous dancer,
Facile in heel and toe...

"And we were burning the holly
On Twelfth night. the holly,
As people do; the holly,
Ivy and misteltoe.

"And while it popped and crackled,
(She being our lodger), crackled;
And while it popped and crackled,
He face caught by the glow,

"In he walked and said to her,
In a slow voice he said to her;
Yes, walking in he said to her,
'We sail before cock-crow.'

"'Why did you not come on to me,
As promised Yes, come on to me?
Why did you not come on to me,
Since you had sworn to go?'

"His eyes were deep and flashing,
As flashed the holm-flames; flashing
His eyes were deep and flashing,
In their quick, keen upthrow.

"As if she had been ready,
Had furtively been ready;
As if she had been ready
For his insistence - lo! -

"She clasped his arm and went with him
As his entirely; went with him.
She clasped his arm and went with him
Into the sleeping snow.

"We saw the prickly leaves waste
To ashes; saw the leaves waste;
The burnt-up prickly leaves waste....
The pair had gone also.

-"On Twelfth Night, two years after -
Yes, Twelfth Night, two years after;
On Twelfth Night, two years after,
We sat - our spirits low -

"Musing, when  back the door swung
Without a knock. The door swung;
Thought flew to her. The door swung.
And in she came, pale, slow;

"Against her breast a child clasped;
Close to her breast a child clasped;
She stood there, with the child clasped,
Swaying it to and fro.

"Her look alone the tale told;
Quite wordless was the tale told;
Her careworn eyes the tale told
As larger they seemed to grow...

"One day next spring she disappeared,
The second time she disappeared.
And that time, when she'd disappeared
Came back no more. Ah no!

"But we still burn the holly
On Twelfth Night, burn the holly
As people do; the holly,
Ivy, and mistletoe."


Thomas Hardy, From Winter Words, in Various Moods and Metres

A windy night

Ah, the gentle wind! Cooling, stirring up a little, making the occasional leaf to drift around the place. The gentle zephyrs are a reminder of the work of the Spirit in comforting us, breathing gently through the heats of our desires. As the old song has it,

"Spirit of God, unseen as the wind, gentle as is the dove."

And so this morning I've risen to discover that a healing zephyr has dumped the potting shed in the middle of the greenhouse, and the old diseased horse-chestnut, which we kept because a dying tree is such a poignant thing, is laying across the croquet lawn.

Still, when the sun has risen we should have quite a nice view across the valley now. And the firewood will be quite handy. But the Christmas bling is all over the floor and there are doilies floating around the grounds. I could do with some gentler healing zephyrs in future.

Quadrantids

So a disappointing evening.

We've been outside for an hour, taking part in this evening's "Wonders of the Shooting Stars" viewing of the Quadrantids. I was looking forward to the excitement of knowing that these little pieces of rock and dust, shed by an asteroid, are illuminating our lives in a brief moment of brilliance - burning out, rather than burning on, just like what we shouldn't. If you can't rend spiritual truth out of that concept, you've got no soul. And knowing that Venus and Jupiter are also well visible at the moment just added to the excitement of the evening.

I tell you, we've not seen a think with all the cloud. And I've not been this wet since the fight broke out at Filling-Up of Beakers. And cold? I tell you, I'm colder than an impoverished caroller in a Thomas Hardy novel. Same again tomorrow, I guess. Surely we must see some tomorrow.

Death of Topsy the Elephant (1903)

This morning we will be remembering the sad fate of Topsy the Elephant, who was put to death by electrocution for the murder of three.

1903 was a landmark year for the inventive folk of the USA. The Wright brothers achieved their first powered flight, pointing the way to a future of cheap air travel and a shrinking world. And somebody electrocuted an elephant, showing the way for a century of experimenting with modern, efficient ways of putting people to death for crime.

It's notable, I think, that like many of those who would follow her in this new and improved execution method (so much more scientific than strangling people with a rope) Topsy couldn't really have understood the moral significance of her "crimes". And, as if to reflect the disproportionate way American justice would be meted out in the century or more to come, she wasn't white.

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.

Waxing Gibbons

It was a lovely moon this evening. It's when the moon is just on the gibbous side of the first quarter that you can almost sense its spherical rather than circular nature - it feels 3D. And Jupiter's nearby presence is quite striking.

But it's also a reminder of why we have  a small sect amongst us, the Moon Gibbon folk. It was a mis-hearing about a "Gibbous moon" many years ago that made them think the moon was populated by a divine gibbon - a malevolent being who slays Wombles at the time of lunar eclipses and eats the moon every month.

They're an odd bunch, but on the bright side their theology is almost completely taken-up with trying to understand the origin, dietary habits and size of the Moon Gibbon. This stops them being the kind of unutterable busybodies they might be if they thought the Moon Gibbon cared about their earthly lives. Instead they just muddle along like the rest of us, with the slight difference that they get hysterical at the the time of the new moon.