growing seasons

C is for CUCUMBER

2009-08-07T10:23:00.000+01:00

OK I know this isn't much to gripe about but after all the effort, I'm left with just one cucumber. Four months of sowing seed, waiting, watering, transplanting, more waiting, more watering, more transplanting, even more waiting and watering, reading all the gardening guides online, following instructions to the last letter, watching those little yellow flowers form and eventually disappear, leaving behind what looks like a mini fruit and then finding that a month later that mini fruit is still just a mini fruit. And it happened again and again to almost every flower on every plant. By the end I had about a dozen plants, winding their way up bamboo canes, all looking perfectly healthy and green, flowering abundantly and it looked like I was in for a bumper harvest. But it never came. Too often the expected cucumber just became shrivelled and died. I read somewhere that maybe it was a pollination problem, that perhaps the pollen had been washed away during watering but I was never really sure. Anyway I kept tending the plants but they kept failing to produce. Except for one. And it made me so proud. Partly because I had managed to grow a cucumber against all the odds but partly because that one plant had delivered. I don't really think I made much difference in the end, but at least I didn't give up.

And then I thought about that parable Jesus told about the shepherd leaving ninety nine sheep all alone to go and search for the one that had got lost and how much he had rejoiced when he found it and brought it home. And I suddenly realised that my rejoicing over one cucmber growing is nothing compared to the joy that fills our Lord when He finds one soul that is lost and brings them home. I'm so glad He doesn't give up on us.

S is for SEEDS

2009-08-02T17:15:00.007+01:00

My dad had a vegetable garden that you could reach along a narrow path from our house. The path was little more than a strip of grass, no more than two feet wide, that had been mown during the weekly lawn cutting exercise and so allowed easy access across a patch of part orchard, part scrub land that stretched to the boundary of the homestead. As soon as the longer nights began to appear, he could be found on many evenings, toiling away with a spade and grape, breaking up the soil from the previous year, adding some farmyard manure and eventually producing ten or twelve long drills into which a variety of seeds would be sown. Thus, by the time of the longest day, we were already sampling such delights as beans, peas, lettuce, scallions, cabbages and a few other miscellaneous vegetables that seemed to appear overnight but actually took months of preparation and care to produce. Maybe it just appeared that way because I didn't visit the garden too often!

And maybe that whole picture was somewhere in the back of my mind when the longer spring nights heralded a new growing season this year and my mind turned to all things green and edible that might be grown in the comforting and immediate locality of our back yard. And so it was, armed with a few seed trays, some small bags of compost and a bundled pack of assorted seeds that the whole growing process began to reenact the history of my childhood. You know I've always wondered why garden centres sell bundled packs of seeds that altogether cost less than the price of a single packet. It's like buying a value pack in a supermarket but I can't help thinking that there must be something wrong with the seeds to sell them so cheaply. Maybe they won't germinate or maybe it's just a ploy to get more people interested in growing plants. Anyhow, after several days in the warmth of a conservatory, the green shoots appearing proved that I need not have worried and soon it was time to transplant into containers that could cope with the future extensive root systems that had been planned. And so it went on, beginning with chives, lettuce, tomatoes, beetroot and even cucumber seeds and a couple of small 'plastic' mini greenhouses, I watched enthralled, as the little seeds I planted in April began to emerge into fully grown plants that by now are several feet tall in the case of the tomatoes and cucumbers and some, such as lettuce and chives have already made it into the summer salads. Just a few weeks ago small tomatoes began to emerge from the remains of the flowers and more recently a fairly large cucumber is rapidly taking over one of the mini greenhouses and just pleading to be eaten. Indeed the whole back paved areas is awash with green colour and edible plants providing a nice contrast to the many pots of colourful flowers that wife spreads around the outskirts of the homestead. And all produced from a few packets of seeds.

It's at times like this that I'm humbled by the Creator and His magnificent creation, His planning on how it all fits together and His infinite intelligence that creates a myriad of different plants from tiny seeds, some of which we can eat and others which just bring a dash of colour to our lives. And I'm humbled that amidst all this creation that I can see, He also created me and gave me the ability to think, talk and appreciate who He is and what He has done. But I'm also reminded of the great commission to tell the world of the Gospel, to 'sow the seed' and the responsibility that falls on every believer's head to spread that seed. How often I have failed to take opportunities to further the Master's kingdom and sometimes maybe i just didn't think the seed was precious enough. But when you realise that the seed you sow can give life for ever it sort of helps you to prioritise your life and everything else seems so much less important.

You know I've made mistakes in my gardening career. Sometimes I didn't read the instructions properly, sometimes I forgot to water, other times I watered too much but almost always the seeds germinated anyway. And you see, it is God who brings the harvest, not us, but above all we must, even in our imperfections be obedient and faithful and sow the seed.

Just a word of warning if the seed has already been sown in your heart. This year I planted some lettuce seedlings in a old length of spouting. Initially they grew well but within a few days they were all gone, courtesy of the greedy mouths of rabbits and birds. Jesus told a parable about such seed being sown in different places in Matthew 13 with varying degrees of success. Let me ask you, what is it that stops the seed growing in your life?

D is for DONKEY

2009-07-26T04:40:00.002+01:00

Donkeys gets a bad press sometimes and possibly not always without some basis for that criticism. They've crossed my path on many occasions and enough instances are memorable enough to be recorded in the annals of my own personal history. We had a favourite Christmas single at home, called 'Little Donkey' sung by, I think, Nina and Frederick and describing the journey of Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem. I don't recall it occurring to me at the time that there is no mention of a donkey in the biblical Christmas story but I liked the melody anyway. I guess what more stands out in my head are the local sayings that are imprinted in my mind, such as 'I could eat the cross off a donkey' or 'flap you ears and pull like a donkey.' Less memorable were those occasions when you could be described as a 'big donkey' or even a 'stupid donkey' though by the very nature of the latter statement, the unsuspecting orator was suggesting that not all donkeys were indeed void of intelligence!

And this of course I know at first hand, having had the unforgettable but not memorable experience of riding a donkey on the beach at Newcastle or being part of a donkey train through the Gap of Dunloe in Killarney. In both situations the four legged creatures were well programmed and highly disciplined, always travelling at a predetermined pace and one soon became aware that the rider had absolutely no control over his legged vehicle and just had to sit there, enjoy the view and suffer the agonies of an uncomfortable bottom, accentuated by every uneven step. Some years ago I was reacquainted with the species when one arrived at the door of my home, close enough to ring the bell and with no obvious reason for being there or indeed leaving. So after some gentle persuasion, for I discovered that little else works in trying to move a donkey, it retreated from the front step and took up residence on the adjacent lawn. Eventually, following another period of discussion, we managed to move it slightly further from the house but never far enough away to be convinced that it wouldn't move closer when we were out of sight, which of course it did. Eventually after some time, days, I think, its rightful owner came and took it away though whether he was glad to be reunited, remained uncertain.

Such thoughts were in my mind as I rummaged through the book of 2nd Kings, reading all about those two great prophets, t he soon to depart Elijah and his understudy Elisha and it was with intrigue that I came across this verse in chapter 6 which stated, 'there was a great famine in Samaria and indeed they besieged it until a donkey's head was sold for eighty shekels of silver.' For people to be reduce to eating such an ignominious part of an animal that they deemed to be unclean and paying the equivalent of two pounds in weight of silver for the 'delicacy' gave some idea of the desperation that the famine was causing, though probably not as much anxiety as the sight of the Syrian army all around the city whose siege had resulted in the famine in the first place. It was Elisha who would predict, by divine guidance, that within a day the famine would be over and the Syrian army would have fled the scene, because of God's intervention and I suppose any remaining donkeys would be safe from the butcher's knife. And of course that is exactly what happened but something else in the story caught my eye. The first men to discover that the enemy had departed hurriedly were four lepers who had previously come to the decision that if they stayed at the city gates they would be killed, if they went inside the city they would die anyway so chose to surrender to the Syrians in the faint hope that they might get some food but knowing that if they should be killed, it was no worse a fate than they already faced. Imagine their shock to see the enemy camp deserted and their surprise to see food, drink, clothing and gold left behind by the fleeing army. But in their joy, they didn't forget the city that they had left and the people perishing inside. They said, 'We are not doing right. This day is a day of good news and we remain silent.' (ch7 v9)

I'm so conscious that we have Good News of Jesus' salvation and yet we remain silent, too eager to fill our lives with things that ultimately will have no value and disappear. I guess it all comes down to what we value the most, our own lives and the material things that we acquire to satisfy us or our Saviour and the spiritual food that is freely available through Him for all who believe. And you see it's not just something He would like us to do, it is our responsibility to not be silent but to tell others of the good things we have found. Remember while we don't, they perish.

In John ch 12 we read, 'Do not be afraid, O Daughter of Zion; see, your king is coming, seated on a donkey's colt.' That much maligned animal was important to Jesus the King of Kings but can He depend on us to carry His cross?

E is for END

2008-07-28T20:29:00.000+01:00

Well it's been a long journey. Way back on 29th July last year I wrote my first ever blog about titled A is for APPLES. It was just a few retrospective thoughts on earlier years and the world that I inhabited as a child coupled with a spiritual thought at the end. I suppose the intention was to attract those who had little or no interest in God and maybe just make them stop and think. Slowly, working through the letters of the alphabet, dwelling on those that sparked my recollections most, I tried to bring a relevant and appropriate spiritual dimension each day. I called it 'Growing Seasons' because it took me through the four seasons over many years of physical and spiritual growth and hopefully at times, those who chose to linger, found something to laugh at, cry at or at least ponder over in relation to their own experiences.

And it took dedication, far greater than I imagined at the start, finding a least an hour every day to sit in front of a monitor and create something that at least made sense to me. There were days when the early morning sunrise was my only compatriot, other times when I watched the midnight hour arrive, occasionally after school in the hour before I came home and often in the unlikeliest of places and occasions. There was no rest on school holidays, Christmas Day or New Year's Day. Some were written on a hotel computer in the Algarve, others in Chicago, Kentucky and Washington DC, one even in Heathrow airport and several formulated on a small PDA with a stylus my only finger. Even my birthday was not exempt. At home, sometimes I typed on the house PC and later in the year, as spring arrived, on the laptop at the picnic table. But I wasn't alone. For she who has always been called 'wife', my best friend, was always there, reading and encouraging and what's more, keeping her part of the bargain too by writing her own blog '365blessings' each day. But now it has all come to an end. I have run the race and finished the course and although this blog entry is dated for today, it is in truth for the 28th July and will soon revert to that.

So what have I learned during my year of meanderings, murmurings and memories? I suppose that my memory is not as bad as I though it was and those details that I thought had been lost came flooding back on a regular basis. I learned too that life is really all about a collection of experiences that shape us to be the people we are and even those moments that seem less significant or forgettable have a role to play in our whole understanding of our existence. We are moulded by our past but the clay never dries so there is always room for change. I've also learned that there is nothing that you cannot make time for if you really want to and if it's important enough to you and this blog has fallen into that category. But the thing I've really learned is how little I really know about the God I claim to follow and about what He wants to say to me and how I need to constantly seek a deeper relationship with Him. I've learned how to see God in every situation, not just as a bystander, but as someone who is sovereign and in complete control of every situation in which I have found myself. And a year later, I know that not only is my faith stronger and deeper but He has spoken to others through what I have written, despite my inadequacies.

And so the end has come. It has been a wonderful journey of recollections, observations and discoveries but even as I close, I know that it is not really the end but a new beginning, along another road that will take me even closer into the presence of the God who gave everything for me and chose me, in His grace, to receive the salvation which was purchased for me through His Son. In truth, that road never ends, that story never finishes for when I stand before my Father and He welcomes me into His Kingdom, the journey leads on into eternity and that is for ever. If you also travel that same road, some day our paths will meet and maybe we'll share our memories of an all sufficient Creator as we worship in the all consuming glory of our heavenly Father. If you are standing at the crossroads of you life, hopefully this blog might help you choose your direction wisely so that you may find the God of my faith in your 'growing seasons' and also travel along the road which has no ending. So let's not say goodbye, just Au Revoir.

E is for EARLY

2008-07-27T14:49:00.000+01:00

Sam lived a couple of miles across the river from home. I really only knew him well in His late middle age and more senior years but he was still a distant figure in the locality and valued his privacy in the back pew at church. He was a farmer along with his brother, having honed his interest, strength and skills through the years when the work was more dependent on man than machine but now life was taken at a more leisurely pace and the urgency to complete tasks was less prevalent. Still, everything he intended to do was done, it just took a little longer. Sam was a morning person. By the time I would be getting up for school, he would be arriving into the family kitchen for breakfast with his brother and sister, having risen several hours earlier to bring in the cows and do the milking and any other tasks he could find around the yard. Like his two siblings in the house, he had never married and he was a man of few words, but mostly wise ones, finding his contentment in the things of creation around him and a simple faith in his Creator. I doubt if he bothered much with evenings, except on the few occasions when visitors, such as my dad, would arrive on the occasional Saturday night and they would all sit around an open turf fire to discuss the news of the countryside. Generally, we are not a nation of early risers, compared to, for example, America, where I was reminded again this summer that nine o'clock in the morning makes you late for everything!

One year, when I was twelve or thirteen, the powers that be decided to forego the traditional ritual of turning the clock back in winter so that we had British Summer Time all the year round, even if in those days, you could distinguish the seasons. It meant that we went to school in the dark but had a longer daylight in the evening. I loved the early mornings because dad used to give me a lift into school in town when he was going to feed his cattle and I would arrive at least half an hour before anybody else. It was the most peaceful time of the day, sitting around in the class bay with only the overhead fluorescent lights for company, along with my thoughts for the classes ahead and thew silence of the empty corridors. But alas, such moments are short lived and slowly, other pupils filtered in from the highways and byways and the peace I knew was eroded for ever, or at least until the next morning. However, I never forgot the importance of those moments and even today, there is nothing more pleasant than an early morning walk or just time alone before the sparrows' alarm clocks herald a new dawn. That is also the time when I believe I find the greatest opportunity to be alone with God and to listen for His voice as I read His Word.

One of the common phrases in the Old Testament is 'early the next morning' and what usually follows is some definite action related to the faith of the person involved. So men like Abraham, Jacob, Moses, Joshua, Gideon, Samuel and David all rose in the early hours to strengthen their faith, to accomplish God's plan and also to praise God for His faithfulness. Mark also records that 'Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed' while John reminds us that 'Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the entrance.' Starting the day with God is the common denominator, where our first thoughts help to shape our day and keep us in communion with him as we make decisions and interact with others.

Here's a final thought. A few weeks ago we went to a church in Kentucky. We gave ourselves plenty of time for the elven o'clock start, arriving thirty minutes early, yet found the car park already well filled. It was clear that something wasn't right in our planning and the notice at the front of the building confirmed our fears for the Sunday morning service had been brought forward by one hour during the summer. If only we had taken the time to find out earlier, we would have been fine. Still, we made it for the sermon, so it wasn't all bad. It's all a matter of preparation and although I'm a reasonable time keeper, I know when I arrive late for anything, I just didn't prepare early enough. And yet we treat God in the same way, not making preparations to be ready for the return of His Son, after which we will be too late. In Matthew 24v36, Jesus says 'No one knows about that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son,but only the Father.' You can never prepare early enough for that.

E is for EASTER

2008-07-26T17:35:00.000+01:00

David, a good friend of mine, preached two sermons last year on what he called 'The Promise'. Based on the Genesis 3 account of The Fall, he highlighted, in particular verse 15, where God, speaking to the Satan, disguised as a serpent, says 'And I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your offspring and hers; he will crush your head, and you will strike his heel.' His first talk, preached just a few days before Christmas Day, outlined that in these words, God was promising some day that a direct descendant of the woman and hence God, would be at war with the devil but would ultimately triumph and how the Old Testament reveals the path and lineage towards that person who would be born in a stable in Bethlehem, so fulfilling the first part of His promise. In the second instalment on Good Friday, we were taken to the cross and then the empty tomb where, through His death and resurrection, Jesus, son of God and Son of Man would crush for ever the power of Satan by defeating His ultimate weapon, death. In so doing, He also opened up a way for man to be reunited to God and to once again realise the purpose for which he was created, to worship His Creator and not His creation. That essentially is the story of Easter, some forty days after the Christian festival of Lent, forty days prior to Ascension and fifty days before we remember Pentecost and the coming of the Holy Spirit. And that is, as David says, 'The promise'.

In the church of my childhood, I always remember the Good Friday services for no other reason than the solemnity of the occasion. I used to think, 'why are you guys all acting so sad? Unlike the disciples, in the infancy of their faith, you know that Easter Sunday is coming.' It really was surreal to see everyone going around with such morose faces, yet safe in the knowledge that the Resurrection had secured their eternity with God. And while I understand the magnitude of God's grace and love in the gift of His only Son and the horror of His final hours and death, I realise why it had to happen, for without our Good Friday, there can be no Easter Sunday, just as without that first Christmas, there would never have been an Easter. What a plan! What a promise! God in human form, sinless perfection, entering the world through the miracle of the virgin birth and as the Son of the Trinity, taking the punishment I deserve for all the sins I ever have or will commit, dying and rising to overcome what should have been my just desserts, that is death and in so doing, defeating the power of the devil over me. And after returning to His Father, I find that I am never alone because another person, the Holy Spirit, is sent to become the heart of my very existence.

There are many parts to the Easter story. In school, I composed some music to represent each piece so that, Palm Sunday had triumphant melodies while Good Friday was melancholic and Easter Sunday, the sounds of a new dawn. The Betrayal was dark and sinister, the denial section of question and answers using two different instruments and the Ascension, an angelic section slowly becoming higher in pitch. The kid's job was to try to pair each section with the correct part of the story. The only drawback is that they needed to know the whole story to understand the moods associated with each part and everyone didn't have a good grasp of that. Perhaps my childhood church could have helped! Maybe the trouble is that so many now associate Easter more with hot cross buns, holidays, Easter eggs and cards in the same way that Christmas has become a festival of commercialism and activities that require no thought of 'The promise' We need to reflect on the words of Isaiah who writes in chapter 7v14 'Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign: The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and will call him Immanuel,' the essence of the Christmas Story and in chapter 53 v 5 'he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed,' why God must be always central to our Easter.

'The Promise'. Started and finished in an earthly Garden but made in heaven and completed when Jesus comes to bring all who believe, home to perfect unity with His Father. Let the story and message of Easter never become dim or lost in our generations or in our hearts. Roll the stone of unbelief away.

E is for ECHO

2008-07-25T13:33:00.000+01:00

The plan was simple and straight forward. We would drive to a town in the van, park somewhere close to the centre, unload the sound gear and musical equipment and, hopefully, within half an hour would be singing and playing to anyone who wanted to listen. It was the brainchild of the organiser, Pastor Robert Dunlop, who had invited us down for the fortnight to work alongside and also separate from the Youth outreach team that had been drawn from churches all over the province. His church was in County Kildare, in a small, picturesque village called Brannockstown, but our base was to be Courtown harbour, a little seaside village that took life at a sleepier pace than the larger towns in the vicinity. And while the youth team spent their days holding kid's club sand other activities locally, our remit was to be ready every day to take the roadshow to a different location, sometimes managing to fit in two different towns in the one afternoon, before returning to the small harbour village in time for the evening session. And so, over the two weeks we seemed to cover almost every town in that bottom right hand corner of the island, from Wicklow to Waterford and a few other smaller villages besides. It was a wonderful experience. Soon after we would arrive at our destination, the locals, intrigued by our presence and the gear we were unloading, would start to congregate at a safe distance and because we had trimmed down the equipment to the essentials, in a short time, we were ready to start. Except, of course, for one thing. Power! Yes we needed power from somewhere. There is little point in having all the right sound gear but no power to drive it. And that's exactly where Pastor Dunlop came in. In every town, shortly after we arrived and had decided an appropriate location, he would disappear with a long cable and within minutes would return with the good news that a local shop owner had allowed him to 'plug in', free of charge, for the duration of our stay.

So how did he do it? I've no doubt that God was in control of the whole event but Robert was an important and indeed vital instrument in His hands. For a start he was never afraid to go and ask for power and if refused, was quite happy to keep trying until a source was found. Also, being from the same region, his accent posed less of a threat than our 'foreign' tongues from much further north and his understanding and use of regional colloquialisms certainly found warmth in local people's hearts. But I think his greatest attribute was that he was well known throughout the whole areas and commanded great respect from all sections of the community, regardless of their religion or race. Much of that regard probably came from his overt witness of his Saviour through the Churchmobile, a bus which he had obtained several years previously and which he had converted into a little church on wheels, with room for about forty people. From the outside it looked like a church, with painted on arched windows and a spire that could be lowered while in transit and it was parked every evening at Courtown harbour during the evening gathering. Anyway, the format was simple. We sang for roughly forty five minutes, songs and hymns being interspersed with a few words from Robert and then, towards the close he would preach for a short while. People used to gather in large numbers when they heard the noise and of course while the words we sang prepared their hearts, Pastor Dunlop watched from the side and had discerned his audience well before he even rose to speak. But what I will always remember was the strange echo in many of the towns as our singing and his preaching bounced off the buildings on the opposite side of the street and came back to meet us a fraction of a second later. It was just like singing in a big room and we knew that everything said and sung had echoed all the way along the street in both directions.

As I think of those wonderful days, many years ago and remember Robert, just recently retired from his church in Brannockstown, I am also reminded of the words of God through the prophet Isaiah which say 'So shall my word be that goeth forth out of my mouth: it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it.' Hundreds of people would hear the Gospel of Salvation those two weeks and while I never heard of the effect it had on anyone's life, I know that God's words went out for a purpose that He had ordained from the beginning of time. Yet I am also reminded of the need for perseverance, the kind of which Robert always showed and of course how little we can actually do without that great source of power that is only found in Jesus. He tells His disciples, just before returning to His Father, 'But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.' And isn't that the key, for without that power in our lives, we can be of little use even at home let alone in work, school or as missionaries in a far off country. But when we have His power, what else can we do but echo His love and grace to everyone we meet.

E is for EGGS

2008-07-24T08:35:00.000+01:00

So, how do you like yours? I guess my own personal favourite is boiled. It takes me back to a time when life was a lot less complicated with the only hurdle on the horizon being how to get through a day at grammar school as a junior, without lines, detention, the cane, a harsh or sarcastic word from a teacher or occasionally a kick on the backside from a less patient member of staff. It wasn't a case of being badly behaved, just of being at school in the wrong era when lack of understanding of a subject was on a par with indiscipline in terms of punishment. Not exactly a boost to one's self esteem. I reckon they'd all be in jail now! Anyway, the day always started the same way, with mum shouting from downstairs to tell me how many minutes until the bus passed by and me, still wrapped up under the sheets, pretending not to hear until the last possible moment in the hope that maybe the bus would come early and I would be left behind. Alas the family car meant my ruse was always pointless. By the time I had hastily dressed and arrived in the kitchen, breakfast was prepared and waiting and, like most spoiled sons, I sat beside the open Wellstood fire, while mum set my food on a chair in front of me. It was usually a boiled egg and toast but not in the conventional sense, in that the egg had been scooped out into a teacup, butter, salt and pepper had been added and the whole lot mixed up. We unimaginatively called it 'egg in a cup' and and to this day it still features on my breakfast menu from time to time.

Wife's personal favourite is scrambled, made with a little melted butter and milk and pepper and sometimes she adds little bits of raw bacon to the mixture, just to tantalise those few taste buds that no longer find eggs very interesting and the resultant offering can be a substantial meal at any time of the day. And while wife makes beautiful scrambled egg, I have always been a little suspicious of the vast yellow mountains of the stuff that is often offered in hotels at breakfast buffets. or some reason it just doesn't taste the same and huge amounts of scrambled egg tend not to be very visually aesthetic in the morning. Many years ago we were given as a present, a little piece of apparatus that was supposed to be an aid when poaching eggs. I think it's still somewhere in the kitchen, but it has always seemed much easier to just crack an egg into boiling water and let it poach without any outside help. In a sense poaching is really just boiling without the shell, except it's a quicker process, but makes an equally satisfying meal. Of course if you live in our province, then your Ulster Fry is not complete without a fried egg and despite its unhealthy composition when cooked, it does arouse the taste sensors more than any other form of egg. I guess it belongs in that large category of foods that we like to eat but shouldn't. Eating raw eggs was another matter entirely though dad regularly broke one over his potatoes at dinner time, during his earlier working days, as was the norm for most farming families. And if my memory serves me correctly, he and his mates would not have been averse to drinking buttermilk with a raw egg mixed in. So along with omelettes and their inclusion in a variety of cooked and baked dishes, eggs certainly have played a vital role in our household as they have indeed done in most families and to the humble hen, duck and banty, we are eternally grateful. Yet essentially the prime purpose of the egg is probably to generate new life.

Jesus once mentioned eggs in His earthly ministry when explaining how His Father has so much good to give each of us if we will only ask Him. Having prefaced with those famous words of The Lord's Prayer, in response to a disciple's request to be taught how to pray, He then instructed them by saying 'Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened.' Then by way of further explanation to indicate that God best knows our needs, he added, 'Which of you fathers, if your son asks for a fish, will give him a snake instead? Or if he asks for an egg, will give him a scorpion? If you then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!' And when that Holy Spirit in dwelling within, its fruit should be evident for all to see, just like the new life inside an egg is not contained within forever.

Here's a last thought. Even though they may look the same, the difference between a hard boiled and a raw egg is seen when you try to spin them, for only the hard boiled egg rotates easily. Our lives visibly show what we are in our hearts, regardless of the image we try to portray. I guess people can see the cracks!

E is for ELEPHANT

2008-07-23T16:07:00.000+01:00

We had waited patiently with our guide for over half an hour. He had assured us that they were on their way to the water hole and just when we had about given up hope of them ever appearing, a large, grey mass began to poke its way through the rambling bush and cross our line of view, a safe distance away. Not that it was completely safe. The ranger had warned us to keep crouched behind the scrub and fallen trees since any undue movement might attract the mother's attention and she could be very proactive in defending her young who had simply come to quench their thirst and enjoy a playful family paddle. We watched them trundle down to the edge of the little pool, where they remained for half an hour, during which the only movement on our part were the shutters on a few cameras and then they turned and left in the direction from whence they had come without even caring to glance towards their human voyeurs, though I suspected they had known we were there all the time. It was an exhilarating experience, to view such majestic yet ponderous creature in something akin to their natural habitat, even if a barrier to complete freedom did lie somewhere beyond their comfort zone. We would see them twice more during our stay. once in the enveloping darkness of a late evening when the searchlight from our ranger's land rover lit up a male and his partner just off our track and definitely too close to our comfort zone. And then, the next evening, from the security of our camp, enjoying an open air dinner, the floodlight above the nearby water hole where we had first seen the family, showed that they had returned for an after dark soiree. In all my encounters and indeed those where metal bars that separated us, gave me increased confidence in my safety, I never forget that these are wild animals and their apparent ponderous and docile nature does not truly reflect the power they possess.

I'm told some elephants can live to be seventy years of age and they are famed for their memory, intelligence and wisdom while even the King of the Jungle is unlikely to prey on such a magnificent and huge beast. Scientists tell us that their trunk has so many muscles and nerves that it is sensitive enough to lift one blade of grass but strong enough to rip up a tree. It also allows them to draw up three or four gallons of water at a time and spray it into their mouth to quench a thirst or to spray it over their bodies for washing but they often follow this with a further spraying of mud which then acts as a protective sunscreen. And it doesn't stop there, for the intertwining of trunks is a greeting in much the same way as we would shake hands, while a raised trunk is a sign of warning to intruders or potential enemies. And because it is also essentially their nose, elephants rely on their trunk for their very highly developed sense of smell that allows them to locate food and other living things, either friend or foe, by a simple waving of the appendage in the air. Their tusks are equally important, helping them to dig for water, debark trees, move obstacles in their path and to mark their territory. They are also available as a weapon if they choose to use them in this way. Unfortunately, for this giant animal, the tusks are a much sought after material, being used for piano and organ keys, making figurines and different sculptures and also especially in constructing the hanko, a Japanese seal for documents. How sad that the population of elephants across the world has dwindled because to get the ivory, the animal must die. Indeed one of its greatest strengths becomes its weakness.

Maybe therein lies a lesson for us all, for where we seem to feel strongest can turn out to be where we are most vulnerable. Satan attacks us where he knows he can do the most harm, be it in our marriages, our relationships with others, our family life, our job, but of course, most importantly for him, in our Christian walk. Poachers don't attack tuskless elephants and satan will likewise only attack us where he can take something valuable away from us. So it's up to us to protect our lives for the places where he might find us weak, where temptation is most likely to turn our heads and cause us to fall. My old Sunday school teacher always said 'temptation doesn't do the damage, but giving in to it does.' Never think that he is leaving you alone, for even Judas, close as he was to Jesus succumbed, as John writes 'As soon as Judas took the bread, Satan entered into him.' The good news of course is that he is already defeated at Calvary and if we truly depend on Jesus for our strength every day, He can keep the devil from stealing our faith.

Today, dig deep in the faith for that living water, claim the protection of your Father, ask Him to remove the obstacles in your path that might stop you, mark your territory clearly for Jesus and above all, get ready for the battle.

Y is for YUCCA

2008-07-22T14:38:00.000+01:00

Mum was a great gardener. If it had roots, stem and leaves, she could make it grow and often plants would thrive, having begun life as a little cutting she had obtained from a friend or neighbour. In her later years, when she and and dad would go on holiday to Scotland or the north of our province, she would seldom return home without some 'slips' of plants that she had collected on her travels and before long they would be growing healthily in a corner of her garden. Indeed some of the fir trees and broom plants that still decorate the family garden, came all the way from the moors in Ayrshire. As long as I can remember, she spent her 'free' time in the garden tending to her 'family' and over the years new little plots of ground began to spring up around home, in the unlikeliest of locations, with each one containing a selection of newly acquired plants, that still survive to this day. And those that she couldn't find room for in her multitude of flower beds, remained in an ever increasing congregation of flower pots of various sizes and shapes, close to the back door of our house.

But amongst all the plants that she cultivated in her botanical paradise, I think the ones she admired most were the Yucca plants. It had all started with one large Yucca in the main garden. I didn't particularly like it as I inevitably got 'spiked' by one of its pointed, sharp leaves every time i tried to manoeuvre the lawnmower around its base. It didn't seem that interesting a plant either, just a mass of these dangerous, hard and waxy leaves in a sort of rosette and a fairly think, woody stem. But then one year it produced a massive flower, well not exactly one flower, but a whole stalk of white flowers, about a foot high and then, despite mum's concerns to the contrary, it seemed to flower every year with as much gusto as the previous one. Such was her confidence in the plants hardiness and her own green fingers that soon, several cuttings had been removed and planted elsewhere in the garden and within a few short years had become established enough to produce their own flowering stalks. It was a great sight and over the years all the Yuccas continued to flourish and now their stems are more akin to trunks of small trees. When we began to set out our own garden, mum was soon on hand with a few Yucca cuttings that she carefully placed at several points and for quite a few years now , we have been able to enjoy the delights of the white flowering stalks on our own doorstep, though the plants themselves still see the need to attack me when I mow the lawn in their proximity.

Yes how encouraging it is to know that in the hands of a real gardener, these plants that are more common at home in a different climate, can grow with great vigour, given the proper care. This past week I have been drawn towards John 15 where Jesus states 'I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.' I saw at first hand the way mum tended her beloved plants, weeding and cutting where necessary in order to not only maintain their health but indeed to produce even greater growth. And I think of my heavenly Father, who constantly cares for me in the same way, cutting away the things that might hinder my spiritual growth and through His help I try to bear fruit and blossom for Him. In Galatians 5, Paul lists for us all those qualities that God requires us to exhibit as we become more like His Son, when he writes 'But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.' These are the signs that our roots are growing deeper in Him, that our hearts are in tune with His guiding and our lives are being slowly pruned towards that ultimate perfection in Eternity. Have faith in the Gardener.

Y is for YESTERDAY

2008-07-21T11:51:00.000+01:00

They say nostalgia isn't what it used to be. I prefer to think that hindsight is a wonderful thing. However I do think we are more interested in the past than we think and for some it probably borders on obsessiveness. On our local television channel, another series of UTV Rewind has just started that gives us glimpses into earlier years and I think I'm more fascinated by the clothes and hairstyles of presenters in their bygone days than the events they are reporting. Many of our other television channels fill their schedules with repeats and indeed some stations are dedicated to old programmes. One of my favourites is the ESPN sports channel that allows sports fanatics to watch old football and rugby matches as well as snippets of other sports and their stars. And you know so many of the games are such a distant memory that it's almost like watching them for the first time, except for the retro skips and hairstyles.

But it doesn't end there. Everyday, for the last fifteen years in school, I have started the morning with my class by sharing some snippets from a book called 'On This Day'. Each page is dedicated to one day of the year and summarises the main world events that have happened on that particular date in history. Some of the things we talk about are recent enough for me to remember but many are too long in the past, while for the children, everything is new. My only problem is that I now need to update the book because so many important events have happened since it was first published and there are enough recent additions that some of the pupils would remember and of course, add to their interest.

Of course as we get older, there are more yesterdays to recall, though not all with affection and I guess there are many yesterdays that we'd prefer hadn't happened or would like to rewrite while many others bring back a great sense of satisfaction and pleasure. Either way they are all part of our personal history, filling the huge dairy that we call life. And there are no days that something isn't recorded. But so often our view of the present is linked to the past and we cling to our yesterdays with a mixture of regret and fondness, suggesting that they were so much better than today. Nowhere more evident is this than in the sporting world where I listen to a whole posse of former sports stars ridiculing the game they once graced and minimising the success of their present day equivalents. It often starts with the phrase, 'in my day' and you know immediately that their comparison of old and new is viewed through very coloured glass. The truth is that while each of our own eras has had much to offer, each also has had its disadvantages and maybe we need to take a little from each generation to see the bigger and better picture. In our province, yesterday is always linked with the sectarian trouble that occupied many of our days and I can remember many yesterdays when I knew a victim by name or personally. As we remember those who lost their lives in one such horrific example, exactly ten years ago, we do so by also thinking about every other family whose today is always filled with the memories of a yesterday they wish had never happened.

The writer of Hebrews reminds us that 'Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.' But He is not interested in our yesterdays and what we did in them and because He doesn't change with time, the gift of salvation He offers is always available. If we accept His gift, that forgiveness He gives includes wiping away all the wrongs of yesterday, all the sins of the past. Isaiah writes 'Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past' and that is exactly what we can do because God forgives and forgets. He takes away our past and buries it forever. Your yesterday can remain there to be remembered no more.

Y is for YOUNG

2008-07-20T17:54:00.000+01:00

I've just watched the Women's Individual All Around Final gymnastics competition at the Beijing Olympics and its a bit disconcerting. When you add together the ages of the gold, silver and bronze winners, I'm still older than the combined total. If anything makes you realise that sport is a young person's game, it has to be the Olympics, where this year the youngest competitor is a twelve year old swimmer, two years younger than Great Britain's young diver. Still if it's any consolation, and it's not really, there is a Japanese equestrian competitor who is sixty four and he did compete at the Olympics before, albeit forty four years ago in his home country. I know there are sports where age is less of a barrier to success, such as bowls, shooting, archery, ideally those where competitiveness depends more on skill and experience than on stamina, speed and strength and of course most athletes know when it is time to give way to youth. However the great thing is that the young in this year's games are producing even greater levels of achievement than their predecessors, such is the level of fitness and dedication that they now possess and also the scientific and dietary knowledge available to them and their myriad of coaches and advisors. I listened with interest to one of our local commentators, a former Olympic competitor in the swimming pool, who, as a young boy had watched the great David Wilkie win gold at the 1976 Montreal Olympics and vowed that some day he would swim as fast as the Olympic champion. And of course with great dedication, he did equal Wilkie's time some eight years later. The only trouble was by that stage, Wilkie's world record winning time was two seconds too slow and now such a time wouldn't even have secured a place in either semi final!

But it's not just in sport where the young can teach us a thing or two. I've just been reading youngest son's blog over the past few weeks while he is on his eXtreme walk in Ecuador with OMS International and in his writings, his depth of faith is so evident and his understanding of the need to lean on God during his year away is something that I think few of my generation appreciated when we were his age. And it's not just him. I see it all around in many of our young people, that desire to find a deeper personal relationship with God and to be discerning in finding the right road to greater peace and also to a greater commitment to their Maker. For many, it now involves a summer, not lying on the beach, but working with kids in camps, often travelling to foreign countries and living way outside their comfort zone. For others it is a desire to take up roles of responsibility in their churches, to help in worship, to sing, to lead, to make tea, but whatever roles they occupy, to do them with complete commitment. A few will choose to study at a Bible College, to learn more about their faith and maybe as a prerequisite to a vocation either at home or abroad but whatever they choose, it is so refreshing to see them wear their faith on their sleeve. Not for them any hidden Christianity, not for them any embarrassment at awkward questions from friends, not for them Jesus being second best.

I thought about a lot of these young kids today as they waited anxiously for their A level grades that would decide their immediate future and I thought of all those whom I know and what the next year might bring for them. Yes there will be those for whom God will become a distant thought, who may leave behind the comfort zones of their church or youth group and there may be some who will never venture along that path again. And I'm reminded of the writer of Ecclesiastes who said 'Remember your Creator in the days of your youth, before the days of trouble come and the years approach when you will say, "I find no pleasure in them". ' And I think of how if we have truly given our lives to God in complete repentance and faith, that he will never let us go and will never stop loving us, even when we choose a different path for a while. He is like the shepherd searching for His lost sheep, because the sheep already belongs to Him and He is just not prepared to lose it. Isn't that great to know, especially for you parents out there, when you have to let your child make their own way in life, that the Creator they knew personally in the days of their youth, hasn't left them and they still live in His grace.

I listened to our Minister for Education today, who has less qualifications than most of the children around her but who could probably beat them at tennis or on quizzes about Colombia and she did manage to say something I agreed with for once when she pointed out that even if some young people don't get the grades they want, there is more than one pathway to their chosen career. The same is not true however concerning the way to God for His Son makes it quite clear when he says in John 14, 'I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.' And the good news is that age is never a barrier.

Q is for QUIET

2008-07-19T20:53:00.000+01:00

If you happened to walk into our dining hall on any day of the week, you would hear it before you would see it. It's not surprising when you have nearly one hundred and fifty children all in the one room, after three hours of studying Maths and English in some form, that they might just want to let off a bit of steam. Unfortunately they haven't quite grasped the concept that if everyone tries to talk at the same time, then it's hard to decipher anything that is said. They think the only solution is to try and talk more loudly than their neighbour who obviously has the same brainwave at the same time, so the noise level creeps up rather quickly, until a bang of the cook's big spoon returns the decibel reading to normality. But it's never totally quiet and I don't think you could expect it to be. Strangely though, I can stand in the hall and not hear the noise at all some days because in truth, it's not about the noise, but about where your mind is. My own recollections of dinner time in the dining hall around the start of my teenage years was one of absolute silence, save for the noise of metal on crockery. It was in general keeping with the rigid discipline rules of the school whose policy on educating children was, to quote a famous Irish author, the carrot and stick method, but without the carrot.

I was drawn to the whole subject of quietness today by several things. First, we spent some of the daylight working hours in school, rearranging books and furniture that had been move to allow for a repaint. The place was so quiet all day with the children not due back for several weeks. It made me almost think how great being a teacher could be of there were no pupils, but it's their noisy exuberance and enthusiasm that makes the job worthwhile sometimes.

Then when I logged on to youngest son's blog tonight that he is writing during his year in Ecuador, working with a church, I was intrigued how he described his present life and his mind as 'noisy' because of the busy nature of his work, the people he is meeting , the different language and culture and of course all the thoughts, plans, ideas and feelings that are constantly swimming about in his head. And you know I understood exactly what he was talking about, because what he really needed was some quality time to himself, not just for the sake of it , but to be able to mediate on God and to feel His peace infuse his life. It reminded me of Job who said 'I have no peace, no quietness; I have no rest, but only turmoil.' It took me back to many times I can remember when I would seek a 'place of peace' just to be alone with my thoughts and with God. Sometimes it was just a walk up the lane or by the riverbank, maybe a drive in the car, sitting in the dark in the lounge, mowing the lawn and sometimes, it was in the middle of a crowd where I was just anonymous and could walk with my own thoughts. I guess that's where I am in the dining hall occasionally. Then tonight, I was reading the local paper and happened to notice a remark from our only lady Prime Minster to date, who said 'We have a great many people on our national stage who are great communicators but they have nothing whatever to communicate.' I think what she really meant was 'maybe they should keep quiet.' Or maybe it's another way of phrasing that old proverb, 'empty vessels make the most sound.'

Ah, quietness. It plays such an important part in our spiritual lives too. The write of Lamentations says 'it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.' And Zephaniah records 'The LORD your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing.' Even when Jesus cast demons out of people, His first words were to command the demon to 'be quiet.' And maybe the writer of Margaret Thatcher was not one hundred miles away from the writer of Ecclesiastes who wrote 'The quiet words of the wise are more to be heeded than the shouts of a ruler of fools.' We used to sing a hymn many years ago, the first line of which was 'there is a place of quiet rest, near to the heart of God.' The Psalmist reminds me that 'He leads me beside quiet waters.' So maybe today we need to start our desire to grow deeper with God by being a little quieter. After all, if we're not, we mightn't hear that gentle whisper.

Q is for QUEEN

2008-07-18T16:48:00.000+01:00

Our present queen, Elizabeth, is a member of a very exclusive club. At the moment along with her good self, I can only find two other queens, Margrethe II of Denmark and Beatrix of the Netherlands who are the ruling female monarchs in the world. Yes there are plenty of queens around but most of them sit beside their husband king in a sort of supportive role, you know, ironing his robes, polishing his crown, making the royal breakfast, getting the royal groceries, rearing the royal children, having the royal pipe and slippers ready every evening. Actually, I'm sure they don't do anything of those things, especially where a servant could be hired instead. But can't you imagine how dull the conversations might be. 'What did you do today dear?' 'You should know, you were sitting beside me all day!'

When we cover the family tree of the British Royals, I'm always intrigued by the fact that ER would probably never have been on the throne except for the love of her uncle Edward for Mrs Simpson. In his abdication, her whole future changed and but for that interjection we might have been talking of Charles, Anne, Andrew and Edward in the same way as we consider their distant cousins and minor royals. Elizabeth has been Queen for all of my life, indeed for the lives of the majority of people on these islands and in the past decade or so, she has twice been in our local city though the closest I got to her was on a television screen. Mind you, one little girl form our school waited for hours to see her and present to her some flowers and eventually she was rewarded when Her Majesty stopped, accepted her gift and spoke with her for a few moments. That event is. I'm sure recorded in a scrapbook for ever. Though I never knew her, from all the information we study in school, Queen Victoria seemed somewhat less outgoing and shunned public appearances when possible. I'm sure the early death of her husband, Prince Albert, had a profound effect on her and all accounts record that she wore black for the rest of her life until she died after nearly sixty four years on the throne.

In the Bible, two queens stand out in my memory. Jezebel, the wife of Ahab and daughter of a foreign king, who turned her husband away from the God of the Israelites and took particular offence at Elijah the prophet and his successor, Elisha, when they confronted her of her evil. To call her manipulative would be an understatement and yet she was not impressed when Elijah prophesied that she would be eaten by dogs at the end a finale that eventually came to pass.

Esther, on the other hand, was a woman of deep faith and courageous in her position as wife to King Xerxes, during the captive years of the Israelites. And no doubt because of her faith in the God of her forefathers, she had a strong moral character and a desire, despite the risks, to seek justice for her captive people. So important is she that her story is recorded in the book that bears her name. She is remembered as the Saviour of her people through her actions but in reality it was her reliance on God and her call to all the Jewish people to follow her example that was the catalyst for God's miraculous intervention and their ultimate deliverance.

And so it still is today. God is waiting to supernaturally and miraculously intervene in our lives, and yet too often we choose not to rely on Him and His all encompassing greatness by trying to keep our problems 'in house' and solve them by our own human efforts. That's why the prophet Isaiah writes in chapter 50, 'Who among you fears the LORD and obeys the word of his servant? Let him who walks in the dark, who has no light, trust in the name of the LORD and rely on his God' and why John, in his epistle, chapter 4 can say with confidence 'And so we know and rely on the love God has for us. God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in him.'

Each of these queens is remembered in a different way because of the life they lived during their few years on earth. How will you be remembered. And how will God remember you?

Q is for QUIZ

2008-07-17T14:43:00.000+01:00

So you think you're good at quizzes. OK, answer these five correctly and you can be in my quiz team anytime.

Q1. Which is the tallest building in the world?

Q2. How long does it take Jupiter to complete one orbit of the sun?

Q3. What is the name of the tower that houses Big Ben?

Q4. Who invented Lacrosse?

Q5. Does Qur'an (Koran) mean recitation, religion or faith?

I ask these because they appeared in a newspaper at the weekend and here's the sore point, they're from a CHILDREN'S encyclopedia and I didn't know the answer to any of them. (You can check the answers at the end of this blog, but only if you read it all first!!)

I love a good quiz. There is a real satisfaction in knowing the answers to the question master's posers, though to be honest, sometimes it largely depends on the subject. For example, I reckon I have a reasonable knowledge of geography, of sport, of popular music and of general knowledge. But within any of those categories, I can can be hopelessly lost. I suppose my geography is largely dependent on what I learnt about the world at primary school, you know, all those capitals, rivers, mountains and the like and also what I picked up from my interest in sport, especially football, with regard to towns and cities in certain countries. Also, as a child I would often s[pend time just browsing the atlas and finding places in different countries. But, I haven't done much of that in the past twenty years so all the new countries that have arisen or changed their names, do make it a lot harder. The same goes with sport and I probably notice it best when I watch a programme like 'A Question of Sport' now and can't even recognise some of those taking part, let alone the questions. It was easier years ago, in the days of David Vine and David Coleman (who are they, I hear you ask?) when I followed every conceivable sport closely but now I just dip in and out of them and have what I would call 'a conversational knowledge' but nothing more. So most of the time, when I watch the programme now, I do so in a much more passive way than previously. And I suppose music is the same too, since most of my knowledge seems to end rather abruptly in the early nineties an my factual appreciation of classical and jazz has never been a forte anyway. So I guess the perfect quiz, to suit everyone, has never been made and that's why when you go along to a Table Quiz, it's so vital to have the right mix of males and females and a variety of ages so that such diverse things as fashion, soap operas, cooking, horse racing, languages, football, history and celebrities are an interest to someone in your team.

When sister and I were young, we would spend hours on a Sunday afternoon or evening, plaguing mum to ask us questions from the Bible quiz books she used at some of the children's meetings she took. There were questions on virtually every Bible topic from The Garden of Eden , through David and Goliath and including the miracles and parables of Jesus. I always remember that was where I learned about Methuselah, at three hundred and sixty nine years of age, being the oldest man who ever lived and also about a guy called Nimrod being Noah's great grandson and also being a 'mighty hunter' by occupation. I don't know how we learned all this information because I don't recall reading about that gentleman in the Bible as a child. I suppose we did the quizzes so many times that after a while some things just seemed to stick in the brain. But it was great fun and that was where I learned so many of the Bible facts that I was able to store up for years.

Don't we all rely a little bit on our past knowledge sometimes? But as a Christian you can't do that because every day is a new experience with God and every day HE wants to teach us something new in order that we might grow. So it can be very easy to draw on our past learning, you know, all those Bible verses and facts that we gathered up as children and think that we can survive just by producing them at the right moment. Let me tell you it's not enough. God isn't really interested in whether or not I knew Noah's descendant was a hunter, but he is concerned if I haven't grown as a Christian since the day I learned that fact. And I should be concerned too. You see it's not just about head knowledge, it's about what is going on in you heart, or if you wish to put it another way, whether your life really reflects the love of Jesus and the work of His Spirit. The Psalmist writes 'Who may ascend the hill of the LORD ? Who may stand in his holy place? He who has clean hands and a pure heart, who does not lift up his soul to an idol or swear by what is false. He will receive blessing from the LORD and vindication from God his Saviour.' I don't see anything about our knowledge of Biblical facts getting us admittance into the Holy of Holies. Our heart's desire should be to become more like Jesus and the Psalmist again reminds us in chapter 37 'Delight yourself in the LORD and he will give you the desires of your heart.' Do you know how you come to delight in something. By spending time reflecting on it. Maybe it's time to ask the questions that really matter about your life and your eternity. And you'll not find any of the answers in a quiz book.

ANSWERS: Q1:Taipei 101 Q2: 12 earth years Q3: St Stephen's Tower Q4:Native Americans Q5:recitation (5/5 = genius, 3/5 = better than most, 1/5 = don't give up your day job, 0/5 = welcome to our club!)

Q is for QUAILS

2008-07-16T16:01:00.000+01:00

You know the story well, how God sent Manna and Quails to feed the Israelites in the desert as they travelled towards Canaan. I had heard the account many times but had never seen a quail in the flesh until I was ambling around Harrods one day, with no intention of buying anything and indeed not enough finance to consider changing my mind, when I happened to dander into the grocery level. First impression was that it was hardly your average Tesco or Sainsburys and I couldn't quite imagine doing the weekly shop for a family of four in that establishment. I think that was when the quail first caught my eye though obviously it was completely unaware of my presence as it lay on its back in the glass cabinet, alongside quite a few of its brothers and sisters. I guess it was the size that really floored me first of all, the whole body being little bigger than my clenched fist, just really a very, very small chicken that would hold little more than an egg cup full of sage and onion stuffing. Yet, it was clearly a delicacy, as the price tag indicated.

I have never tasted quail but I reckon it's not a whole lot different to chicken. The closest I got was another similar sized flying bird, the pigeon that dad used to shoot when I was a kid. Sometimes mum would roast them but more often than not she boiled the birds and made a pot of soup. It was a much darker meat but very, very tasty. The Israelites certainly seemed to have a lot less bother in acquiring the quails than dad did with the pigeons. It seemed to be God's response to their ungratefulness over the manna that they ate for the whole forty years on their journeys. Now I can understand that there might have been a certain degree of dissatisfaction at having to eat the same food every day, but surely their culinary skills would have allowed them to prepare it in different ways to keep it palatable and of course they didn't only had to step outside their tents in the morning to gather all that they needed. However when they grumbled about all the fish and fruit they had in Egypt, God provided fresh meat as well as the manna for them in the form of quails, again within reach of home. Exodus 16 tells us 'That evening quail came and covered the camp, and in the morning there was a layer of dew around the camp.' Numbers records this account. 'Now a wind went out from the LORD and drove quail in from the sea. It brought them down all around the camp to about three feet above the ground, as far as a day's walk in any direction. All that day and night and all the next day the people went out and gathered quail. No one gathered less than ten homers. Then they spread them out all around the camp.' But there was a price to pay for their attitude, as God sent a fatal plague on all those who had grumbled against Him. Many think that the quails, migratory birds by nature, were so exhausted on their return from warmer climates and busy feeding habits, that they rested close to the Israelite camp. While this may be true, it doesn't totally explain the wind that brought them in the right direction nor the fact that at hovering only a few feet above the ground made them easy prey for the carnivorous humans. God's hand was clearly at work.

Anyway, quails and for that matter, manna, have much to teach us about God. They teach me the truth of what Paul wrote to the Philippian believers in chapter 4v19 where he writes 'And my God will meet all your needs according to his glorious riches in Christ Jesus.' They also remind me of the huge difference between what we want and what God knows we need. And sometimes God puts all we need right in front of us and we just don't see it or else choose to ignore His gifts. But this account also tells me that we have a part to play too and God does expect us not only to obey Him but to use what He gives us wisely for our spiritual strengthening and for the nourishment of others. That's why, in Matthew's gospel, Jesus announces 'Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.' It's a hunger for needs not wants that He will satisfy. If God brings the quails to your door, maybe you should grasp hold of His offer.

Q is for QUEUE

2008-07-15T16:33:00.000+01:00

It didn't seem like a queue at the time and I guess I wasn't really in a hurry anywhere. After all I was only standing in a line and everyone else was only five years of age, but it was queue all the same. Since I hadn't been to see Santa Claus in the local store, this was really my first experience of queuing and psychologically it didn't have much effect on me. I suppose since that day, life has just been one long line of queues and I don't recall too many that I wanted to be part of. It probably all started with the dinner queue at school, then there was the queue for the school doctor and dentist, the queue at the little sweet shop across the road and then the line waiting to get on the school bus. From there it has deteriorated into getting into line at the supermarket, standing in a queue at the chip shop, being patient at a Starbucks, waiting for an cone from an ice cream van, taking your turn to get the car taxed, sitting at the barber's, the dentist's, the doctor's surgery, the solicitor's, the parent's evening at school and I haven't even got near the car yet. So if you're not stuck in a queue of cars in the middle of town, then you can be in exactly the same predicament on the motorway, exiting from a car park, waiting to refill with fuel at a petrol station, idling in line until the car can have an MOT test or slowly inching forward to get a parking space at the shopping mall on a bank holiday.

But I reckon I've discovered one or two things about queuing. First of all, if there are two queues on the motorway, you always think that the one you are not in is moving faster than the one you chose to join. Of course the problem is that plenty of other folk are thinking the same thing as you so when you eventually decide to switch queues, you discover, because others have done the same, that your queue is now the slowest moving. Secondly, it's not always the best policy to join the shorter queue. I discovered this while going through passport control when wife, who had gone into a longer and what appeared to be slower moving queue, gently edged her way alongside my queue and then passed through several minutes before I did, simply because her control clerk was speedier than the one checking my passport. Thirdly, when you are standing in a queue, nothing is more annoying than a queue jumper. You know the sort that drives up the outside lane as if he didn't know what was happening ahead and then signals to squeeze in further up the line, thus pushing you even further back down the queue. It was the same at grammar school when we were in the junior forms and the senior prefects were allowed to walk straight to the front of the line and lift their lunch. Strangely I didn't find it so annoying when I was a senior and did the same thing! Fourthly, queues are really annoying when you don't know exactly how many people are in front of you. Haven't you joined the line at a concert or a ride in a theme park and it snakes its ways around the corner, into the building and up and down hastily constructed aisles and the queue you joined was only the tip of the iceberg? Or have you not being hanging on the end of a telephone, while some nice recorded lady tells you every few minutes, 'you are moving up the queue and your call will be dealt with shortly'? Fifthly, and most obviously, queues are not at all stressful if you're either not in one or if you are not in a hurry. Isn't it lovely to be driving along the other side of the motorway and see all those cars stuck in a jam?

Anyway queues teach me one thing, more than any other, patience. Solomon, the writer of Proverbs had plenty to say on the subject when he wrote in chapter 14 'A patient man has great understanding, but a quick-tempered man displays folly' and then again in chapter 15 'A hot-tempered man stirs up dissension, but a patient man calms a quarrel.' David, his father and Psalm writer records in chapter 40 'I waited patiently for the LORD; he turned to me and heard my cry' while Paul reminds the church at Ephesus to 'Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.' However Peter tells us that there is one who has greater patience than all of us, despite our reluctance to follow the path He has given us, for he writes 'The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. He is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.' Clearly Jesus will keep that promise to return fro those who have believed in Him but His patience is giving those who are still beyond the Kingdom, an opportunity to be saved. Of course the good news is that you don't have to stand in a queue and wait, for Jesus is ready at any time to be your Saviour. With God you're always at the front of the queue

U is for UNIFORM

2008-07-14T15:14:00.000+01:00

It seemed a good idea at the time. When you have nearly forty children on a school trip and your job is to act 'in loco parentis', there comes with that a certain responsibility to arrive home safely with the same number of little darlings with which you left. This generally is not a problem, yet the ability in being able to count up to forty becomes very useful though rather tiring and monotonous. And of course there are few occasions when it is a major task to recognise pupils, especially on a crowded ferry, when this is a non-uniform trip and other schools may be using the boat for the same purpose. So to ease our concerns, we dressed all our pupils in the only regulation piece of uniform they required - a red cap. It was a busy crossing and by the time I had gathered my bits and pieces together and followed the other staff and children to the lounge above the vehicle decks, everyone was safely gathered in. Except that at least two other school groups had also chosen to wear red caps. Initially this isn't a problem, until the children start to wander around the boat and then you discover that if anyone from another school misbehaves, you are guilty by association or at least by similarities in dress code. And several times I ended up trying to count red heads before realising that they were not members of my flock.

We didn't have a school uniform during my primary years so the opportunity to wear the blazer of my grammar school was a bonus. The boarders however, had a different, plain grey jacket and when you had represented a sports team at senior level you had the privilege of wearing a colours blazer. Then for some reason, just as I reached the sixth form the headmaster decided that school uniform was no longer compulsory for our year and we were allowed to wear our own clothes, the only stipulation being that we donned a jacket of some description. It seemed a pretty daft idea to be honest because there is something about uniform which helps to identify you with a school or organisation and does create a degree of discipline in your life. Also, for parents it can be a nightmare trying to provide a standard of dress that doesn't look out of place, but I guess maybe the school's idea was to prepare us as young men for what lay ahead when we would eventually be out of uniform, though I don't think it was much help in character building. But hey, here's the strange thing. Even though we are talking over thirty years ago, I can vividly remember the jackets that many of my classmates wore and when I think of them today, for many, that is my last memory of them. SO maybe it was some kind of uniform after all.

I guess most of us have worn a uniform at some time in our life, either at school, maybe as part of a youth organisation or even in the job we do now. During any single day at school, I might encounter a policeman, a minister, a school crossing patrol man, a cook, a school cleaner, a caretaker, a salesman, a sports coach, a painter, a groundsman, a bus driver, a pupil or the school nurse and everyone is easily identifiable by their uniform. But in truth, wearing the uniform doesn't mean you are what you portray to be and that's what gets me really worried, when we start to think about the kingdom. I go to a church where the dress code is less than rigid, in fact it is better classed as informal and I think many folks appreciate that they are accepted for whom they are than what they wear, basing their decision on what God said to Samuel when he was choosing a King for Israel, 'Man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.' And while it can be used as an excuse for untidiness and totally improper dress, generally I think people use their common sense in this area. You see, you can wear the traditional church uniform of a Sunday suit, or Sunday outfit, the choir robes, even the minister's robes and collar but it doesn't mean you belong to God. Jesus had plenty to tell the Pharisees about this when he said 'Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You are like whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of dead men's bones and everything unclean. In the same way, on the outside you appear to people as righteous but on the inside you are full of hypocrisy and wickedness.' So it's not what other people see when they look at us, it's what God knows when he sees beyond our coverings and into the heart. I guess uniform doesn't tell the full story!

U is for UNIVERSITY

2008-07-13T09:35:00.000+01:00

It's that time of year again, when students everywhere will be anxiously waiting to discover if all their hard work or, in some cases, lack of hard work, has secured for them a place in their university of choice. I guess there'll be a lot of disappointed faces on that day and beside all those who have got the grades they need and have their next few years firmly mapped out, there will be another large pool who will be sinking into despair at the letters beside their subjects, when they realise that their intended career is no longer open to them. For that group, it's back to the drawing board, going through clearing in the hope of getting on a different degree course or going to another university or college and for some, the choice may be to take a different route into their intended profession. Of course, many discover that when they actually begin their new studies, either the work is beyond them or simply that it's not really what they want to do after all and may choose to either jump ship into the big ocean of employment or at least jump on to another boat setting a different course and keep paddling for another few years. Some even become 'perennial students' never seeming to end their studies, by taking on doctorates, masters and the like and prolonging the time when they can be removed from the 'bank of mum and dad'.

Since both our lads are more than half way through their respective times at university, it has made me reflect on the whole idea of campus life and my first thought is that it is a very different experience to university thirty years ago but in other ways it hasn't changed at all. Anyone who was a student in Belfast in the late seventies will know that the city was fraught with dangers, especially after dark and there was always an eerie feeling that you could be in the wrong place at the wrong time. ON a very recent trip in the university area, I was reminded of this when I saw the array of coffee shops, restaurants and bars that now exist not solely but predominantly to cater for students within five minutes of their living accommodation and I recall the sole chip shop with its few wooden tables that used to be the only haven for hungry students. Now the city is a vibrant, cosmopolitan, eclectic mix of establishments and, to their credit, most students are determined to enjoy their short few years of freedom before the slavery of employment kicks in and the bills follow through the letter box.

So was it worth it all? I suppose that's the question everyone who has been through the doors of Queen's or any other university ask themselves when it's all over and, looking back, I reckon it was, though I have to say that hindsight is a wonderful thing and I often looked at those who chose not to study beyond school but found a more than adequate niche in employment to fund their lifestyles and that of their families. Yet apart from the studies, what does university actually teach us? I've no doubt, for many, the biggest adjustment is to discover that you are your own decision maker. It may not seem that important, but now you choose when you eat, what you eat. when you go to bed, when you rise, whether yo attend all your lectures, who your friends are, how much work you do, what you wear, how much you spend each day, in fact decisions, the majority of which were usually made for you to a greater or less degree. And of course some can handle it better than others. I always remember those who had ploughed their way through their 'grant' allowance before half of the year had passed but I guess at least they learned all about budgeting, regardless of what course they were studying. Others saw their new found freedom expressed in late nights spent partying or just chatting with their friends in somebody's flat, which often resulted in a 'lie-in' the next morning and missed lectures but I think they learned all about doing things in moderation when the 'powers that be' began to question their non attendance. For some, it was simply a place to study and get a degree and they never got to grips with the social aspect of university and so completed their course and left campus not really having learned much about themselves and their personalities. And of course, a small, select band of undergraduates remained exactly that because they could never adjust to the level of freedom to decide that they had been given and found their security in the world of work much earlier than they had intended. But I reckon most would agree that it was worth it, whether simply as a way to stave off the evil day of employment, to gain the confidence and maturity to be ready for a job or to obtain the qualifications for a chosen career but often most benefited because the whole package was character building and maybe helped to make us the people we are as individuals today. Yet I believe that by the time most leave campus, they are mentally ready to do so and I guess you just grow tired of student life. You just grow up.

In 1 Corinthians 13, Paul writes 'When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.' And isn't there a sense that as we become older in the Christian faith, we also need to 'grow up' and to understand more deeply the God whom we claim to serve. Yet some believers never seem to grow up and appear to be quite satisfied with their assurance of heaven. Paul puts it beautifully when writing in Hebrews by saying 'In fact, though by this time you ought to be teachers, you need someone to teach you the elementary truths of God's word all over again. You need milk, not solid food.' It's like all those years we've been following God and have never explored the richness of the food He can give, being content with the knowledge of our forgiveness and little else. For many, it was our traditional Christian family background that brought us into contact with Jesus and His salvation but ultimately it was that same tradition which stopped us thinking through our faith more deeply after conversion and now we still are drinking the same milk, surviving but not growing. University isn't for life. It's a stepping stone that shapes our future and the grades that assured our entry were only the start of a long journey. Salvation is for eternity but wouldn't you like to travel beyond the door that you entered and leave the milk bottle behind?

U is for UNDERSTAND

2008-07-12T08:58:00.000+01:00

I don't understand how Jumbo jets, with a take off weight of around three hundred and fifty tonnes, manage to get off the ground, never mind fly at cruising speeds of over five hundred miles per hour. I know there is an explanation based on physical science and aerodynamics but I just can't get my head around the whole thing, though when I'm up there in one of those monsters, I guess I try not to think about it too much and sort of take it for granted.

I don't understand how computers work. Yes I know it's to do with binary code and microprocessors but when I open one up, it's just a mass of electronic pieces and circuit boards and I just don't understand how it gets from being that to what I see on my screen. I suppose it's the same with memory sticks, floppy discs, CDs and DVDs for while I know what they do, I just don't think I can ever really understand how someone could invent such things. I guess, like all middle agers, I've gone from living through half of my life without even the idea of a computer to now probably using one every day and feeling completely lost without it.

I don't understand cats. They're just not like any other animal I know. Dogs, you can predict and generally the old adage that a dog can be 'man's best friend' holds for most canines that I know, especially if you're the one holding the bone. Cats, on the other hand, I have always seen as animals that seem to view all other species, including us humans, with suspicion and a feeling of superiority and friendship is very much on their terms, though this week I have not been so sure. And I'm speaking from first hand experience. When we returned from holidays, our beloved Whitie seemed to have deserted the family home, though he had been fed on a regular basis, albeit outside the house. After a day or two he then reappeared but showed a certain reluctance to eat anything and constantly whined around the house. Then he just disappeared and was gone for three or four days. Having enquired unsuccessfully from all the neighbours as to his whereabouts, we assumed that either he had found a new home, had become 'wild' or something more sinister had happened to him and then he just reappeared again two days ago. Now he refuses to leave the house, eats all his food and wants constant attention and affection. MAybe he's more insecure than I thought. Anyway, I don't understand cats.

And there are many other things that I don't fully understand, like how females can remember things for years when the rest of the world has forgotten them, how some people have no appreciation of music, how soda bread never tastes quite like the farls your mother made, how hairdressers and barbers are experts on every subject, how a country can go bankrupt, how birds know to return to the same place every year to build their nests, how terrorists justify murder by calling it war, how opera can be enjoyable, and how political correctness is the Bible by which we all live.

I never understood why I had to rote learn my Tables at school, though I'm glad I did. But I do understand Biology, though it took me to read the whole text book when I was seventeen to fully grasp it, even though I think my teacher had given up on me. And I do understand that since then, so many other scientific developments may mean that some of the information I learned to be true may now be obsolete.

Yet I'll never understand how God could love me so much that He would sacrifice His only Son for me so that I might live simply by believing in His death and Resurrection and confessing my sin. I'll never understand it but I do believe it and of course that's all I need to do. Job once said 'How great is God—beyond our understanding' and I suppose that's why the writer of Proverbs recorded that well known verse that says 'Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.' And isn't that the trouble, that because we do not understand all the ways of Almighty God, we choose to reject His plan of salvation. But then Jesus didn't choose the elite minds of society to be His disciples, for He knew that a simple faith is all that is needed. Maybe Paul puts it best in His letter to the Hebrews, when he states 'By faith we understand that the universe was formed at God's command, so that what is seen was not made out of what was visible.' That's the secret, for it's by faith that we come to understand our Creator and it's by reading the whole text book that we fully grasp it. Do you understand now?

U is for ULURU

2008-07-11T18:57:00.000+01:00

We have an Australian restaurant in our local city. It's the only one of its kind on the whole island and last year when our Irish friend from down under came to stay, we had the opportunity to sample kangaroo and the like in the only slice of his new home that exists here. It shares its name with that giant hill that stands near the centre of that great country of extremes and not far from a Town called Alice that forms the basis of my class reader every year. It is one of the places in the world that, some day, I hope to visit. Apart form its odd shape, the magic of Uluru or Ayer's Rock as it was more commonly known, would be to see its changing colour as the day passes and the light reflects from different angles. Also to understand from the native people just why it is such a sacred aboriginal site and probably to have the opportunity to climb it without the aid of mountaineering gear and breathing apparatus. Yes, Uluru has to be on the list of 'must see' places.

But what other sights would make the top ten of such a list? Recently on a big birthday, a friend bought for me a book listing the fifty places one should see, though a recent calculation on a particular website has worked out that if I wish to see all the most popular fifty places on earth at my present rate, I will have to reach the grand young age of four hundred and thirty four years! I may have to bypass one or two! Anyway I had a little look through the pages, tried to narrow it down to ten and came up with this lot - Uluru, Grand Canyon, Venice, Taj Mahal, Niagara Falls, Galapagos Islands, Pyramids, Great Barrier Reef, Machu Picchu and Rio de Janeiro.

Sometimes when we do get to see our dream places, the impression they leave is one that stays with us for ever and may be totally different to that experienced by another individual. I'm reminded of the opulence of Cannes, the oppressiveness of Manhattan, the serenity of Lake Garda, the poverty of Barbados, the simplicity yet sumptuous living of St Tropez, the sleepiness of Kinsale harbour, the grandeur of Rome, the pride of Washington DC, the hidden history of the Olympic Stadium in Berlin and the friendliness of Armagh, my local city that brings me back neatly to Uluru and that fine restaurant.

But there is one place I want to see more than any other. John describes it in Revelation in this way. 'It shone with the glory of God, and its brilliance was like that of a very precious jewel, like a jasper, clear as crystal.' He goes further to describe it by saying 'The wall was made of jasper, and the city of pure gold, as pure as glass. The foundations of the city walls were decorated with every kind of precious stone. The first foundation was jasper, the second sapphire, the third chalcedony, the fourth emerald, the fifth sardonyx, the sixth carnelian, the seventh chrysolite, the eighth beryl, the ninth topaz, the tenth chrysoprase, the eleventh jacinth, and the twelfth amethyst.The twelve gates were twelve pearls, each gate made of a single pearl. The great street of the city was of pure gold, like transparent glass. ' A great city where there will be no more night, no more suffering, where the river of the water of life will flow through its great street and where God Himself will dwell with His people. That's heaven, greater than any of the wonderful creations we see on earth. But one word of warning and that I leave to John when he writes 'Nothing impure will ever enter it, nor will anyone who does what is shameful or deceitful, but only those whose names are written in the Lamb's book of life.' Now that really is a sacred place.

U is for UFO

2008-07-10T19:32:00.000+01:00

I have a tape recorded many moons ago of a disc jockey who used to ring unsuspecting listeners and others who didn't tune in at all but were nevertheless as unexpectant of a phone call as regular radio enthusiasts. In the programme he would wind them up for a while, based on information he had received from a relative or friend of the victim and then wish them a happy birthday or anniversary, whichever was appropriate for the day. On one occasion he made contact with a being from somewhere well south of the border, a man well advanced in years whose life seemed to revolve around his humble farm, the neighbours and the pub. Of course what made the whole thing even more entertaining was that old Peadar had never heard of this disc jockey nor the station on which he broadcast but it was clear from the very outset that he had important information regarding a UFO which he wished to pass on to someone in authority and preferably for money. His description of the craft in question was vivid, painting a picture of bright purple colouring moving in a series of random directions and emitting a characteristic noise. However there were some discrepancies in his story, not helped by the fact that his sighting had been some time after midnight on a Friday night, after he had fallen through a ditch on his long walk home from the pub. When questioned as to whether he had partaken of the demon drink, he replied 'Sure it was Friday night, what else would I be doing?' And when further prompted to suggest when he had entered the drinking establishment, he answered, 'Some time after Hallowe'en.' I think it's fair to say that listeners may not have taken his sighting too seriously but there was no doubt who had been the star of the show.

So why are we obsessed with UFOs, aliens, life on other planets and intelligent life far superior to that of humans? One of the most common in the last century and of course now forever engraved on our minds because of the rock group is the term 'foo fighter' that signified any object that flew in a fast and erratic manner and was first used during the second World War to describe some strange phenomena seen by pilots that couldn't be explained then or since.

Another that I have always watched with interest was the Roswell incident in America where claims were made that the government tried to cover up an alien landing including the recovery of bodies from the site. But you only have to go on to any UFO website to discover that there have been hundreds of apparent sightings of strange objects in the sky going back to the eleventh century at least, many of which have never had a satisfactory explanation. Of course in the last century the problem has been confounded by apparent physical and occasional photographic evidence to support such encounters though generally this has been of an indirect nature since reports of actual contact with life forms from beyond earth are uncommon if they have existed at all. But such evidence as radar, radiation detection, physical landing traces, biological effects on animals and plants, electromagnetic interference and physiological effects on humans all join the large number of unexplained photographs that many enthusiasts put forward as evidence of life beyond planet Earth.

That there is life beyond our planet is of course without question, for God Himself exists as master of the universe and there has never been a time when He hasn't been around, hence the phrase 'I am' which best describes His eternal and everlasting nature. And who am I to say whether or not He has created other life forms. All I can offer is that when He created man, the Bible tells me in chapter 1 of Genesis that 'God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.' When He had made such a creation which reflected His own being and with which He was clearly happy and was clearly a far more advanced intelligence than any animal He had made, why would He ever need to create another being with a greater mental ability and capacity than that which had been made in His own image. Such ideas are surely from a more sinister and dark force who uses every method possible to undermine our belief in an all powerful Creator.

Still, I often reflect on the shepherds who sat on that lonely hillside near Bethlehem and were confronted with a host of angels that told them of the birth of Immanuel. It can't have been easy to convince others who weren't there as to just what they had witnessed and I'm sure many went to their graves still not believing in the supernatural power of God displayed that night. There are no photographs or other indirect pieces of evidence to prove it happened yet the strength of the story is that it was witnessed by more than one person and also divinely revealed to the gospel writers as they recorded the Good News. Indeed there are those who have tried to hide the evidence of Jesus and even after His death tried to explain His Resurrection away but no satisfactory answer could ever be given. Why? Because it all really happened and despite the best attempts of the Chief Priests who told the soldiers at the time 'You are to say, His disciples came during the night and stole him away while we were asleep' and indeed many down through the years since, all the evidence points not only to the death and rising of Jesus but to the fulfillment of His promise to return for those who have believed. And on that day, nobody will be able to hide the evidence!

U is for UMBRELLA

2008-07-09T14:15:00.000+01:00

I think the umbrella is closely linked to 'Murphy's Law.' You know that old phrase that states 'if anything can go wrong, it will.' Or maybe more accurately it should be interpreted as 'Whatever can go wrong will go wrong, and at the worst possible time, in the worst possible way.' Still unsure? Let me explain. You know the way, in our country where it pours fifty percent of the time and drizzles the rest? So most people, when they are out walking and the clouds suggest that rain may be imminent, will usually travel prepared for the inevitable. For instance I have watched many a parade on the twelfth of July where those walking almost invariably carry a smart, black umbrella usually with a wooden handle, or in more recent times, a short, expandable affair that is possibly easier to carry but no aid to walking. And indeed most women will have a similar implement in their shopping bag or swinging from one wrist as they peruse the goods on offer in the shop windows and beyond. I think at the last count we had possibly three such devices in the boot of the car and maybe a fourth one sitting in the pocket of the passenger door. But more often than not, in our hurry to leave the safety of the vehicle for the 'pleasures' of neon lit materialism, we also leave the rain protectors behind and of course that is the moment when likelihood of showers becomes a certainty. Maybe that's why we have so many of these umbrellas in the car, because on more than one occasion, there has been a need to buy another just to be able to return to the vehicle in a reasonably dry state.

A couple of weeks ago we were not so lucky. Having just arrived in Washington DC one Sunday night, as the sun was leaving and knowing the Capitol Building was within easy walking distance of our hotel, I urged wife to forego her tired state and accompany me towards the Mall. Darkness was beginning to envelop the sky, like a huge umbrella hanging over the city but I suppose in our desire to see some sites we may not have taken time to look properly at the overhead clouds and to distinguish between impending night and impending rain. We hadn't gone far but of course far enough to be closer to our destination than our temporary home when there was just the slightest warning of what was to come in the form of two or three oversized drops of water from on high. In the time it takes to decide whether to turn back or go on, however, a multitude of raindrops had joined the heavenly host and the only decision left was how to remain dry till the storm passed, which of course it didn't and neither did we. It is at such times that several thoughts come into one's head. First, the total inadequacy of tall, leafy trees to protect a human being from torrential rain. Secondly, how good it would be to carry an umbrella at all times, even when there is no obvious threat of precipitation. Thirdly, how unsympathetic and indeed uninterested American cops are when others are obviously suffering in the midst of a crisis. And fourthly, how cold and heavy clothes become when they are completely saturated with water. And so we limped home, in the continuing deluge, half expecting to see an ark float around the corner and made our way through the hotel foyer to the lift and up to our room as inconspicuously as is possible when everyone else looks dry and small puddles of water are congregating around our feet. I suppose the porter didn't help our mood either when he suggested that if he had known we were going out, he could have given us one of the guest umbrellas for the evening. We never did get to the Capitol that evening.

So when is an umbrella a parasol? I guess when the sun shines. Though by the same token, a parasol is unlikely to be an umbrella when it rains. This is because most parasols are made of a lighter material that is generally not waterproof so I guess standing under a parasol near the Mall would have produced similar results. I think maybe for me that illustrates the difference between being a Christian and being religious. There is no doubt that going to church, reading the Bible, doing plenty of good things in life, having respect for the minister, supporting third world initiatives actively and passively and even believing in God are very notable things that many would ascribe to doing. But James reminds us in chapter 2 that 'Thou believest that there is one God; thou doest well: the devils also believe, and tremble.' You see unless you believe that Jesus, through His death and Resurrection is the only way to be reunited with God, then you miss the whole point. It takes more than a belief in a Creator, it takes an acknowledgement of our sin, our wrongdoings and a desire to be forgiven through His Son to make us healed spiritually. Otherwise, all these other things are like a parasol that's OK until the real crunch comes and then we might as well have no belief at all. Maybe you need to have an umbrella that works in all conditions, a faith that is not dependent on the weather or our mood or any other situation we encounter. The umbrella of Jesus' unconditional love that surrounds us on sunny and dark days. Here's a tip from experience. Always have that with you and you'll never go wrong.

U is for UNITED

2008-07-08T19:36:00.000+01:00

If you support a team that plays in red, resides in the north of England and doesn't play at home in Manchester, the chances are that (a) you support the same team as I do (b) you hate the subject of this particular blog and (c) you've already gone to another web page. But if you're still here (and I'm only here because I'm writing it), bear with me for a few minutes.

I've never liked them, not even when they were winning nothing though you almost need to be my age to remember those golden years. Yet even when they were going through the doldrums, the matches against the team in red at the other end of the M62 were always the biggest of the season. I suppose it's still like that now, even though the tables are somewhat turned the other way. And don't believe anyone who says that there are other more important games for there is no rivalry quite like that found between the mighty reds and the red devils.

Still, in these strangely lean years on Merseyside, when silverware never seems to get beyond the other end of the motorway, it is hard not to have at least grudging respect for the success of the enemy a few miles up the road. After all, there has been no shortage of seasons in which to come to such a conclusion and to give credit where it is due, thought that might be stretching magnanimosity a bit far. But I do warn all gloating fans that such things come in cycles and there may be a time not far in the future, when the old grey Ferguson might be replaced by a different model and the new engine might just not be as highly tuned.

But my thoughts turned to United today, not because of any love for the team but because I saw a picture of them in our local paper this morning. Not the high flying Premiership outfit but the collection of players commonly known as 'Legends' who have been parading their skills across the province this week. For the record they lost to the other legends from up the M62 not once but twice but that is not the point of the story. No the real focus of this account is in trying to discover how you qualify to be a legend. I've just had a quick scan across the faces in the photograph and I'm finding great difficulty in recognising more than a very small handful of the participants in the line up. Now I do realise that age has taken its toll on some players but you never forget faces like Frank Stapleton, Arthur Albiston and Gary Pallister but I'm not sure where Derek Brazil, Frazer Digby, Alan McLaughlin and Dave Ryan fit into the picture of legends. Maybe that is a little unfair and I presume that the only necessary qualification to be included is to have at some time worn the shirt of the first team or at least to have been in the squad but I think most United supporters would have difficulty remember the contribution that some of these names made to the Old Trafford cause down the years. And of course they're not alone. Though I recognise most of the legends in the other reds, there are still one or two whose playing careers simply escape me and one in particular whose legend status may be more down to his drinking activities and court appearances but certainly not his on field performance. Maybe that's why they're called legends in the first place because most of the stories about them have been handed down and often are non verifiable and often fictitious, yet most of us take them as historically accurate.

So you couldn't have called Jesus a legend nor any of the stories about Him. For there is no doubt about His existence and the writers of the majority of the New Testament were all guys who lived closely with Him for several years and noted everything He did. That's why John, in the third chapter of his gospel, writes 'I tell you the truth, we speak of what we know, and we testify to what we have seen, but still you people do not accept our testimony.' Likewise, Luke records in Acts chapter 4, 'With great power the apostles continued to testify to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and much grace was upon them all.' So there is no doubt about the person of Jesus nor that He was God's Son. Equally there is no doubt of the message He gave the apostles and many others about the only way to God being through Him. It's not a legend and as Paul reminds us in Romans, 'We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life. If we have been united with him like this in his death, we will certainly also be united with him in his resurrection.' If you are still in any doubt about being united to Christ, I leave the last words to John who says, 'The life appeared; we have seen it and testify to it, and we proclaim to you the eternal life, which was with the Father and has appeared to us.'

X is for X-RAY

2008-07-07T14:36:00.000+01:00

I never actually saw the X Ray but the doctor assured me that the finger was broken, well chipped actually, somewhere around the knuckle. I knew something was wrong for you just don't get that sort of excruciating pain unless the damage is severe. Anyway, they plastered me from fingertip to elbow, a bit excessive I thought, though now they probably wouldn't do much more than put a splint around it and throw me a few painkillers. The cast stayed on for weeks and when it came off, my finger that had been bent across the palm of my hand all that time, took ages to work properly again and you know I can still feel a weakness in it thirty years later. So much for medical knowledge when I was a kid but I guess progress always highlights the mistakes of the past! Still, if it hadn't been for the good old X Ray machine and William Rontgen they might never have found out the cause of my pain though it is always a little disconcerting that while X Rays are so essential to diagnosis, everyone always leaves the room only the patient when the machine is switched on! Mind you, I have looked at many an X Ray slide since and more often than not I haven't the first clue what I'm looking at or meant to see. I guess it takes a lot of practice and a highly trained eye to interpret those sheets properly and I'm sure occasionally they get it wrong.

I remember on one occasion, when I was just out of my teens, going in to see my doctor for a routine examination after a bout of flu only for him to tell me, in confidence, that my mum's recent chest X Ray showed a serious shadow over one lung that looked extremely sinister. I really didn't hear his attempt at comforting words that followed, including 'Just keep it to yourself until we get a second opinion,' for by that stage I was already thinking all sorts of scenarios and inwardly dissolving into a weakened state. Admittedly, I did as he suggested but strangely, he never contacted me again and some weeks later when I decided to enquire from mum as to the results of her X Ray, she informed me that it was completely clear. To this day, I've no idea whether someone in the clinic had made a huge error that had been rectified on second examination or God had answered the prayers that I had offered up and put the whole thing right.

Most people have been through an X Ray or have been with someone who has. It's a fairly straight forward principle at the end of the day in that X Rays tend to pass more easily through soft tissues and are generally blocked or hindered by more dense tissues such as bone. So when the radiographer looks at his 'picture' he sees black areas where the X Rays have penetrated through organs and muscles and light areas where the Rays have been stopped. In this way he or she can quickly have an image of anything that appears out of the ordinary. Sometimes they may even use other chemicals such as Barium which act in the same way as dense tissues and so can create 'pictures' inside organs and blood vessels. Even if you haven't made it under an X Ray machine you may have had your hand luggage checked in much the same way at an airport so the X Ray machine has many uses beyond the medical. Still it is possible that even though it can 'see' right inside us, it might miss something very important.

That's something which God just doesn't do. The Psalmist writes in chapter 139, 'You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar' and he goes on to write 'Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts.' We also read in Psalm 44 that 'he knows the secrets of the heart.' God doesn't need an X Ray machine to know what we are like inside both in our physical, mental and spiritual state and I guess most of us know what he is likely to find when he looks at us too. But how strange that although we heed the X Ray machine and its findings, when God looks into our innermost beings, too often we are quite prepared to decline His offer of help. It doesn't take an X Ray to see the sin that affects our lives but it will always leave a shadow until we find the cure at the cross.

Z is fro ZION

2008-07-06T21:21:00.000+01:00

We had a choice of about six or seven different LPs to spin on a Sunday afternoon. There was Tennessee Ernie Ford who had a couple of gospel albums that I best remember for the spectrum coloured circle around the rim of the central inset but also because of his rendition of 'will the circle be unbroken.' For some reason, in those formative years, I had always thought that his Christian name was Ernessie. Anyway it seemed to roll well off the tongue. Then, like most folks, we had the two Jim Reeves gospel records, with such classics as 'supper time', 'teach me how to pray' and 'this world is not my home'. Mum always said that when she listened to him sing that song, she felt he suspected that his life might be short and though I wasn't so sure I didn't disagree. After all, she owned the records! Being a big fan of Billy Graham, mum was always going to have one or two George Beverley Shea records in the collection, but I never really warmed to his deep voice at the time, though lately, as he reaches ninety years of age, I've come to appreciate not only his talent but his faithfulness. I watched him the other night on some sort of advertisement for Gaither DVDs and I have to say that he is held in such high esteem by everyone, though some of the audience had so much make up and had spent so long in the hairdressers that they made the puppets from Thunderbirds look good. And the women were just as bad.

Well that was almost the complete collection, apart from a really rare album called 'dust on the bible' by Kitty Wells, that a good friend allowed me to borrow. Recently, I discovered that it is available on CD so I feel a purchase coming on. It is really just a good old fashioned country and bluegrass album and though I don't really subscribed to being a big fa n of such music, the record itself just brings back so many memories of a time since gone and has some beautiful and thought provoking tracks including 'I dreamed I searched heaven for you,' (hardly a theologically sound lyric but at the same time maybe something which makes us think about our own destiny), 'You've got to walk that lonesome valley' and of course the title track which probably shakes most of us up more than any other.

Well after those gems, the only other Sunday afternoon listening was from two LPs by Burl Ives, an actor cum singer cum instrumentalist cum film star who passed away not many years ago. Most people remember him for singing 'the ugly bug ball' from the film 'Summer Magic' but in my mind he always remains as the man who sang 'We're marching to Zion, beautiful, beautiful Zion' from his vinyl LP 'Sunshine in My Soul.' But there were so many classics on that piece of black vinyl, like 'Standing on the Promises', 'Beulah Land' , 'Bring them in' and 'Where HE leads me I will follow.' You know sometimes I think today we have become so narrow minded in our desire to be contemporary in worship that we miss the beauty of such old songs. But the one album of his that I always remember is the disc that he made with the Korean Orphan Choir way back in 1963. It wasn't many years after the Korean War and it was so beautiful to hear such classics as 'The Way of the cross leads home', 'I love to tell the story' and 'Revive Us Again.' And of course that's what I intend to do exactly, to revive some of these old songs so that not only do they not die but the truths within them remain alive for generations to come. As John says in his gospel, 'God is spirit, and his worshipers must worship in spirit and in truth.' Happy Listening.

Z is for ZOO

2008-07-05T21:18:00.000+01:00

You don't really get a true feeling of wild animals from the other side of a cage. Most of them, apart from a few mad monkeys and the occasional energetic penguin, lead fairly sedentary lives, though what thoughts are filling their minds might involve some relation between me outside the bars and a rather juicy lunch. I suppose it's enough to see the danger but it's hardly an ideal way to really see the true character of any animal. It's a bit like the way we know our colleagues and friends at work or school where they might just be a different person to the one their family sees at home.

Anyway, this morning I got a glimpse into the laws of the jungle and how they differ from the laws of the zoo. It was one of those nature programmes centred around a water hole and involved three animals, a lioness, a crocodile and a young hippo. By the time I had joined the programme however, the latter's involvement was purely passive, having lost a brave fight for life with the big cat and it now lay motionless on its back, at the shore of the water hole, with most of the red flesh around its rib cage visible. The lioness for her part, was exhausted after the battle with the young water horse but there was no time to be complacent. For one thing, a grieving mother had waded towards the water edge hinting at some form of revenge or maybe wishful that all hope was not lost but within a few minutes, when reality hit home, she seemed to lose all will to fight and wandered back into deep water, never to return . However another menacing figure had emerged from the water and, observing dinner already waiting, slowly crawled, almost unnoticed towards the still warm meat feast. Except that he had been noticed and the lioness, despite her clear state of exhaustion, was not about to give up a hard earned dinner to a freeloading crocodile. And so the standoff began. The cat, safe in the knowledge that she could easily bite into the side of the reptile to cause lasting damage, but aware that the jaws of her enemy could crush her with one closure, prowled her territory, occasionally sparring with a few jabs of her front paw and a show of teeth. But it was obvious that in her weakened state, she would be no match for her opponent, should the crocodile choose to attack. And that's exactly when the law of the jungle took over, though I prefer to call it God's perfect creation. For there, in the searing heat of an afternoon, the cold-blooded crocodile could no longer control its rising body temperature and was forced to retire to the coolness of the nearby water, leaving the tiring cat to drag her dinner to a more peaceful corner and enjoy.

For me it was more than a lesson in jungle laws and survival but a glimpse into the intricacies of a God who not only designed all of creation but put everything in place so that it all just works, right down to our body temperatures.

So where will you catch a glimpse of God today. As I flew across the ocean, I saw Him in the carpet of clouds that bring rain, in the sun rising above the horizon, heralding a new day, in the intelligence he gave to man to build a jet engine, in the different languages and nationalities that surrounded me. But mostly I see Him in Jesus, who told His disciples, 'If you have seen me, you have seen the Father,' and also reminded them 'I and the Father are one.' You will see God today. Just make sure you recognise Him.

Z is for ZACCHAEUS

2008-07-04T20:56:00.000+01:00

I've always been fascinated by the little tax collector. I understand how unpopular such characters can be even when they're only doing an honest day's work because if you get one of those brown envelopes from the Inland Revenue, you can be pretty sure it's going to cost you money, the minute you open it. Anyway Zacchaeus wasn't that honest, according to his reputation and I reckon folks were paying more tax than the government legally required of them, except that all the extras were lining his pockets. Yet it appears he wasn't without influence, being one of the most important Jews around in the whole Roman taxing system, which, of course, made him even more hated by his own people, because he worked for the enemy. But Jesus is in town and it's a great chance to see this guy whose fame is going before him around the local towns and villages. Still, you can't be too careful. After all, you're not exactly popular, so Zacchaeus just stays at the back of the huge crowds lining the streets and hopes to see enough of this visitor from a distance.

Now it's at this stage that I begin to know how he felt. When I was a nipper, my grandad used to take me to football games but once the terraces were full I could barely see over the heads of all the big people and it was a real drag not to be able to catch the action as it happened. And I've been at a few 'standup' concerts, where you spend the whole night straining your neck to just get a glimpse of the stage. So for the diminutive tax collector, the sort of character Danny deVito displays in films, it was never going to be enough. He needed a better view. Isn't it interesting that he ran ahead, knowing that Jesus was definitely going in his direction and then climbed a tree where not only he could see easily but could also be easily seen. I just cannot imagine the shock on his face when Jesus calls him by name and invites himself to his house. We've had a few guests staying with us over the years and I reckon the two things you kind of want to do before anyone arrives is to have the house tidy and also have some food prepared in advance. So Zacchaeus is taken by surprise but maybe not as much as the folks standing around who just can't believe that their new hero is going to the house of the greatest rogue about .

But this encounter turns out to be the day that changes the life of Zacchaeus for ever. For once he comes face to face with Jesus, he is immediately aware of all the wrong he has done and immediately confesses and promises to put all things right and a bit more besides. I love Jesus' response to Zacchaeus' change of heart, for He says,'salvation has come to this home today.' But it's also what He adds that really quietens the crowd for He announces,'I ,the Son of Man, have come to seek and save those like him who are lost.'

You know this story that I've known since childhood and sung in a chorus at sunday school has still something to teach me all these years later and it's not just that the salvation Jesus offers is for anyone. It's the fact that He knows me by name just as well as He knew Zacchaeus and He knows you too and when He comes looking for us, there is really no place to hide. Be assured, an encounter with God will always be life changing and more than a little taxing.

Z is for ZERO

2008-07-03T20:50:00.000+01:00

Our Latin teacher had almost no hair on his head but made up for it with the growth around his chin and neck. He was quite a scholar in ancient languages, often being timetabled to teach Greek but unfortunately nobody had bothered to instruct him in the art of class control, especially when it was a room full of adolescent boys. As a result of his ineptitude as a disciplinarian, most of our classes were a free for all and while the noise level was very high, the learning level was well below average.

Sometimes, in an effort to regain some semblance of control, he would enter the room with all guns blazing, but by half way through the period, life would have returned to abnormality and, apart from the occasional raised rant from the front and the occasional attempt at grammar, vocabulary and translation, most of us left with little more knowledge of the Roman language than forty minutes earlier. But not everyone was laughing. For a start, the majority of us was keen to know enough Latin to pass the exam at the end of term. But an even more sinister threat lay directly below our classroom for there resided the senior master, also a well respected Classics teacher and after putting up with the noise from above for several periods, he could ignore it no longer and one day, just after class had begun, the door opened and in walked what would become our greatest nightmare for that whole year. Much to the embarrassment of 'beardy', there then took place a rapid interrogation of the class as to the cause and the culprits of the racket. In the now deathly silence nobody was terribly forthcoming with sufficient explanations, nor was anyone about to witness for the prosecution but we were all immensely sorry first years for the pain and suffering we had afflicted on those in the classroom below, particularly the senior master.

However repentance was never going to be enough. Not for the senior master. Punishment! That was all that would suffice and quench his thirst for blood. Detention! That was what he said. For the whole class. That very afternoon. One hour. No early bus. No mobile to explain why I was going to be late home. I guess we got off light. Other classes had been caned for similar behaviour. Anyway, like all convicted criminals, we did our time. And though the Latin didn't get much better, the term passed with one or two more such hiccups. When the exam results came out, two boys had scored zero in Latin and after a couple of years the bearded one left to seek new pastures, his reputation well beyond repair. But zero never really tells the whole story. Just like in sport when a team or player scores zero, it really gives no indication of the effort that may have been made, despite the scoreline.

This has taught me two things. First, God does not want to punish us for the wrong that we have done but He does expect repentance. Secondly, some people, while truly sorry for their sin, want to reach the goal of God's acceptance through their own efforts and many produce an impressive struggle but their sum reward will be zero because that is not God's chosen way. Jesus says, 'except a man be born again, he cannot enter the kingdom of heaven.' I guess there's nothing else to say.

Z is for ZOOM

2008-07-02T20:39:00.000+01:00

I bought a new camera recently. It's not an expensive, all singing , all dancing sort, with interchangeable lenses and more settings than an aeroplane cockpit. In fact the only two criteria that it had to meet, when I was browsing in the shop, was, first it had to be compact and slim, to fit inside a shirt pocket and, secondly, it had to be cheap. The fact that it had a zoom lens, took eight megapixel pictures and could record short movies seemed less important, since most cameras appeared to have those capabilities anyhow.

For the last few years my camera has been my phone and while it served a purpose and was handy to carry, there's only so much quality you can get with two megapixels, though it did tick all the other boxes for convenience, size and cheapness. But this year had to be different. After all it was the old silver wedding anniversary and I wanted to have some good evidence of our holiday.

Anyway , it's a straight forward sort of device to operate, if you forget all the extras and just want to point and shoot to at least have a photographic record, never mind the quality, so I made sure I had a large enough memory card to store all the things we would see. And of course there are some great shots of various places. After all, it's just a matter of pressing one button to open the lens shutter, using the zoom control and then clicking another button to take the shot. So I would love to be telling you about the four pictures we have of three crosses on a hill that we came across at various locations during our drive, or the 'welcome to west Virginia', 'welcome to Kentucky', 'welcome to Indiana', 'welcome to Ohio' or 'welcome to Michigan' signs that we passed, but you'll have to take my word for it because there is not a scrap of photographic evidence for any of them. The common denominator in all those missed photo opportunities ? Well I'd rather not elaborate, but I was driving so I couldn't be responsible! I'm sure you get my drift. I think I'm going to make an album full of blank pages with captions telling the viewer what should be in the empty space.I guess it's all about being prepared, isn't it? There's really no point in having the equipment if we don't know how to use it. Or maybe, we just never take the time to get prepared.

I've had a Bible for longer than I can remember but if I don't get familiar with it, I'll never know the impact it can make on my life and the true path that God wants to lead me along. All week, everywhere I turn, that verse in Jeremiah 29 and 11 keeps appearing, where God says 'I know the plans I have for you.' So if I don't bother to read His guidebook, I may never get to find out exactly what those plans are and my album will just be pages and pages of what should have been and I'll have to take His word for it. Maybe we need to zoom in to get the bigger picture!

Z is for ZELDA

2008-07-01T20:46:00.000+01:00

You know the way you get hooked on some things that you never really meant to become involved in. Maybe it's a soap on television, a movie, a good book, even a news story or a sporting game. I recall, just a few years back being glued to the television, watching the OJ Simpson trial and all that led up to it and staring open-mouthed as the verdict was announced. The same went for the trial of the young English nanny, Louise Woodward, some time later. It was riveting television and I guess real life has that effect on all of us, when it is beamed into our homes and we become the 'fly on the wall'. But a video game? Well that's just a bit different, don't you think? Especially when one has reached the age where his first experience of this new form of entertainment was two paddles trying to 'bat' a dot of light back and forth, in a game inappropriately called 'tennis'.

But I was definitely hooked on Zelda, though the use of the past tense suggests that I have left it all behind, which may not be essentially the whole truth. It just wasn't like other games eldest son had. The James Bond one, Mario, Formula One, they were all great fun but I just seemed to get motion sickness every time I played them. It was worse than sitting in the back of a bus and trying to read a magazine. Zelda was different. It was more of a strategy game, a life adventure almost, as you guided the young Link through a series of tasks, defeating some rather fierce enemies along the way and also seeing him reach adulthood and helping him to become equipped with a whole variety of weapons, potions and protection that allowed him to travel that little bit further through the kingdom of Hyrule. Of course, what really helped was a book son had that we appropriately called the 'cheat book' but was in effect a guide through each stage that helped you know where to go, how to collect bonuses and also how to defeat the enemies. In the end I never finished the game but it wasn't for lack of effort and if I can dig it out again, I'll maybe give it another rattle.

But there are two things I remember about the game. First,the little pink bottle of potion that automatically restored you to life when you were destroyed by an enemy. It always made me think of that wonderful verse in Psalm 23 which says, 'He leads me beside still waters, He restores my soul' or as the New Living translation puts it, 'He renews my strength.' How wonderful to know that God is ever present with us, just waiting to have us rest and be restored in His care.

But the reason I didn't finish the game was because I reached a stage where the young hero, Link, had to become a child again to complete the next level and I just couldn't adjust to that scenario, especially since I had lost the guide book. Yet doesn't Jesus tell His disciples in Matthew 18, 'unless you turn from your sins and become as little children, you will never get into the Kingdom of Heaven.' it really is that simple. Childlike faith and our guide book, the Bible. Then there is no enemy we cannot defeat. Don't give up. Let Him restore you and go forward in His strength.

Z is for ZEBRA

2008-06-30T08:22:00.000+01:00

An old lady was trying to cross a busy road on day but just couldn't seem to get a time when there was no traffic coming. A young man who had been watching her for a while, trundled over and said, 'Excuse me, dear, but, there's a zebra crossing just down the road.' She looked at him, with a mixture of bewilderment and frustration and replied, 'Well I hope he's having better luck than I am.' Yes I know it's one of the oldest jokes known to man but I guess God must have had a bit of a sense of humour when He created zebras. I mean, on first appearance, they do stand out from the crowd a little bit and you would hardly think they would be easily camouflaged against their greatest predator, the lion. But strange as it may seem, because a lion is colour blind, it has great difficulty seeing a zebra which remains completely motionless and if it does attack a herd of the beasts, when they all run off in different directions, it can be extremely confusing with all these black and white lines running everywhere. Also if you are faced with a whole herd of the animals, you might just think, with all those stripes facing you, that it is just one gigantic animal and maybe think twice before attacking. Though somehow, I'm not so sure that lions are so easily confused or put of their lunch.

So the question is, are zebras black and white stripes, white with black stripes or black with white stripes? Most scientists appear to agree that they are indeed the latter with some animals having slight touches of brown in their colouring and all of them having a white underbelly which also helps in camouflage. And, in case you didn't notice, the stripes have white a distinctive pattern too with the head, neck and body consisting of vertical stripes and the rear end having horizontal stripes. There is also a scientific theory that the stripes also confuse the visual system of the blood sucking Tsetse fly. Zebras also have wonderful hearing, a great sense of smell and taste and of course, like their lookalike, the horse, have eyes at the side of the head to give them all round vision and so are well equipped to spot danger the minute it appears. Most experts also believe they can see in colour, though I'm not sure how they can completely prove such a hypothesis without actually asking a zebra and I guess communication is still some way off. However, I suppose it does help the animal to see the colour of the lion that wants to invite it out for lunch! There are several different species of zebra but I suppose, like you, when I see one, it's just a zebra to me and even though man has made some serious attempts to domesticate the animal, it is still best suited to the wild outdoors, though I'd hardly call it a wild animal in the predator sense of the word and I reckon the zebras in the zoo, that I saw a few weeks ago, can shout whatever abuse they like across at the lions!

How well equipped they are to continue living on a daily basis. And how well equipped we should be as Christians if we follow Paul's advice in Ephesisans 6 when he tells us to 'Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes.' So today, as we end another month and many of our church activities end for a while, it is easy to be vulnerable. So ask yourself, are you wearing the belt of truth, the breastplate of righteousness , the shield of faith, the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit. And are your feet fitted with the gospel of peace. God took no shortcuts with the zebra and He gives us all we need to grow in our faith. It's really all black and white.

V is for VOYAGE

2008-06-29T23:29:00.000+01:00

The Bible calls it a 'far country' so it clearly involved some considerable distance to travel. But the young man was keen to go, having apparently had enough of home and needing to see and experience the world beyond his own borders. I guess there's really no need to go through the whole story again but certainly after along time, during which he seems to have carelessly lost all his money, he came to realise that home wasn't such a bad place after all and despite a brother's protests, his father welcomed him back with open arms. Now I know it's a parable to show how God is always waiting for us and will never turn us away when we come to Him but the story in itself has much more to say as well about human relationships. Most of the account centres on the young guy partying, spending and eventually being bankrupt and deals with his remorse and return. But what about the father, left behind? What about the day his son came to him and said he wanted to leave? I wonder how often his dad tried to convince him not to go? I wonder how many sleepless nights he spent, hoping that things would be different? And I wonder how he spent his days after the son left because there is clear evidence that he was watching for his return. And I wonder how many tears he shed?

And what of Jacob? This time a real account of his favourite son's life at home and in the far country of Egypt, his brothers' deception and the ultimate reunion. But Jacob had to live through it all, the years when he thought his son was dead, the anguish when Benjamin had to go to Egypt and the tears of joy when Joseph once more stood before him. And I think of Hannah, almost without hope of having children, then Samuel comes along and because her prayers are answered, she gives her only son back to God. But the human heartache, the days and nights of inner turmoil over her promise and then the day comes and he is gone. And Abraham, old before his son is born, yet taken to the very limit of his endurance and faith as God commands that his son be sacrificed. Can you imagine the state of his mind, the desire to run away, the feeling of hopelessness, the torture on each step of his voyage to that place? Along the way there was no light at the end of the tunnel, no escape clause, no other way yet Abraham, like Hannah, like Jacob, like the Prodigal son's father, kept believing.

We stood watching youngest son go to the far country this morning. The fact that he wasn't going there to party or just have a good time or even to see the world, didn't really matter that much. But we did know that when we handed our children over to God, he would take us at our word, just like Hannah found out and we might have to endure the pain of separation for a season. I'm reminded of that famous line form Romeo and Juliet, 'parting is such sweet sorrow' and I guess today I probably understood it for the first time in all its magnitude, for while it was such a sad occasion for us all, the sweetness is found in the knowledge that he is safe in God's hands and every day brings that reunion closer.

But I know there is someone who completely understands our pain. For when Jesus began His voyage in a stable, it would eventually end on a hillside and His Father knew every day was a step closer to that awful scene. Yet for our sake and our eternal future, He endured the pain and sorrow that any father would experience, so that we might be forgiven. Maybe that puts John 3 v 16 properly into perspective when we understand what is cost God to sacrifice His Son. 'For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son,that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.' So when we have to let go of our children, God understands, when we feel helpless in their helplessness, God understands, when we find the pain so hard to bear, God understands. Why? Because He let go for us. And because He loves us unconditionally.

But he Psalmist encourages me to be strong when he writes, 'The LORD will fulfill his purpose for me; your love, O LORD, endures forever— do not abandon the works of your hands.' It's not just the physical voyage of going to the far country that is difficult to bear. For it's the voyage of faith that brings us to a place where we can find rest in Him and comfort for tomorrow. Safe travelling.

V is for VARIETY

2008-06-28T21:13:00.000+01:00

When I wanted a fizzy drink as a child, it was either white lemonade or brown lemonade, eggs were scrambled, boiled or fried, sandwiches were salad or meat and potatoes were boiled in their skins or mashed. Television was BBC or ITV, football was Match of the Day or The Big Match, hymns were Songs of Victory or The Church Hymnal and favourite group was either Beatles or Rolling Stones. Ice cream was vanilla or ripple, bicycles were boys' or girls', bread was plain or pan and baked beans were Heinz or HP. In some cases there was no choice at all. Friday was CE or stay in the house, which generally wasn't an option. Helping to move cattle was obligatory as was washing or drying the dishes. Tea and dinner was what was set before you and evening viewing tended to be decided by the oldest member of the family, which wasn't me.

So how do we survive today. Even simple things like listening to music, provides a variety of ways and players from the old vinyl record player, through cassette recorders, CD players and now MP3 gadgets and ipods. How wonderful that you can now put your whole music collection in your pocket and everybody on the bus can be listening to a different song. And if you want a packet of crisps, no longer is it a choice between Tayto cheese and onion and Smokey Bacon. Now you can have so many flavours and so many different ways of preparing the crisps that it is well nigh impossible to choose which variety to have. Why, the other day, son arrived home with some parsnip crisps that were just divine to taste. Of course I sympathise with those parents who are faced with buying the latest football skip for their eager sons. Once you realise the cost of the jersey alone, then it's even more difficult to decide whether to buy the home kit, the away kit, the third choice strip, the goalie kit or the goalie change kit. Or maybe a mix of all of them. And then there's the name and number that goes on the back and with most teams having a squad of over twenty players, how hard to choose one to grace your shoulders and then discover that he is sold a month into the season. Of course television is not much different and now there are so many channels, we have become a nation of remote control button pushers, unable to settle to find anything and when dinner comes around, sometimes you would need a menu on the table to cater for all the different tastes present. And when the kids aren't playing the Xbox, Wii or Playstation, they may be wading through a hundred children's channels or watching one of the many music channels.

Back in the days of one brand of tomato ketchup, Top Cat and Ready, Steady, Go, we learnt a little chorus at CE and Sunday school. The lyrics went something like this. 'Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world, red and yellow, black and white, all are precious in His sight, Jesus loves the little children of the world.' Most social commentators today might consider it to be politically incorrect, but I think the whole point of the colours used was to show the great variety of different types of people in the world, yet all were loved exactly the same by Jesus. And while we have such a vast array of personalities, languages and cultures across the globe, we have one Lord who desires nothing more than finding lost sheep and bringing them into the fold.

In Revelation 5v9, John writes of Jesus, 'You are worthy to take the scroll and to open its seals, because you were slain, and with your blood you purchased men for God from every tribe and language and people and nation.'

Tonight has not been easy. We say goodbye to our youngest son, still only twenty but with a faith of many twice his age, as he prepares to go to some of those children on the other side of the world and tell them about his heavenly Father for the next year. He will discover during his eXtreme walk, that there is no barrier of language, culture or continent to the love of God. The human pain and emotion is so difficult but in giving your children to God for His service, we can expect the road to be hard. So on this extremely strange and difficult evening, as I ponder on the variety of experiences he will face and the depth of faith he will discover, I find no greater comfort than in the words of our own Saviour who in sending His workers out into the fields, gave them this encouragement, 'All power is given unto me in heaven and in earth. Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost: Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen'

V is for VALLEY

2008-06-27T22:39:00.000+01:00

Looking out of the kitchen window from home, across the fields that separated our house from those we could see in the distance, our view would traverse a valley, small in dimensions, but nevertheless a valley all the same. Its lowest point was no more than probably a hundred yards from the farmyard border and the gradual incline that separated it from the hills around meant that it was difficult to judge how much below our house it lay. About three quarters of a mile away the land began to rise steeply again and so the view from home was spectacular because of the nearness of everything. Form the gate at the top of the hill, you could see the river Callan meandering its way towards the Blackwater, the village where I spent all of my primary school life and the greater part of my adult teaching career, the pub on the corner, the little community of houses that lay close by and the spires of the city cathedral on the horizon.

Even the far away things seemed close and it was quite easy to hear the audible sound of a horse walking along the main road on a still day or the excited voices of children playing in the cottages down in the valley. At Hallowe'en, our whole world was always filled with the lights of fireworks from near and far, shooting up into the night sky and exploding in a myriad of colours. And you could watch a whole world of activity happening in different places at the one time. In one field a farmer might be cutting hay, another field might have horses galloping about, in some places, cows would be quietly grazing or the men who were employed by the Ministry of Agriculture could be working in the big field at the top of the next hill. A lone figure might be walking along the road, a car arriving at the pub or a mist of spray ascending from an apple orchard and sometimes I would just stand, leaning against the gate, watching a thousand different worlds on the one screen.

I could see when the river was unable to hold the rainwater that had fallen and started to flood over the land and more than once I watched our valley fields become lakes for a time. I could see the bands make their way into the village for a parade or hear the roar of the locals at the football ground. I could view how the countryside changed with the seasons and how the late spring and early summer turned everywhere different shades of green and blocked out much from view. But I could also see the smoke from the terrorist bombs that killed men in our locality and could hear the gunfire of attacks on the local police station the night they came to destroy but never left. The valley just made it so much nearer, like it was happening in our back garden. But the other morning, as I mused nonchalantly before going off in the early morning sunshine to work, down in the valley I just caught the faintest glimpse of a red fox as he scampered through the tall grass. By the time I had refocused, he was out of sight and my attention was drawn to two rabbits scurrying about the field before the cattle had wakened for breakfast. And immediately I was reminded of God's great creation in its simplicity, complexity and variation and how he sends each good thing for us to enjoy, be it only a few animals basking in the early morning.

But the other thing that I always recall is that when I walk down along the fields in the valley, the view is very different from being up on the hill. Everything is much closer and one step along the valley barely registers for the onlooker high above. But also, you can't really see very far in any direction and I suppose the only answer is to keep walking until you climb the hill on one side. I guess we have all been in the valley and not even believers are exempt from feeling low, depressed or downhearted. I guess there are times when we just don't seem to be making any progress and we can't see ahead far enough to find a way out. But how comforting that the view which God has of our lives is at the very top of the hillside and as He looks down and sees our helplessness, He is ready to help us ascend to the hillside and to overcome the trials of the valley experience. The Psalmist writes, 'Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.' On those dark days, when the valley seems longer than usual, sometimes it is good to remember that there is another view and every step forward is a step closer to seeing it. What is your view like?

V is for VACATION

2008-06-26T23:12:00.001+01:00

It was the big event of the whole summer, after the Sunday school excursion. Mum and dad would get us into the Morris Oxford and we'd all trundle off, over the border in the direction of Dublin. Once, we made it all the way to the city and spent the whole day at the zoo but twice we never intended to go that far and somewhere south of Drogheda, we turned left off the main road and ended up at Mosney where Butlins ran their holiday camp. It was a great day out too, getting on all the rides , having a bite to eat and stating until late in the evening before starting the long, slow journey back northwards. And that was the length of our summer vacation most years, even though we had a couple of months off school, but there was always plenty to keep one amused around home and the summer just seemed to go on for ever.

Once or twice we went with mum to stay at her aunt's house in Rostrevor and climbed up to the 'big stone' in the rain but the whole vacation was no more than two or three days and occasionally the same sort of period might have been spent in Belfast with our grandparents but these were generally infrequent visits and certainly most summers were spectacular in their similarity. Then one year we really pushed the boat out and mum, sister and I joined with our aunt to holiday in Portrush for five days. It was a great feeling that, come late in the evening, we didn't have to pack everything into the car and head home, but instead there was the chance of some late night chips or a drink in a cafe and you could hear the seas outside the window as you dozed off to sleep. only to be wakened the next morning by a million seagulls who had chosen your window sill to have their early morning gossip. Two things are memorable about that vacation. First, we went on one of those Ulsterbus 'mystery tours' for an evening. You know the sort, where the only mystery is how the bus company chose such an uninteresting route, winding through country lanes between high hedges, but maybe it was just too much like home from home for me. Anyway, I remember sitting in the back of the bus, probably about fourteen years old at the time, with the earpiece of my trannie feeding the latest releases into my head and being totally fixated with 'Watching the River Flow' by Bob Dylan. But the other memory is something that only really registered much later in life, when I realised that the young girl who was a relatives of my mates from school whom I met for footie and cricket at the beach on several afternoons, would some day be my wife. What a strange world!

Well guess what? Tomorrow is vacation time all over again. Sometimes, I really envy my mate George in Australia, but in the best possible way, when I realise that every six weeks or so, he seems to have a holiday from school. But not today, for I know that while he is about to end his term for a couple of weeks away from the chalkboard or whiteboard, by midday tomorrow I'll be starting a whole weeks of a school free environment with that young girl who use to watch the big boys play on the beach at Portrush. Now I know what the less kind amongst the world population will be saying in reply and it will probably include such phrases as 'finishing at three o'clock', 'getting too many holidays when the rest of us are slaving away' and 'always complaining about the workload'. But you know, tonight I really don't care about opinions of those poor mortals who are clocking in next Monday as usual. Why? Because I know I've earned the right to have a rest and recharge the batteries and I guess I don't go around complaining about the benefits that other jobs might bring, that we teachers can't really avail of, like cheap flights and holidays, free evenings and weekends and flexi time so that the golf course, the shopping trip or the lie in can be accommodated.

Jesus understood the value of rest for when He saw His disciples under too much pressure so that they didn't even have time to eat, He said to them 'Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.' And isn't that what our 'quiet time' really is every day, a vacation from the pressures of life that seem to overtake and control us, a chance to recharge our batteries with the goodness that only He can give us. I note that Jesus didn't send them alone but went with them and in fact led them to where He wanted them to be and to rest. The Psalmist probably puts it better than I can when He writes 'He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside quiet waters, He restores my soul.' So apart from the physical regeneration that we hope to experience over the next couple of months, I long for the daily spiritual revival that my time of rest with Him will bring. Have you had your spiritual vacation today?

V is for VIDEO

2008-06-25T23:59:00.000+01:00

Leo lived just a few hundred yards from home. He had at least two brothers whom I remember, one who didn't appear in public very often but did sport a long, bushy beard and the other who had moved to a house a few miles away, but for as long as I can remember seemed to have his right foot in some sort of permanent plaster cast. They didn't talk much but I'm sure they had plenty to say and most times when you met any of the brothers, it was mostly a quick nod of the head though in Leo's case, he rarely acknowledged anyone who passed his way. It wasn't out of any superiority, just the habits of a shy man, more comfortable with his own surroundings. And of course he had one very strange habit. For years my memory of him is his old black bike that he took everywhere but never rode. No matter where you saw him, he would be walking alongside the bicycle, uphill, downhill and on a piece of road with no obvious incline. I just wish that I had owned a video camera to film him as part of living history.

When I was young, there often was a lot happening around the farm at different times of the year but especially in June and July as dad made several fields of hay. From the cutting through the shaking and tossing, occasional lumping and final baling followed by the bringing home to the hay shed, it was a hive of activity. Then there were the annual health tests for the cattle to ensure they were disease free, the sowing of fertiliser, cutting weeds and apple time. All year there was always something happening, however small, but you'll have to take my word for it because I didn't have a video camera to capture it.

I first started to use a video recorder in 1985. I remember it well because it was around the time of Live Aid and I bought a pile of blank tapes to record the whole show. They're lying somewhere in the attic now and most of the concert is still intact , I'm sure. Over the years, I began to record all sorts of material on tape, especially important sports events including what was then Five Nations rugby and also the very irregular offerings broadcast form the rugby nations in the southern hemisphere. I even recorded lots of films, comedy shows and rare concerts by bands and singers down the years and i reckon there are some pretty interesting pieces of history in my collection now. The only problem is that the old video recorder broke a year ago and now I don't have anything to play them on. And of course I now can buy lots of the films and concerts and sports events that I painstakingly recorded on DVD, often for a fraction of the price I paid for the blank tapes. I guess that's progress!

But the great thing about video that places it above photographs is that while a picture may capture a moment in time, a film often allows you to understand more about a person. As youngest son prepares to leave for Ecuador, his big brother has made a video collection of short goodbyes from all of his friends, including his mum and dad. We watched it last Friday night and in just a few seconds, it was easy to feel the warmth and empathy from each contributor and also to see something of their honesty and their personality as they spoke. Each clip said a thousand things that a photograph could never impart and maybe it will help him through the long months away from home to realise the genuine friendship that exists.

There are lots of events in the Bible at which I would love to have been present, such as Eden, with Jonah in the boat, watching Noah build the ark, crossing the Red Sea with Moses, seeing Goliath fall, observing water becoming wine and of course being in the stable with Mary, Joseph and the shepherds. I'm not so sure I would have wanted to witness the last moments of Jesus as He hung on the cross but certainly meeting Him in the garden afterwards would have been quite spectacular as would that last view of Him ascending into the clouds. I can't even watch them on video because it wasn't around but I wonder would you have been any more convinced if you could view the whole thing on your television screen. Would it make you dedicate your life to Him? I'm not so sure. But you see, we don't need video evidence to convince us of His existence, His death and resurrection, all we need are the words of those who lived with Him and saw it at first hand and they are all recorded in the only book in which God was the editor, the Bible. John the Baptist said, after an encounter with Jesus, 'I have seen and I testify that this is the Son of God.' And the disciple whom Jesus loved, John, records , 'The life appeared; we have seen it and testify to it, and we proclaim to you the eternal life, which was with the Father and has appeared to us.' I don't think we need search any film record to convince us just the Scriptures.

V is for VICTORY

2008-06-24T23:37:00.000+01:00

After our school football tournament today, I half hoped that I would be writing about victory, which I suppose, in a way I am but simply not the victory that I had hoped for. I could tell the boys in my team were disappointed.They just don't make tears like that in a movie. They had worked so hard in every game, dominated their semi final, missed several clear scoring chances, while the opposition had defended with a mixture of skill and help from the crossbar and post without ever troubling the goalkeeper at the opposite end of the pitch. But ten seconds form the end of the game, a breakaway produced the only goal at the wrong end and there was just no time to recover. Thieves have been jailed for less. In the end we played off for third place and won a hollow victory against the only other team that had looked like potential winners but had suffered a surprise defeat in their semi final. As one parent commented, it was the final that never was and I suppose there is some consolation in beating the team most thought likely to win the whole competition, but as Alan Hansen once said, 'first is first and second is nowhere.' Where exactly that leaves third, I'm not so sure but it's probably somewhere! So we ended with three victories and one defeat but I know which one the boys and their parents will remember.

The tournament is now in its fourth year, in memory of one of the boys in our school who tragically lost his life in a road accident, just before that Christmas. He was a fine footballer, a keen supporter of the Red Devils and not short of a word or two of banter on a Monday morning, after the previous weekend's games. That's why his mum and dad agreed that there was no better way to remember him than by holding the annual football competition for the local schools and each year, they come along to present the prizes to the winners. And of course that is where the real victory is, when the children tasking part, wipe way their tears of failure or success and realise that it is not just about winning or not winning but about being part of an event which preserves the memory of someone who was their age when his young life was ended, somebody who would have taken victory and all its plaudits in his stride and would have wiped off the dust of defeat and walked on. And yet as the years pass, I'm acutely aware that fewer and fewer of the children who arrive to play, will even remember the little boy whose name graces the cup or shield they might take home, yet each year I like to remind them in whose honour we hold the tournament and why, even though they want to be competitive on the pitch, and rightly so, at the end of the day the most important part of the event is that we never forget Neill nor the folks he left behind.

And I know if he was here today, he would want to tell you about the other great victory that happened in his life, some weeks before he died, when he experienced forgiveness and the salvation that Jesus won at Calvary for all of us. I reckon that really puts things into perspective for while there is no doubt that winning a match on a football field brings its own rewards and feelings of happiness, victory over the power of sin creates a joy that no sporting event can ever create within us. Every time we hold the event I remember that he left this world victorious and his dad, even in his moments of greatest sadness and depression, also knows the joy of victory that only God can give. Paul, in his letter to the Corinthian church, writes 'But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.' Even way back in Deuteronomy we know of God's power and desire to help His people when we read, 'For the LORD your God is the one who goes with you to fight for you against your enemies to give you victory.' And of course the ultimate victory is the one that Paul makes clear when he writes 'Death has been swallowed up in victory.'

I should have felt more sad today after the tournament, but I didn't. That's because the greatest victory had already been assured and noone can change the result.

V is for VATICAN

2008-06-23T21:56:00.000+01:00

When you stand on the terraced areas inside the Colosseum, that great amphitheatre that rubs shoulders with modern Rome, just across the road, there is no doubt you are drawn back to a time when sport and fun were strange bedfellows and the thirst for blood always seemed to far outweigh fair play. Life was cheap and death often came at the whim of a leader or the drop of a hand from the balcony. The magnificent building may have lost much of its original structure internally but its architectural splendour, its imposing arched walls and the cobbled streets that surround it and lead towards the Forum, allow today's visitors to walk in the steps of Roman citizens of a bygone age when their armies ruled far beyond their borders.

A short stroll down the cobbled pathway and you are transported to the centre of commerce and judgement for the Roman citizens as you amble through the ruins of temples, arches and basilicas dedicated to emperors and gods and just for a moment you are again transported to world bustling with activity and laughter, deals and rituals, a world that existed for so long and then one day died. Not just in one day but over a period of many years as the influence of Rome abroad and then at home began to wane and other great powers became the centre of attraction and control. But for the Romans it was good while it lasted and I guess they never thought that one day tourists from all over the world would come to view the ruins that was their city and try to imagine a vibrant community that no longer exists in that place.

Walking to the Sistine chapel at the Vatican is an altogether different experience, as you pass along narrow corridors of rooms and marvel at the artwork adorning the walls and ceilings and see at first hand the original works of brilliance by names that you only ever read about in books. Once inside, Botticelli, Michelangelo and Raphael display their works depicting the life if Christ, the life of Moses, the twelve apostles, the last judgement, Creation and man's fall to name only a few. It is the site of the Papal Conclave where cardinals meet to elect a new Pope and its structure is supposed to resemble the temple of Solomon.

And there is so much else to see, beyond this spectacular building, including the magnificent centre piece of St Peter's Basilica, the tombs of the past Popes, the Swiss Guard with their colourful and quaint uniforms, the huge square bordered by the colonnades that enclose it in a ellipse and the red granite Egyptian obelisk that stands at the centre . At Christmas time it is overshadowed by a huge Christmas tree and a spectacular nativity scene.

I suppose it's not really very different to many of the other great sites and structures of our world and there is something quite breathtaking about witnessing these places in the flesh. But maybe it is the Colosseum that we should remember and how transient in the bigger picture it was. How interesting that the majority of the Wonders of the ancient world are now just memories. And despite its reported beauty, Solomon's temple equally was unable to stand the test of time. Maybe we need to refocus on that which is not transient, that which will stand the test of time, that which will last for ever. In chapter 92, the Psalmist writes 'Before the mountains were born or you brought forth the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God.' Jesus also tells us about something that stands the test of time when he says, 'I tell you the truth, he who believes has everlasting life.'And the Psalmist also records 'Your kingdom is an everlasting kingdom, and your dominion endures through all generations.' So while our buildings, our friends, our jobs, our possessions eventually are no more the life that Jesus offers for those who put their faith in Him lasts for eternity. For ever is a long time and since we are no more durable and long lasting than anything else, I think His promise is worth considering.

They call Rome the Eternal City. I guess eternity is longer than they thought!

V is for VALEDICTORY

2008-06-22T22:55:00.000+01:00

Not far from our home where I grew up were several mission halls. Most Sunday nights there would have been a gospel evangelistic service held of some description held in at least one or two of them. Our church had no tradition of a Sunday evening service so those who were particularly keen to get 'fed' would go along to the one of the halls. It was fairly routine stuff most nights, with a few hymns from 'Songs of Victory', an old, blue, cloth backed hymnbook, maybe a soloist or duettists, a couple of lengthy prayers and then a good thirty to forty minute sermon. Most of the preachers invited to speak seemed to do the circuit of mission halls and would appear several times in a season, the majority had no formal training so anything was possible on an evening. Rarely did the local minister from our church attend. I guess he often wondered how the mission hall could get almost a full house on a Sunday night and he could never drum up enough support to have his own evening service, except on the harvest weekend. I think every minister down the years, found the same problem. Mum usually went along faithfully every week and when we were younger, sister and I would have tagged along too, probably out of boredom at home since the television wasn't permitted on a Sunday, except for Songs of Praise and the News.

The preaching was certainly faithful as was the audience and it seemed a bit strange to be always preaching to the converted. Still everyone had a good time and went home uplifted. Sometimes these halls would hold a week or two of mission, invariably conducted by one or two itinerant preachers or by the 'pilgrims' from the Faith Mission, who came along in their familiar blue and grey costume and lived in a little caravan, usually parked in the yard beside the hall, for the duration. They would visit every house in the area during their stay, inviting the inhabitants along to the meetings and had a degree of success in attracting the locals in, with the occasional 'sinner' seeing the light, though sometimes the same person might have another brilliant flash at the next mission too. But the other main type of meeting that was held in these halls was a Valedictory service for someone in the community who had felt the 'call of God' to go to the mission field. It was really a 'goodbye' service when the individual had an opportunity to tell everyone why he or she was going, where they intended to go, who they might be trying to reach and what they would be doing. This always brought on board the missionary societies and their representatives who would probably take part in the service and a local preacher or renown would give a valedictory address of encouragement to the soon to be missionary. I went to several such evenings with mum and it was a whole night affair, usually with supper afterwards and if you made it that far through the proceedings, I reckon you deserved you tea, buns and sandwiches that followed.

The thought crossed my mind this morning as we said goodbye to the two girls who were our Team on Mission at church this year and though they aren't planning to go as missionaries, I suppose even if they are only continuing their studies at college next year, that in itself will be their mission field. Our youngest son, Jon, is a much more clear cut case. So when the two pastors prayed with him this morning, in what was essentially a valedictory moment for him, it was easy to feel that lump in your throat which tells you all you need to know. It's a funny thing but as he heads to Ecuador, we couldn't be more pleased that his faith is so strong and well grounded and that for him it is more than just a year out of university, but is in fact a year attached to a church being a real live missionary. Yet, every now and then our human side takes over and we are painfully aware of him being on the other side of the world for the next year in a country about which we know very little and among a people who speak a different language. Yet we are blessed that the language of salvation is universal and our son is part of God's plan for those still outside His kingdom. And in this valedictory week, as we prepare to say our goodbyes to him and when at times the pain of separation overrides our desire to see God's will fulfilled, we can never forget that the blessings which God gives us, far outweigh the trials that we face.

IN Jeremiah we read ' Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart.' How can we doubt God's judgement is right for our lives when He has planned it all even before we were born. So as Jon leaves us to begin his service, I leave with him and you this reminder from Paul's letter to the Hebrews about how to cope with the difficult days. ' You need to persevere so that when you have done the will of God, you will receive what he has promised.' After all, isn't valedictory an anagram of 'Lead Victory' and I guess that's really what God wants him to do.

V is for VEDA

2008-06-22T07:34:00.000+01:00

So what would you miss most if you left our wee country and went to live somewhere else, even for a short time. I suppose my mind has been a little bit focused on this topic because by the end of the month, both sons will be far overseas and youngest will be sampling the delights of Ecuadorian life.

George, who now lives 'down under' but used to reside only a couple of miles from my home, calls himself an Australian, which of course he is, having left these shores with his family over thirty years ago, as a lad of twelve. But somewhere in the depths of his heart is still a small corner reserved exclusively for all things Irish, whether it be the national rugby team, the Northern Ireland soccer team or just the memories of a time he once knew. On his several visits 'home', however, his greatest desire is to taste the food that you just can't get on the other side of the world. Last time, it was Paris buns, forever immortalised in Van Morrison's 'Cleaning Windows' song, dome shaped cakes that rise to a point and covered with sugar drops as large as small hailstones. Then there were the snowballs, not the sticky, marshmallow type, covered in chocolate but a much more rare bun that was covered in coconut and tasted divine. But the thing he most hankered after was Wheaten bread. Sometimes he would toast it, other times just eat it straight form the packet with a big blob of butter and a thick spread of raspberry or strawberry jam as a roof. You just couldn't get it at home and even though his mum had attempted to make it with their own 'local' flour, it just didn't taste the same. Why even his wife, a true Australian, and their three kidlets all got hooked on it and I guess it is one of their abiding memories of our wee country. But it's not the only food that those who have left the green and pleasant land, recall with fondness. There are the traditional soda farls which I remember mum made on a weekly basis and never lasted until Friday. She had a huge griddle that sat on top of the cooker and could easily hold four large farls and sometimes she used wheaten flour to make the equivalent shape in that variety. Often we would have a Barm Brack in the house, a round, sweet bread full of raisins and often eaten at tea time. The word 'brack' is a derivative of the Irish word 'breac' which meant speckled and probably referred to the fruit it contained while 'Barm' often pronounced 'barn' could have been a mispronunciation of the Irish word 'aran' that meant bread so Barm Brack was really 'speckled bread.'

Then there was Irish Stew, a mixture of lamb, potatoes, onions and carrots all cooked in a casserole, Nettle Soup that required a little care when gathering the ingredients and Champ, that consisted entirely of mashed potatoes and scallions, though the latter could also be replaced with nettles when the onions were scarce. Also mum and dad often had bacon and cabbage for dinner and it is only recently that I discovered this is a dish that is not widely eaten across the planet.

But of course, one bread that is indeed very exclusive to our country is Veda, a malted, sweet bread, brown in colour and soft in consistency that just sort of melts in the mouth and is even more delicious when toasted. We used to have it regularly at home, sometimes at tea time when the Mother's Pride loaf, soda and wheaten farls appeared too along plenty of home made jam, but often it was more likely to appear at breakfast or supper as a toast offering that could easily have been a burnt offering because it seemed to toast much more quickly than other breads. There are rumours that the recipe for Veda bread was actually stumbled on when a lady in Scotland used damp wheat which had sprouted to produce malted wheat for baking and she made this beautiful brown, sweet malted bread, but there is actually no official recipe available outside of the bakeries here that still make the stuff and I don't think they're too keen to give out their secret to the general public, so I guess most of the world will just have to take our word for it when we describe this lovely bread that is no longer made anywhere else.

Wouldn't it have been strange if God had not revealed to everyone the way of salvation. There was never any doubt in His mind as to what He wished to achieve by sending His only Son to the cross and the fact that it happened around the time of the traditional Passover meant that Jerusalem would be full of Jews gathering there for this special festival. And when Jesus appeared to His disciples after He rose from the grave, He made it quite clear to them that the recipe for a full life could only be found through trusting in Him. Even long before His death He told them, 'I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.' Such words are not of one who wants to hide the good news and keep it a secret. And of course, before He returned to His Father in heaven he left them with a great commission by saying 'Go into all the world and preach the good news to all creation.'

They tell me that you can buy Coca Cola or McDonald's in almost every country in the world. How's that for belief in your product and enthusiasm to b ring it to others. I guess Veda is less well marketed. But how enthusiastic are we about taking our faith in Jesus beyond our comfort zone. Maybe it's even to much to ask to take it next door. I reckon the world might have to wait a little longer.

V is for VESTIBULE

2008-06-20T19:24:00.000+01:00

The minute the superintendent finished his closing prayer, it was almost always a race for the door , down the steps from the church hall, a quick sprint along the little path and a short cut along the grass behind the fir tree to try and reach the church door first. A good push and we were into the vestibule, a sharp right turn and over to the table to join the queue. Our church like most in the Presbyterian denomination had a scheme running called League of Church Loyalty. It was a sort of incentive to get kids to come to church after Sunday School ended in the morning though I reckon few of us had any choice in the matter and probably there was also a hidden agenda in the scheme that if the children were coming to church,then there was a greater chance that parents might come too.

We all had a little blue card, one side of which was divided out into a grid, with one square for each Sunday in a month so at a glance you could see how many days you had missed in a year. The man in charge or to give him his proper title, the superintendent, had a roll book and also a small stamper and stamp pad wit ha purple dye and every Sunday, when you arrived at his desk, he would stamp your card with a little purple shamrock. Only in July and August

did you get some relief from the stamping but if you attended another church, because the scheme was widespread, you would have been expected to get your card stamped or at least initialled wherever you worshipped. And of course the incentive as far as us kids were concerned was that a full book of purple shamrocks guaranteed a first prize on Children's Sunday.

Every Sunday, the vestibule was a busy place for the half hour or so before the service began. Parents would stand round the inside walls, waiting for their kids to reach the top of the 'Loyalty' queue while other adults and teenagers milled about, catching up with the local gossip or the previous day's football scores. And generally you always found the same people standing in the same locations. Sometimes the noise was deafening, other times there was just a low constant mumble, like thunder in the distance and there was almost always a member of the church committee or session welcoming people to the service and offering them a hymnbook, but unlike today, most people brought their own. I guess they had probably won them down the years through the 'Loyalty' scheme. Often the vestibule was still fairly full and the church half empty when the minister's car would roar up the drive and park randomly outside as he completed his mad dash from our sister church after the morning service there. On the opposite side to where the cards were stamped, was a small vestry, where he was quickly brought up to speed with announcements and any irregularities that might have occurred and which needed to be included in the service. By the time he emerged, the vestibule was empty and traditionally he always walked up the right hand aisle to the pulpit, with everyone now in position for the opening Psalm.

There were some other things I remember about the vestibule. First the communion utensils that rested on a wooden table to the right and had been presented by my family, in memory of my grandfather. Also at harvest time, the whole of the vestibule was completely packed with vegetables and flowers for the occasion.And in a strange sort of ritual, many years after the church was extended and a new vestry had been built, the minister and the session still paraded down the aisle after a communion service and went into the old vestry. But the main thing I recall was just how cold the vestibule could be because there was no porch and it opened directly to the outside on top of a windy and exposed hill. Many years after withstanding these chilly mornings, the committee eventually installed a blow heater above the door to make it a warmer environment.

I guess it the vestibule carries its own sermon and I would probably summarise it like this. Loyalty to your church really doesn't count for much at the end of the day if you're only interested in the praise of men, while for others, church tradition maybe gets more respect that it should. But maybe the most important sermon is that it is possible to be part of a church fellowship and still be cold, to be so near and yet so far, to talk the same language but serve a different teacher. So when Jesus said of the Pharisees of His day, 'These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me,' maybe His words carry just as much significance today as they did two thousand years ago.

You can't really get closer to the main church building than the vestibule but it's still outside where it all happens. How close are you to God? So near or so far?

V is for VACUUM

2008-06-19T21:13:00.000+01:00

So there we were, wife and I, struggling to find a baby sitter. It was going to be a late night for the coffee bar where we were booked to sing was a good hour and a half away and we probably wouldn't get left much before midnight, by the time all gear had been packed in to the trailer and all the pleasantries were exchanged. SO it was certainly not the sort of evening to be asking parents to come and look after their grandchildren and our other usual baby minders were unavailable. It was then I remembered two individuals whom I had taught a couple of years earlier and were now found in each other's company more than when they were at high school. And of course they were delighted when I rang and readily agreed to take on the task of looking after our two tearaways, not that you can do much damage when you're still a year or so short of primary school and your brother is crawling about after you.

Anyway, the big night arrived, as did Brian and Alex. (Incidentally, I have changed their names to protect their identity and replaced them with names that are spelt and sound the same!!). There didn't seem to be any major problems. After all, they had babysat for other couples before so we left,fairly confident that things would be OK and they felt fairly confident that after a short period of playing the two boys would quite happily trundle off to bed, leaving the lovebirds to a cosy night of television and cuddles. This may have been their first mistake. Those who have reared toddlers and barely toddlers will know that bedtime is a flexible arrangement when guests come to visit and normal behaviour is probably not the norm. Still, at such times it is probably good to be oblivious to what is happening and so we were until we arrived home, sometime after midnight.

I guess we knew that all had not gone according to plan when Alex met us at the door, sporting one of wife's jumpers. In the minutes that followed, our friends quickly outlined the evening's events which amounted to nothing more than two excited kids having fun with their babysitters and then one of them being physically sick across the jumper of the female who was acting 'in loco parentis' and the surrounding furniture. Now, that I can handle but it was more about the method of coping with the mess that took a little more understanding. Suffice to say they chose to use the vacuum to clean up the remains of a toddler's past few meals. Maybe it was good thing that the hour was late and we were tired but I think it was some time the next morning when it began to dawn on us exactly what was lying in the bowels of our vacuum cleaner and then how we might go about removing it. Anyway, they were young and I suppose they did their best and wife was probably more concerned that someone had been rifling through her clothes to find something to wear. And she had to pick one of her best jumpers! They never came back to babysit.

I guess children aren't that easy to raise and I suppose there is no such thing as the perfect way to do it as everyone of them has a different little personality. But I read something the other day that I thought was more than a little profound and I'll share it with you.

'If you are a parent, don't prepare the path for your child….Prepare your child for the path.' It reminds me of that great verse in Proverbs ch 22 which says, 'Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it.'

That young lad who used to crawl after his toddler brother leaves shortly for the other side of the world on mission for a year. I hope we as parents have prepared him adequately for the path ahead but I know his heavenly father has taken a very active interest in making him ready for what lies ahead and do you know, I think He has prepared the path as well. To all who strive to walk that road, God only lets you begin your journey when He knows you are ready and when He has prepared you well. As for the path. Didn't he walk it himself?

K is for KETCHUP

2008-06-18T17:43:00.000+01:00

I read about someone today who drinks ketchup from a bottle. It’s one of the strangest eating (or is it drinking) habits I have encountered but probably not far ahead of the person who dunks their crisps in salad cream, or another individual who likes to eat the biscuit part of a Twix bar first and leave the caramel to last. I even heard of someone who likes to gouge out the inside of roast potatoes, mash it up with the rest of the dinner and then eat the skin separately. It doesn’t take much research to discover that there are more than a few odd eating habits out there, like dipping French Fries in vanilla ice cream, eating all the toppings and cheese off a pizza before eating the crusty base, dipping chips in a big bowl of vinegar or a slice of white bread with topped with whipped cream.

A friend of dad’s who used to drop into the house on a regular basis, loved to spread strawberry jam on his apple tart, while another was quite into using butter instead of the jam on top. Another mate would always eat everything off his plate except the meat which he kept to the end and I guess many of us would vouch to having eaten certain things on our plates in a particular order, maybe based on how much we like each food, with the least favoured ones usually going down the hatch first, if at all.

I suppose we all have out little ways. Me? I have been known to eat cold baked beans and if I have chicken, it's almost always the last thing I eat and I'm a bit of a stickler for keeping my rice separate from any accompanying dish in a Chinese restaurant. Yes and those weird, spherical chocolate sweets they call Ferrero Rocher,I always like to bite slowly around the outside layer and remove it as two hemispheres from the inside, though admittedly the rest is a bit messy. And I know wife is a bit partial to egg sandwiches with fizzy Club orange lemonade but probably because it was a bit of a ritual in her house as she grew up.

Another person I have discovered always insisted on drenching absolutely everything with ketchup and could never get enough and I know from school that some kids can’t even begin their dinner until a blob of the red stuff is sitting on the side of their plate. Yet here’s the funny thing and it happens at home too. So often, a large proportion of the ketchup is still left after the meal is finished. It's almost as if the diner must have it there purely as a decoration but never actually intends to use it as a flavouring. Ketchup itself has lots of ingredients apart form tomatoes but the least obvious ones are probably sugar and vinegar. I remember a relation who used to add a spoonful of vinegar to her ketchup bottle just to keep it fresh and it probably worked but the red sauce just tasted vile. Ketchup has been around since the beginning of the nineteenth century but apart form sales by local farmers, it didn't really become a commercial product until marketed by Heinz in the late eighteen hundreds and was advertised as 'Blessed relief for Mother and the other women in the household!' And while it has been modified down the years it is still a favourite with kids everywhere and also with a lot of big kids too.

But it's that thought of all the ketchup that remains on plates that has me thinking today in a very different context as I mull over the provision which God has made for us. The Psalmist writes 'How great is your goodness, which you have stored up for those who fear you,which you bestow in the sight of men on those who take refuge in you.' And later on in Psalm 103, we read those words 'Praise the LORD, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits.' But for so many the goodness of the Lord is never tasted or else we never really try to exhaust His grace towards us, so that while we could be feasting on what He has for us, we end up without the full flavour of his goodness.

In Japan it is considered rude to finish all of your meal as it suggest that your host didn't provide enough for you. In many western countries it would be offensive to leave food, possibly indicating your dislike for something offered. So when God offers us the riches of His kingdom, how do you think He feels when we choose not to taste His goodness. Don't leave Him on the side of your life.

K is for KNOCKING

2008-06-17T20:42:00.000+01:00

So what would you have done? This is a purely hypothetical situation, you understand, that could or might not happen, a story from the past that obviously is entirely fictitious and of course one which I would never be involved in, but I'll share it with you anyway and you can make up your own mind.

A long, long , long time ago, in a world far away, but not so far away that it was totally removed from reality, there lived a young man, who for the purpose of this story, we shall call Little Pig number one or LP1 for short. On day he met another young gentleman, who for the purpose of this story, we shall call Wolf and invited him to church where he met LP1's other close friend, who for the purpose of this story we shall call Little Pig number two or LP2 for short. One should understand that while there was also another young gentleman who for the purpose of this story we shall call Little Pig number three, or LP3 for short, he is not considered to be a major player in this account and indeed will take no further part in the story.

The little pigs and Wolf became friends and every week he would go to visit LP1 in his home. Unfortunately Wolf didn't really like to talk but just sat at LP1's home or walked around after the little pig. LP1's mum and dad had warned him that it might not be a good idea to have a Wolf for a friend but for a while he ignored their advice until one day he realised that Wolf maybe wasn't such good company, so every time Wolf arrived, the little pig either hid or went away in his little piggy car. Eventually Wolf decided to try the other little pig, LP2 and went and knocked on his door and was invited in. But he wasn't any more interesting there either and often he would just sit and watch the little pig's television all afternoon without saying a word. This little pig's mum and dad warned him too that it was not such a good idea to have a Wolf for a friend and for a while he didn't heed the advice but knew they were right. Then one day he could take it no more. and decided to tell Wolf not to visit him every Saturday. Wolf was extremely upset, indeed angry and refused to listen. But the next weekend he went back to LP1's house and knocked on the door. The little pig was so afraid now that he hid when he saw Wolf's car arrive, but he refused to open the door. Wolf could have shouted, 'Little Piggy, open the door, or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down,' but of course he didn't because he was a Wolf who didn't really talk much so after knocking for a while, he left. Immediately LP1 got on the phone and rang LP2 to tell him that Wolf was on his way. So the second little piggy ran quickly and closed all the curtains, locked all the doors and waited nervously in the dark. Soon he heard the familiar sound of Wolf's little car stopping and then the knock at the front door, but he didn't open it. Then, just as he thought the coast was clear and it was safe to go out and play, he heard a knock at the back door. Indeed Wolf knocked incessantly at both doors for maybe ten minutes. He could have said, 'Little Piggy, open the door, or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down,' but of course he didn't and eventually he left. Now did the little piggies do the right thing? I don't know, but the story has a happy ending because one day Wolf met a beautiful girl, forgot about the little piggies and they all lived happily every after!

It may seem a strange and maybe unacceptable way to treat someone who wants to be your friend but don't so many treat Jesus in exactly the same way. One of the most well known verses in all of the Bible is found in Revelation ch 3 where God reveals to John these words, 'Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him, and he with me.' Yet that is just where Jesus is left, standing at the door and knocking. But the verse also suggests to me that he is also persistent in his desire to be allowed in to our lives, for he stands there and also speaks so that if we miss his knocking we might at least hear his voice. And His promise in the verse that follows is of a friend who will secure our access to a much greater eternal home where we won't have to stand outside and plead for entry.

Sometimes when our home doorbell is switched off accidentally, we don't hear someone who comes and knocks at the door and maybe only catch a glimpse of them as they drive away, but it's too late to call them back. How sad if we missed hearing Jesus knock or just refused to listen and He went away without being invited to come in. And how sad if when we knocked on the doors of his home, we should hear those words, ''I never knew you.' If Jesus is knocking or speaking today, open the door and find a new friend.

K is for KEEPSAKE

2008-06-16T19:06:00.000+01:00

I have a little white box, somewhere among my personal possessions in the attic. It once contained a medal that I had obtained during my time in the church youth organisation, though I can't remember exactly why I received it. Anyway, it's not in the box now and I really don't have any idea where it resides, possibly still in the house where my parents lived. But the box is not empty for it contains a little piece of history, or more correctly, a little piece of my wife. Now before anyone reaches for the phone and dials their local detective with grisly accusations of severed fingers or the like, let me assure you that it is not so dramatic or horrifying and is indeed nothing more than a curl of hair. It was a watershed for wife at the time, who was then not even at fiancee stage but she had reached a decision that the long hair she had groomed for so many years, she would soon have no longer, in fact she would have it shorter, but just as a token of remembrance of former days, she gave me one single curl to keep and the only box I owned which would be just right to store it, was quickly emptied of its shiny contents and replaced with a living piece of history, which of course was no longer alive. Some years later, after we had officially become husband and wife and had started a family, our first son grew the most beautiful blond curls and when we eventually plucked up the courage to take him for his first haircut, wife kept one of his locks as a keepsake and it too occupies a place in our personal possessions. I noticed on a picture that mum had of me, when I was a toddler and had similar curls that made me reminiscent of Charlie Drake, the comedian, a small lock of blond hair inside a little plastic bag and attached to the front.

Most people have keepsakes that remind them of a particular time or event in their lives or even a certain person. We always kept the little plastic blue tags that were attached to each of the boys when they were born, recording the time of birth and the weight and, like most parents, have school books and other mementoes of their early years. If I searched the attic, I could easily find books, toys, magazines, ornaments, records and little bits and pieces that are all there because each carries a different memory that is, in truth, my living history. Like the old Liverpool programme of a match against Spurs in 1973, on the morning of the Grand National, or the white Bible that was given to us on our wedding day, or my student's union card where the hairstyle in the picture was a little too well blow dried. Or maybe the little hand-held slide viewer that you held up to the light and through which we used to look at the twenty or so slides showing the opening of our church manse in the late fifties. For many females it may be a piece of jewellery handed down by a parent, grandparent or great aunt, why it might even be a wedding dress or, as in wife's family, a christening robe, but such keepsakes have more than just sentimental value.

That's why, the glasses and open Bible that sit in our upstairs lounge, are not simply there to remind me of a loving mother but to illustrate what was really important in her life. For her Bible was always open, often annotated in her own writing and the wrinkles on each page showed that she knew it well. And yet it was not the Bible that I remember for much of her life, during my primary and teenage years but the original had been read and written on so much that the pages no longer held together sufficiently well with sellotape. And the glasses? They just remind me of one who had a clear view of her Lord but still wanted to see more of Him in her own life and in the lives of her family. How I have thought about that over these past days as her two grandsons prepare for short and long term mission work and how I know she wouldn't have needed those spectacles to see the work that God has done in their lives and the blessings that he has 'bestowed' on her loved ones. So I can really identify with that verse in Psalm 100 which says, 'For the Lord is good and his love endures forever; his faithfulness continues through all generations.'

Of course the greatest keepsake is in my head. It is a picture of empty cross and an empty grave that tells me all I need to know, that without the past, there is no future and when my future is in God's hands my past is firmly where it belongs. Not so much a keepsake, only a memory

K is for KEVIN

2008-06-15T14:11:00.000+01:00

Charlie and his family lived down the hill from home. I never saw much of them and have only vague recollections of what Charlie looked like though the rest of the family's appearance has completely escaped me, including that of their mother. Charlie had a sort of square face and black hair and I suppose in any identity parade of nationalities, would have been immediately recognisable as the Irishman. He and his family lived in a cottage about one hundred and fifty yards further along the lane and which was set back perpendicular to the road, about twenty yards from the tarmac. There was nothing grand about it at all, being a typical three room cottage which may have had a thatched roof but in later years was covered in corrugated tin sheets. The children varied in age on both sides of my own and generally played around their own house and the only time I really saw them was when they all were piled into their dad's green van as he drove up past our house, taking them to school, town or chapel. However, while I knew that they had a different religion to us, I was too young to appreciate that they may have lived on the edge of poverty during their time in the lane. Eventually, Charlie pulled up the anchor and moved the whole family a few miles closer to town and I never saw any of them again.

Sean made more regular trips up an d down our lane and while I knew him to see, I don't think I ever spoke to him nor him to me. He was much older than I, though it was difficult to put him in any particular age bracket and while I probably labelled him as somewhere about late forties, in truth during the time I knew him, he can't have been any more than his mid twenties. He lived with his mother and his other brother, Kevin, in a little cottage about a mile away, that could be reached by the main road and across a neighbour's farmyard or by a shortcut through low lying fields and along a dirt track that made the journey considerably less than a mile and closer to the distance a crow would have flown between our two houses. Every day, he would pass our abode on his way to the river, walking beside his donkey that pulled a small orange and blue cart with large wheels and some time later would return, leading his followers home. I never took much notice of why he went there and indeed never thought to ask but eventually it dawned on me that the river was the source of water for his home and after he had filled the barrels in the cart, a few fallen branches from the trees along its banks, would provide the heating that they needed to get them through a stiff winter. But I was too young to appreciate that they may have lived on the edge of poverty during his journeys in the lane. Eventually, Sean's mum died and he and Kevin moved to a house in the city, where, I presume, they still live.

Kevin was blessed with more intelligence than his brother but his simple home surroundings had always preserved an innocence and humility than time would never change. He went to grammar school, then to college and because his mum and parents were always close neighbours, he frequently visited home and when away during his studies, always sent cards at Christmas and wrote letters to the family. After his mother died, he took it upon himself to look after Sean and they moved to the city nearby. However for several years now, every Christmas, we have received a little diary from Kevin, full of his own personal writings in the form of poetry, that inspires and delights us and most of all reminds me of former times.

But the greatest lesson I have learned from Kevin is that God's love and salvation is for everybody and that no single group of believers has a monopoly on the truth. Why else would Paul write to the believers in Rome, 'Is God the God of Jews only? Is he not the God of Gentiles too? Yes, of Gentiles too.' And for what other reason would God announce to Abraham, 'All nations will be blessed through you.' Sometimes we are too quick to dismiss those whose faith in God seems at odds with our own ideas of what faith should be, but when Kevin writes these words, I know his faith in his Creator is secure.

'I have not chosen Him, but He has chosen me, so it has been no accident, in that Jesus has set me free, a kingdom not of this world, my mansion's way up above, and 'tis all because of Calvary, my Lord's redeeming love.'

Paul said, 'For this is what the Lord has commanded us: " 'I have made you a light for the Gentiles, that you may bring salvation to the ends of the earth.' Whose pathway is being brightened by your faith?

K is for KISS

2008-06-14T12:08:00.000+01:00

It lasted for thirty hours, fifty nine minutes and twenty seven seconds, in New York city towards the end of 2001 and is recorded as the longest kiss in history. What some people will do to get into the record books! Can you imagine how you would feel after that length of time with your lips pressed against somebody else's lips? Can you imagine how numb your lips might feel? I can't imagine you'd be hurrying to kiss the same person again in a hurry. Officially, kissing is usually used to express affection towards another human being, but equally can be a sign of respect for someone and often is simply a way of saying 'hello' or 'goodbye'. There's an old saying that you have got to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince, or indeed princess, but I have no intention of exploring any personal history on the subject. Suffice to say that not all kisses carry the same affection, nor are they intended to do so. Nor is it really clear whether we have to learn to kiss or if it is merely instinctive but I guess a parent never needs to learn to kiss their child, to show their affection.

While we are more comfortable with a hug or a handshake when we greet each other or say farewell, probably we have all become more used to seeing people kiss on meeting, usually with a peck on each cheek though often the lips don't even make contact with the other person and the kiss happens into the air. Parents will most likely kiss their children on the cheek too or even on the forehead, often as a comfort to the child and it is not unusual to witness a lady's hand being kissed by a gentleman while in many other countries, the act of kissing was more likely to happen between same sexes, again purely as a greeting or as a mark of respect. But no matter what type of kiss it is, it can be hard work for it takes over thirty muscles, working together each time.

And kissing has had its place in history too. The Pope normally kisses the ground of a country when he steps of the aeroplane while people who meet him, often kiss his ring. Various religious groups such as Muslims, Jews and Hindus will kiss symbols of their worship while, in Ireland, thousands of people over the years have performed the difficult physical feat of kissing the Blarney Stone, in the hope of gaining more eloquent speech. And indeed our fairy tales are littered with stories of romantic kisses awakening princes and princesses from slumber, like Snow White and Sleeping Beauty. Why even our footballers are prone to the occasional kiss to celebrate a goal or a win.

Of course the Bible has one or two memorable kisses, particularly when Jacob kissed Isaac and inherited his blessing by his deceit but some time later it would be a kiss from Esau to his brother which would indicate his forgiveness and heal their division. And it was a kiss between Moses and Aaron that signalled their partnership in bringing the Israelites out of Egypt, while Joseph would show his affection for his brothers and father after they were reunited in that same country. It was a kiss from Samuel that completed the anointing of Saul as king but a kiss of sadness that Naomi gave to Ruth and Orpah, encouraging them to put their bereavement behind them and find new husbands. But the most famous kiss in all of history is that which Jesus received from one of his closest followers for Judas had told his accusers, 'The one I kiss is the man; arrest him and lead him away under guard.' And as he approached his Master, Jesus said, 'Are you betraying the Son of Man with a kiss?' It was a kiss which changed man's history but a kiss that Jesus had waited for thirty three years to receive so that he could fulfill the promise God had made to Adam and Eve in the garden.

But the greatest kiss in the Bible was from the woman who, in coming face to face with Jesus, realised her sin and with her tears, washed his feet and kissed them. When we come face to face with the risen Christ and see our sin for what it is, we cannot show our love for Him, as that woman did, by a kiss but we can respond by seeking His forgiveness and serving Him with all our strength. May God give us the grace to love Him with all our hearts and may we, as Paul says, 'Greet one another with a holy kiss.' as a sign of our love for every believer.

K is for KRUGER

2008-06-13T16:34:00.000+01:00

I have never been as close to a python as I was two days ago. It was huge and I understood how the snake, lying asleep in a curled ball, just a foot in front of me, could manage to unlock its jaws and eat a whole animal or person. The glass wall that separated us brought a certain degree of comfort but it didn't stop me from thinking about the power that was locked inside this great creature's body. Indeed every animal that we viewed at the zoo that day, left me with a mixed feeling of what was and what could have been. Even the monkeys looked playful and interesting inside their glass prison and the giraffes looked serene as they arrogantly stared down at their audience. And while the created world of a zoo lets us view all these wonderful outworkings of God's imagination and design in our own back yard, not only does it leave with a false sense of security but also can never really recreate the world in which the animal was intended to exist. As I walked through the 'exhibitions' of frogs, snakes, lizards and toads occupying small 'natural' habitats in their own sections, I though of how quickly they would know every part of their restricted world and even with the right conditions to survive, surely there's nothing more stimulating than exploration of the undiscovered.

How different the world of Kruger is. In my only experience of the great park that covers vast areas of the north west of South Africa, there is no such obvious restriction on discovery for those animals that choose to travel. Acres upon acres of bush, scrub, watering holes and barely passable tracks have become the temporary homes of the nomadic elephants, zebras, rhinos, lions, cheetahs and giraffes that wander and rest at their leisure and along with many other lesser animals and birds, spend their entire existence looking for food and avoiding being dinner. And when you go to visit them in their backyard, one becomes strangely aware of the insecurity and lack of safety when everyone is on the same side of the cage or the transparent barrier between man and wild animal is no longer glass but only air. For no longer are animals where you expect to find them and often they are more likely to be watching you than you seeing them. I guess that's the thrill which Kruger or any other such park gives you that you can never find in a zoo. But at the end of the day, it's still only a park and eventually there will be a fence or a barrier. The only difference is that it takes longer to reach the limits, but I reckon it's a touch more fulfilling for them.

And to me, that is the difference between a 'being' Christian and a 'doing' Christian, one who is quite happy to eke out their faith in the comfort zone where they know the limits and the other who wants to explore further what faith really means when you leave that comfort zone behind and see how far God can take you. For Moses, it was a choice between tending the family flock or going to the Promised Land via Egypt. For James and John it was fishermen or fishers of men. For Paul, it was a top position in the church or a shipwreck, stoning and prison. For Judas it was some extra pocket money or a seat at the Master's table. For the rich, young and religious ruler it was a comfortable and wealthy existence or a charity sale. And not everybody made the correct decision. You see, when we trust in God completely, He makes the boundaries, not us and of course, as Paul tells the church at Thessalonica, 'The Lord is faithful, and he will strengthen and protect you from the evil one.' That's why moving out of the comfort zone, expanding your faith horizons, exploring the vast corners of His plan for your life might cause trepidation but never abandonment.

And tonight, I find these words from the prophet Micah that tell me all I need to know. 'The day for building your walls will come, the day for extending your boundaries.' Now I know why more animals spend their day sleeping in the zoo but not in Kruger! ........Comfortable?

K is for KEYBOARD

2008-06-13T00:11:00.000+01:00

I spend some time every day on a keyboard and though every finger, or at least two or three on each hand, can work in perfect harmony with each other, at a speed that was hitherto impossible for me to achieve, though constant practising has solved that problem, I still can't make a single note of music. Maybe it's because the keyboard has no black notes, but come to think of it, there are no white notes either, just masses and masses of little square shaped keys each with a letter or number on them. But I do know if I had the right piece of software in the big box that sits beside the keyboard, I could actually make some musical sounds by using the correct keys and some subtle moving of the mouse. But there's another thing. That mouse is so tame, it just sits there all day and I don't even have to consider feeding it, but then again, most of the day it has a fairly sedentary lifestyle.

But aren't computers and their new language that we associate with them, so wonderful and yet so confusing. When I was at school a monitor was a senior prefect who watched you. Now I watch the monitor, while a a wireless was a hefty box that held a big battery and with some very coarse, fine tuning, could be made to emit music from Radio Caroline and Luxembourg. Of course those were the days when USB sounded more like an unidentified flying object or a rare tropical disease or even a more rare pet animal. Imagine going into a shop many years ago and asking for a USB lead and the shopkeeper asking if you wanted to take your USB for a walk! And the only icons I knew were the Queen and President Reagan or maybe Clint Eastwood and the Beatles while babies were still being baptised in a font. I guess any parent would have had a worried look if the minister had said to them, prior to the baptism, if the wanted to use a Times New Roman font or the new Helvetica font! And while my desktop is now a cluttered mess of unknown and certainly not famous icons, my school desktop is equally cluttered with pens and pencils and erasers and sharpeners and homeworks. But strangely, in both cases I know exactly where everything is.

Apart from the piano that we have at home, the first keyboard I actually owned was a Fender Stage Rhodes that played like a dream but weighed a nightmare. It produced some beautiful dulcet tones but rarely left the bedroom and eventually I took a bad price for it, though probably should have kept it for its vintage value now. Over the past number of years, other keyboards have grace the music room, all with varying abilities to imitate the sounds they are meant to portray and some doing a very realistic job indeed, especially when it comes down to such instrumental sounds as organ, piano and strings, but they are only really imitations and while they fool most people when mixed in with other instruments on a recording, the true musician will always hear the difference. I have found the main reason is because, even if the sound does appear a very close copy , it is almost impossible to reproduce the way the way some instruments are played for all are not meant to be caressed in the way one would play a keyboard. That's why bagpipes, violins, flutes, trombones and the like are never totally realistic for there are certain playing styles that you just can't really perfect on a keyboard and also there are certain things you can do with keys that you can't possibly do with the real instrument.

I guess it's much the same with being a Christian for it's easy to imitate so much of what a Christian might be meant to be and to most people the difference will not be noticeable, but the Chief Musician, the one who created all music and everything else, has powers of discernment that we never have had, so He knows if we're an imitation or the real thing. However he has also given us as believers the ability to discern when something is not what it seems. That's why the writer of Proverbs records, ' Wisdom is found on the lips of the discerning, but a rod is for the back of him who lacks judgment ' Similarly, Paul encourages us to be always on our guard and to not be swayed by the arguments or eloquent words of other pretenders, for he writes, 'And this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless until the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ—to the glory and praise of God.'

I leave you with this thought. Not counting for pitch, there are only thirteen notes on a keyboard but the world's greatest tunes have been created from them. But it only takes one wrong note to be played to spoil the whole song. Keep in tune!

K is for KITCHEN

2008-06-12T00:22:00.000+01:00

Everything happened at home in the kitchen. It was our breakfast room, our dining room, our living room and of course our cooking room. Maybe it served all these purposes because we had another room just down one step from the kitchen, which we commonly called a scullery. But probably it was more a kitchen than the kitchen was, because in this room sat the fridge, the freezer, the toaster, the electric kettle and all the boxes that contained the home baked soda and wheaten bread which mum made every week. Also this is where all the cutlery was kept, along with the cooking utensils, crockery and saucepans and if you needed tomato or HP sauce, salt, pepper, sugar or jam this is where you would have found them. ON one side of the scullery were several cupboards, containing a selection of baking trays, frying pans, tins of food and all the baking powders, flours and potions that mum used on a regular basis, while the wall that was broken up by the main window, housed the sink and draining board where all the washing up was started and finished. In the middle of this scullery sat a square table and during the summer time, we always ate here in preference to the kitchen, simply, I think, for a change of scenery.

Indeed the only thing that made the kitchen a kitchen was the Wellstood cooker where mum did the majority of her cooking and baking, though as you can understand, she had to ferry most of the materials from the scullery. Nevertheless, it was still the kitchen and unless we were having special visitors, even Sunday lunch was eaten at the table here and also Christmas dinner. This was the place where I was washed when a nipper, where I dressed most mornings before being sent to primary school and also where I ate breakfast beside the open fire door after it had appeared almost by magic on a hard chair perched in front of where I sat. It was also the place where most homeworks were done in the early years, where we watched television, including man landing on the moon, England winning the football World Cup and the aftermath of the JFK assassination. During my life time the television had occupied at least three different positions in the room, the stairs had been turned to attempt to create more space in one corner and the door into our official dining room had been blocked up and opened in another wall beyond the kitchen. It was the place where mum hung her washing on an indoor clothes line along one length of the ceiling nearest the window, where we played family games with rubber rings on a board or on the tile-patterned floor and where the neighbours and where dad read the paper every night. And it was the place where the neighbours and relatives sat when they called to visit, occupying part of the length of the 'couch' that had been covered on numerous occasions with fresh material. And it was the place where our two lads spent most of their tender years, at or near their grandmother's knee, as she taught them choruses, nursed them, told them Bible stories and held parties for their first birthdays, complete with a cake she would have made. It was the warmest room in the house and not just because of the heat from the old fashioned cooker!

But it was only a kitchen by name and not in the true sense of the word as we would apply it today. I guess we should have called it a multi-purpose room but traditions die hard in this part of the country and therefore its name was never even questioned. So I guess it's easier to be something we're not than we imagine. If I was a kitchen, I'd want to be doing more than just a spot of cooking and being a greeting place for neighbours and friends and if I was planning a kitchen I'd want to have all the essentials at my fingertips and not spread out over two rooms. And if I was a Christian, I'd want to be doing more than just being called one because that's what I've always been known as. But you see, I wouldn't be a Christian just because I looked like one or because I did certain things that other Christians do, for there are many folks out there who would not call themselves Christian believers and might even follow other religions or none at all and still 'look' more Christian than I would. So it's not about the name at all, but it is about what's behind the name that we bear. For Jesus Himself says 'Not everyone who says to me, 'Lord, Lord,' will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only he who does the will of my Father who is in heaven.' Talking the talk and walking the walk! Maybe it's time for a little renovations!

K is for KINDNESS

2008-06-11T00:18:00.000+01:00

One day Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. However in this account, Jack didn't fall down and break his crown, nor did Jill come tumbling after. No, because when they had climbed the extremely steep hill to the well at the very top from where they had always drawn their water, they discovered, to their horror, that the well was completely dry. So the only thing that was pale now was Jack's face as he looked deep into the well and could no longer see his reflection down below in the depths. 'Why don't you try shouting into it?' said Jill. 'Sure that won't make the water come back,' replied Jack. 'No, you're right there,' said Jill, 'but at least you'll no for certain by the echo if there really is any water down there.' So Jack shouted at the top of his voice, the same way he always did when he preached a sermon, but alas, there was no response. 'What are we going to do, Jack?' enquired his beloved wife Jill who was heavily expecting him to solve the problem right there and then. Jack thought for a while, then he thought some more, while his wife also laboured to find a solution. Then, a moment of inspiration arrived. 'I've got it!' he shrieked. 'Oh please tell me dear, what are we to do, for I need water to drink, to wash our clothes, to boil your potatoes and to have a good old shower,' said Jill, now blossoming with excitement. 'I have a friend who owes us a favour,' said Jack. ' and today, my dear, is payback time.'

Meanwhile, down at the bottom of the hill, Mr. H Dumpty was sitting quite happily on a fairly high wall, strumming a few Van Morrison tunes on his ukulele, when he accidentally slipped as he tried to play a very difficult chord because something distracted his attention. He had a great fall. There was no doubt that he had broken something and when he realised that it wasn't a guitar string but probably a bone instead, he pulled out his mobile phone and rang 999 and asked for an ambulance. Soon the vehicle arrived from King's hospital and took him away, but no matter how they tried, they just couldn't put him together the way he was and eventually the doctor had to inform him that he would probably have a slight limp for the rest of his life. When he heard the news he was definitely a bit humped!

Mrs. Dumpty answered the doorbell. It was their good friends, Jack and Jill. All three of them stood on the doorstep, chatting for a long while, but she made no effort to ask them in, which seemed quite unusual to them. Eventually she said, 'Look, I would invite you in but I've just cleaned the house from top to bottom and, quite frankly, you both smell absolutely awful. I hope you don't mind, but my husband is not here at present and I really could do with an early night.' 'But don't you remember that you owe us a favour?' said Jack. 'What could that be,?I don't recall anything,' answered Mrs, Dumpty. Before he could answer, his wife butted in. 'Well, Jack taught your husband that new Van Morrison song one night,' she said. 'Now we are wondering, seeing as you are our very good friends, if we could have some water to help us cook our tea, because there is no water in our well. Oh and also, if you didn't mind, maybe we could have a quick shower when we're here too.' 'Out of the question,' answered Mrs. Dumpty. But they kept pleading with her and indeed refused to go, occasionally adding some other demands along the way, such as fresh towels, anti dandruff shampoo, tea tree conditioner, Tesco shower gel, water at a temperature of exactly 40 degrees and a shower cap for Jill's long hair. Eventually, after some weeping and gnashing of teeth, Mrs. Dumpty decided to show kindness to the young couple, gave them water fro their cooking and allowed them to use the shower room that she had just spent the previous hour cleaning. As they left, Jack and Jill turned to her and shouted, 'Thank you for your kindness, see you tomorrow night for the same again!' It was at this precise moment that Mr. Dumpty fell off the wall!

OK it's only a story, and not a very good one at that. I'd much prefer to have had the two of them tumbling down the hill. At least that would have meant there was water in the well. But the moral of this story lies not only in the kindness of one person to another but also in their persistence. Jesus tells a similar type of parable in Luke 11 about a friend who arrives at midnight at another house asking for some bread in an emergency and though the owner is initially reluctant to get up and help him, eventually he does show his kindness, but only because of the friend's boldness and persistence. Jesus' point of course is in the verses that follow, where He says, 'Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened.' And in this short story and explanation, He tells how God shows His kindness to us and will give us what He knows we need, in this case His Holy Spirit, so that we can live lives that are closer imitations of the life of the sinless One, His own Son , Jesus. I guess that puts our efforts at kindness into perspective but it should also remind us that when we help others in need, through our kindness, we are doing those deeds that reflect our love of Him. I guess the water He supplies never runs out.

K is for KINGS

2008-06-09T23:03:00.000+01:00

It's funny how a single event in history can so dramatically change the future. Here are three examples, not in chronological order, about kings.

Edward had a difficult decision to make and a lot to live up to. After all, he came from a long line of royal blood, his father was king and it was he as heir apparent and natural successor who would take his place when he died. So in January, 1936 on the passing of George V, his son was crowned King. However life is never anything but complicated when you're a Royal and love is even more complex. Having fallen in love with Wallis Simpson, wife of an American businessman, he subsequently made known his intentions to marry her after she divorced her husband. As head of the Church of England, the idea of the him marrying a divorcee was frowned upon and despite numerous efforts to resolve the situation, in the end Edward was left with no alternative but to abdicate the throne, which he did in December, having ruled Britain for less than a year. With Edward reduced in title to Duke of Windsor and essentially now out of the country and the picture, his brother George became the sixth king to bear that name. I often think that most of us have grown up with George's daughter, Elizabeth, as our queen, and followed the lives of her four children and their families, but if it hadn't been for a love affair, Charles, Anne, Andrew, Edward and company might never have had anything more than walk on parts in the great drama that is the Royal Family.

Another king began life as an insignificant shepherd boy but one incident in his life was to change him from a walk on part to centre stage. When David felled Goliath, he raised his profile to such an extent that Saul could no longer cope with the adulation he received. That David was God's chosen one is evident from Samuel's visit to Jesse to select a replacement for Saul, for he appeared to be anything but leadership material compared to his brothers. How significant then that God saw something in David that no human eye could ever spot, maybe a lesson there to us all. But once again, love was to destroy him, for his desire for the wife of another man would lead him to murder and eventual fall. Yet, even in the midst of his failure, God did not forget David and his place in history was for ever assured through his writings in the Psalms while his importance in the future was cemented as the direct line of ancestor for the Saviour who was prophesied.

And Jesus began life in a stable, in the most humble surroundings imaginable, amongst people who had never had contact with royalty. His life was ordinary, his friends had no titles and his history on earth was relatively short. But yet again love was to intervene and change the future. Except His love was to cost him more than any earthly kingship for He would pay the ultimate price for his faithfulness, in the loss of His life. Yet it was only through that loss that he could overcome death and the power of Satan and through His rising from the dead would be elevated to the throne of heaven, not simply as another king but King of kings. Don't you get it? There is no greater title than to rule over everyone else who rules. That is the ultimate place of power and authority, that nobody can overcome. John describes Him thus in Revelation, 'They will make war against the Lamb, but the Lamb will overcome them because he is Lord of lords and King of kings—and with him will be his called, chosen and faithful followers.'

Royalty? I can take it or leave it. Kings? I'm not bothered. King of kings? Now that's an entirely different matter. And why do we love the King of kings? I leave the last word again to John, 'We love him, because he first loved us.'

K is for KEYS

2008-06-08T20:35:00.000+01:00

I have thirty keys. They hang from two different key rings in bunches which are not even slightly organised, except I know that one contains all the keys for school and the other has all the home keys. I differentiate the two bunches by the key fobs that also hang down, advertising somebody's business and also by the fact that my car key is on one of the two groups along with a Liverpool FC badge and a small LED flashlight that the manager of a Chinese restaurant gave me one night, again advertising his premises. Over the past couple of years several different memory sticks have been added and at one stage I even had a pair of nail clippers dangling from a ring. I rarely carry the school keys during the day but the rest almost constantly hang from my pocket, creating a comforting jingling sound as I walk. I had a quick look at both piles recently and discovered that on a normal sort of day I will probably use eight keys in total and if pushed, might stretch that to possibly ten. A quick calculation among the mathematicians of a primary four class could even work out that on a normal day therefore, I have in my possession twenty two keys that never do the job for which they are intended. To complicate the matter even further, I no longer know for what purpose some of the keys are used but I do know that several are now redundant, only fitting old locks that have long since been discarded. And that's not all. Amongst my school keys, I have discovered keys that only fit doors at home, except that those doors are no longer in the house any more ever since we carried out a small extension. I really must get around to organising them better, instead of having to carry this heavy weight of metal all the time. And just to make it even more complicated, there are now several doors and locks that I come across for which I don't have a key. Mum used to have a glass jam jar of keys that she had collected over a period of time. When we lost a key to a shed outside or one of the rooms inside, down would come the jar and we would fumble through the different metal shapes, looking for the one we needed, but strangely, we never found a key that would open any door or lock. Anyway she kept them - just in case!

A few years back, I had one of those gadgets attached to my keys, so that when you whistled, it made a high pitched response and it was easy to locate their whereabouts. And while it kept mice out of the house, unfortunately it attracted all the dogs in the country! No, I'm only joking, but it was such an annoying sound, because when it detected any loudish sound, it used to start to beep, not very understanding of it, if you happen to be in church when the soloist reached for a note she couldn't quite find. So I removed it from my key ring. Then one evening I lost the whole bunch about an hour before we were due to go out to a function. Yes I had a spare car key and some house keys, but the thought that maybe someone might find the missing ones was slightly worrying and so began the great key hunt. Tow of our friends arrived and were treated to an exhibition in reminiscing the recent past and searching every crevice, shelf and cupboard that the house could yield. As they drank coffee and enjoyed the spectacle, adding to my frustration with 'concerned comments and suggestions,' the keys stayed hidden. Soon our time to leave had passed and an hour later we were still tracing our movements with no return. As darkness approached, I took a walk in our back garden and in the beam of a torch, something glistened and I suddenly remembered where I had been earlier that evening. The panic was over and the blame I had attached to other female members of the household, of which there is only one, was proven to be well wide of the mark and subsequently withdrawn with an apology.

Keys are there for one purpose, to open locks, but keys do give authority to the one who is in possession of them. Jesus once said to Peter, 'I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven; whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.' Most commentators agree that the keys of the kingdom in this case were meant to convey the fact that Peter, through his preaching of the truth of salvation, could open the way for many to find the kingdom, by God's grace. This doesn't make Peter as somebody more special than us, for when we believe on Jesus as Saviour, He gives us the keys to the kingdom in that He expects us, through our profession of faith in Him and through our witness, to open up the way for others to find Him too. But for too many, the keys remain redundant and sometimes, unfortunately, there are those Christians who can't even remember what their real purpose in life is. And you see,if you don't use a key, some doors are never opened. But one other thing strikes me too. How great was my panic when I lost those keys that I tried to remember when and where I had gone wrong and even tried to blame others. And when we stand before God some day, we may find ourselves thinking of those opportunities we had and even blaming others for our failures, but the fault will only lie with one person. Thankfully, Jesus told the lost parables to remind us that He hasn't stopped seeking all who are still lost and his beam is still shining. After all, He is the key to life.

K is for KILOGRAM

2008-06-07T16:28:00.001+01:00

It was one of the greatest ever number one songs to grace the charts in the days when the top tune was actually decided by sales of records that amounted to millions worldwide and not hyped by a few backhanders or pledges and a couple of hundred downloads. It drew people to wear flowers in their hair and congregate at music festivals,especially on the west coast of USA ans culminated in the 'summer of love' way back in 1967. I loved the tune and maybe more so because, not into my teens, I could strum along to it on the guitar and knew all the lyrics, though I'd absolutely little idea what they meant! It was sung by a 'one hit wonder' called Scott Mackenzie and it's amazingly long title of 'If you're going to San Francisco (Be sure to wear flowers in your hair) and after it faded from our radios, it took me over thirty years to get my hands on a copy of the track. But more than anything else, it probably dated me as a child of the sixties. And if you fall into that same category, then you're most likely to be a pre metric child as well.

And that's where it all gets complicated. You see, its OK if you're under thirty and possibly even forty, but once you get beyond that magic figure (magic, because your life seems to disappear even more quickly), we are all living in a parallel world of metric and imperial. I used to smile as my older relatives talked about how they never could get used to decimal coins and metres and litres and thought it would be a cakewalk, but all these years later I still look for a pound of butter or sugar. And I guess there aren't too many frequenting our drinking establishments, who would say, 'Do you fancy 0.56 litres of beer?' Why, last summer, driving in France, I found the most useful bit of info as we travelled, to be that five miles was equivalent to eight kilometres. So mentally, you find yourself doing constant conversions to see how fast you're travelling and how far you still have to go. It's sort of comforting, almost like translating into your own language, which in a way, I guess it is.

But it just doesn't stop there. When wife is baking, she is constantly bombarding me with questions about converting fluid ounces to grams and similar mathematical problems and when I fill up the car with diesel, it now cost more per litre than it used to cost for a gallon of the stuff - and the car doesn't go any further! Then in the supermarket, you see adverts for the price of meat at so much per kilogram but does anybody really know how heavy a kilo actually is. When you stand on the scales, do you still weigh yourself in stones, pounds or ounces(if you're an insect) or is your mass displayed in kilos. Strangely enough, when dad looked at a cow, he could accurately predict its weight in hundredweights, without ever needing to see a scale reading and when everything changed to metric, he seemed to learn very quickly how to do exactly the same thing in kilos. I guess if you think like I do, then you tend to judge by looks rather than weight when you're buying any food in a supermarket. But I suppose it is nice to know in this corner of Europe that the two systems still have managed to operate alongside each other so that we of the 'flower power' generation can still buy a pint of milk at the corner shop. (if it still exists!)
Last evening, youngest son held a worship evening to help raise funds for his forthcoming sojourn in Ecuador. It was a great evening of praise and worship but the most delightful memory, apart from some beautiful buns afterwards, was how the old hymns and the modern worship songs he had chosen, sat so easily alongside each other. To sing 'Holy, Holy, Holy' and move into 'How Great is Our God,' shows me clearly once again, that it is not what we sing in worship to our Creator, but the attitude of our hearts. The Psalmist writes 'Praise the LORD. How good it is to sing praises to our God, how pleasant and fitting to praise Him.' And Paul, in his letter to the church in Ephesus, underlines the importance of our worship by saying, 'Speak to one another with psalms, hymns and spiritual songs. Sing and make music in your heart to the Lord, always giving thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.' As we worship, let us do so with the words of that old hymn ringing in our ears, 'Tis old yet ever new.' for the message of salvation is never out of date.

K is for KILLED?

2008-06-06T18:05:00.000+01:00

Dogs and I have always had a great relationship. Ever since I was knee high to a grasshopper, I've loved the canine species and among the great selection of dogs that inhabited the family home over they years, I can honestly say that I loved every one of them. Some were quite large, like Bruce I the black Labrador, Bruce II the Golden Labrador and Kim I, the Airedale, others were medium such as Crusoe the Spaniel and Kim II, the Alsatian, while a few never grew to any height at all and these included Snoopy I, Snoopy II and Patch, all Jack Russells. And while there was a certain lack of originality in our choice of names down the years, there was no shortage of affection and care for the dogs by their adoptive owners. Indeed, of all the canines that lived at home, only the very last one, Patch, can truly claim to have been born into the family and even he entered this world in the comfort of a neighbour's old barn. Yes, I certainly had a great love for dogs and have always been keen to find the odd few extra tidbits for them when dinner is over or when we are out shopping.

Which makes my next story seem a bit strange. Some years ago, not a long time after having qualified to drive, but long enough not to have any strange red letters in the windows, I was rushing to a friend's house and had just come over a little rise in the road that was too small to be called a hill, when a little object with legs appeared in my peripheral vision, darting from the right side of the road. I had no time to think, nor had the hairy, four legged pedestrian and before I could shout, 'Get out of the way, you mutt, I'm going to hit you,' I hit him. Several visions, mostly nightmares, fell before my eyes, of a little dog adorning the badge of my car or clinging on to the radiator grille or maybe zooming up past the windscreen and over my head on his way to a sudden stop, but none of these happened. For when I glanced in the mirror, some distance behind I could see a little creature spinning on his back like a top with his legs in the air, before coming to rest and appearing to move slowly to the verge. And that's where I made my mistake for I didn't stop to check if he was OK. I simply drove on so all these years later I still don't know whether he survived his brush with my undercarriage and I really wish I had stopped.

But I had learned my lesson. For within weeks, another, much larger sheepdog suddenly appeared in my peripheral vision, this time emerging from the left and oblivious to the Green Cross Code. It was a built up area on the outskirts of town, I was travelling at no more than twenty five miles per hour in reasonably busy, but moving traffic and I had plenty of time to shout, 'Get out of the way you mutt, I'm going to hit you. Don't you know the rules of the road?' I even had time to sound the horn, but on he ploughed and the dull thud was all too painful. I stopped within inches, got out of the car and there he was, a beautiful young dog with all his life before him but now most of it behind him. The owner was distressed, not only because of her pet lying there in the last throws of life, but also realising that he hadn't been under her control at the time and worried about any possible damage to the vehicle. I had no such worries, for seeing the anxiety etched on her brow and the victim clinging to survival was enough to remind me of the sadness that was before me. The vet knew immediately that there was no hope and made the end as painless as possible and we cradled the dog as he slept away, moving him to the footpath to allow traffic to pass. I had unintentionally killed that young animal, though I never knew him, but I reckon he would have made a great friend.

And I had learned my lesson. For just a couple of years ago, quite close to home, on a dark, windy, winter night and blinded by oncoming headlights, I didn't even see the dog in my peripheral vision as he emerged from the left verge to bark at another car. Evidently he hadn't seen me either but we both heard the huge thud. Since there was too much traffic around, I quickly made the half mile journey home, told wife the whole scenario and together we immediately returned to the scene. As we knocked on the front door, ready to offer our apology and sympathies to the bereaved household, who should come waddling, sheepishly around the corner only the supposedly recently deceased. At which point his owner shouted something at him that I won't record and informed us not to worry as this was a regular occurrence.

But I had learned my lesson. And here it is. When something needs to be dealt with, there and then, just do it, don't put it off. Not like Jonah, who tried to run away from God's call or King Agrippa who was 'almost persuaded.' Not like the Israelites, who through disobedience, lingered in the desert for forty years and only ever saw the promised land from afar. And not like so many people you've seen who always knew the path to the promised land but just never got round to walking along it. Yes, and not like those who saw the door in front of them but never actually tired the handle to see if it was open or locked. So, if God is calling you, if He is challenging you, or if He is convicting you to take the first step or even the next step, start walking and see where the path leads. And Paul reminds me in Acts 'You killed the author of life, but God raised him from the dead.' For while I wasn't personally at the cross, lest I forget, my sin killed the Son of God, but now I know Him and He is more than a great friend.

K is for KABADDI

2008-06-05T16:25:00.000+01:00

There were basically two games to play in primary school at break time. Either you joined the rush after the tennis ball that was our football substitute, where large stones replaced the goalposts and the crossbar was in our imaginations, or you chose to chase after someone until you were close enough to touch them at which point you shouted 'tig' or something like it. This was only occasionally a mixed sport, as it was considered dangerous and indeed a form of betrayal for a young gentleman to be running after a female member of the class or worse still, being pursued by a wild young lady in full view of other pupils and teachers. Why, it was enough to put you off your milk and of course the greater embarrassment was if she actually caught up with you and touched your garment. You see it was considered OK and expected to be able to run faster than a lady but to suffer the ignominy of discovering a female on your shoulder after she had given you a ten yard start was more than any right thinking senior boy could bear. And for some reason you found that the same girls always chased the same boys and vice versa, a bit like a more energetic from of 'the farmer wants a wife' where you always knew who was going to be picked by whom. Maybe, unknown to us, this was indeed some very early form of courtship ritual in the playground before boys and girls actually discovered that they might like each other, though by wife's stories, I think she had been playing tig much longer than I was.

I hadn't played tig for over twenty years and then one night in the eighties, I was flicking through the television channels when I came across what was loosely being described as a sport on Channel Four. It was being played on a big space that I think they called a court, with two teams seemingly running about like mad eejits (idiots to the uninitiated in Ulsterisms) and trying to touch members of the opposite side. This was tig to me, but tig with an Indian accent and advertised as Kabaddi. Apparently, though I'm no expert, teams consist of twelve players, but only seven are allowed on the 'court' at any one time. The team that attacks first, sends out a 'raider' whose job is to chase after the opposition and touch as many of them as possible, at which point they have to leave the court, before returning safely to his own side. But here's the catch. He has to do all this while continuously shouting 'kabaddi,kabaddi,kabaddi...' and doing it all in one long breath. And to add to his problems, the team that is being attacked is allowed to use what are called 'stoppers', some rather large gentlemen, who try to prevent the attacker from returning to his own side of the court before he runs our of his one long breath and the 'kabaddis' disappear. If he's good at his job, he scores a point for every member of the other team he touches and an extra two points if he manages to touch the whole team. The added advantage is that the attacking side 'revives' one player on their team who was touched and had to leave in a previous attack by the opposition. A bit confused? So was I, especially about how you could be sure that the 'raider' only took one breath and also how you could prove that a member of the opposition was actually touched. I guess it's all a matter of trust at the end.

And isn't that exactly what the woman with the blood disease had, when she touched the hem of Jesus' garment for she knew in her own heart that would be enough to cure her of her illness. for she said 'If I only touch his cloak, I will be healed.' Yet Jesus immediately knew He had been touched and turned to her saying 'Take heart, daughter,your faith has healed you.' What faith, what trust and what power. Some time later, after walking on the water and calming the storm, as He came to Gennesaret, much the same thing happened again, for 'when the men of that place recognized Jesus, they sent word to all the surrounding country. People brought all their sick to him and begged him to let the sick just touch the edge of his cloak, and all who touched him were healed.' (Matthew 14v35&26). I have read that story many times and today I realised something that i had missed so many times, for the key is not just the healing power of our Lord but the difference he makes when we recognize Him for who He is. When we encounter the Son of God, we know that being close to Him changes our lives completely and not just because He can heal us but because we learn to grow more like Him. I guess when He touches us we are never the same again.

O is for OUTSIDE

2008-06-04T19:56:00.001+01:00

I don't ever recall mum telling me to 'get outside and play' when I was younger. It was the most natural thing to do, summer and winter.There was no Playstation, no X box, not even a DVD player or a Video recorder, in fact there wasn't even colour television. So the most natural thing to do after school was to have a quick bit to eat, a change of clothes and out the door before somebody mentioned the word homework. After all, there was the whole evening to sort that out. Of course what I decided to play generally depended on the season but rarely on the weather and my best playmate turned out to be the gable wall of our dwelling house all year round. For most of the time it was where the football rebounded from and though wider and of course much higher than normal goals, it did the job well as I tried to keep the ball inside he imaginary lines I had drawn in my head. In summer, it became the opposition for a game of tennis and because of the pebble dash, allowed the ball to come off at some really unexpected angles. It also became the background for the wicket hat I was bowling at when cricket started to appear on the box in early summer. How I remember trying to emulate John Edrich, the left handed batsman, Geoff Boycott and John Snow on many a summer evening or holding the tennis racquet in my left hand just like Rod Laver. But in winter, once rugby had taken its hold, nothing would stop me from using the whole yard to practise. It had been concreted a few years previously and there were appropriate joins in the grey layers at roughly where the twenty two and try line would be at each end. the walls of the sheds made satisfactory teammates as I passed the ball in their direction and caught the rebound. And of course the snow helped even more, for when there was a good thick layer on the ground, it served two purposes, first providing a soft landing on top of the concrete and secondly, through its reflective, white surface, extending the daylight on a winter evening.

But of course there were so many other things to do around the farm that didn't have to involve a ball, like climbing among the bales in the hay shed, jumping into piles of loose hay, riding the bike around the yard at breakneck speed, going off for walks in the orchard or down to the nearby river and playing on the swing that had been hastily constructed out of several strands of interwoven binder twine and tied to one of the lower branches on an apple tree, with an end of an apple box for a seat. Yes there were some wonderful times outside and the beauty of it all was that we made our own fun and our imaginations ran riot as we pretended to be the heroes of our television screens.So when I hear a younger person talk about boredom in the summer and I think of all the things people now have to make amusement for them, I get really confused. But perhaps therein lies the secret, for when we don't use our imaginations and don't have to think of how to have fun, we forget how to do it. As you read this, no doubt, you will have hundreds of other things that occupied your younger years but mostly because you made he effort in the first place.
Strangely though, there are times when you are outside that you'd rather be inside. When we were at secondary school, there was an entry door that all the boys used to get inside the building. For some odd reason, every break time and lunch time as it got closer to the dreaded bell to start class, everyone would start to congregate at the door until thee was a mad pushing and shoving session right up tight to the entry, that the prefects on duty could do little about. Sometimes it took the intervention of the Vice Principal with a sharp rap of his fist against his office window to quell the tide and release the pressure. What I couldn't understand was why everybody was just so keen to get inside to class. I would have quite happily stayed out all day, but still I joined the crush anyway. The other times I definitely wanted to be inside but had to stay outside were the occasions when we locked ourselves out of our own house. So while I always preferred being outside, there were times when I would have done anything to be inside.
Jesus reminds us of the importance of not being outside the Kingdom of Heaven for there will come a day when no more will enter. He says. in Luke ch 13 'Make every effort to enter through the narrow door, because many, I tell you, will try to enter and will not be able to. Once the owner of the house gets up and closes the door, you will stand outside knocking and pleading, 'Sir, open the door for us.' But he will answer, 'I don't know you or where you come from.' And that will be the time when you stand outside and really want inside. Jesus died outside the city wall so that He could make a way for you to enter inside into God's presence. As Paul writes, 'And so Jesus also suffered outside the city gate to make the people holy through his own blood.' I finish with the words in Revelation 'Blessed are those who wash their robes, that they may have the right to the tree of life and may go through the gates into the city.' Don't be left outside in His reign.

O is for OIL

2008-06-03T21:08:00.000+01:00

Some of the winter mornings in school were really cold. There was snow on the ground, the wind whistled under the front door and the singled glazed, large windows made absolutely no effort to keep in what little heat had been established. The only source of warmth in the whole classroom was supplied by a pot bellied stove that sat against the left wall, surrounded by a fire guard taller than any of the junior pupils and was constantly fed with coke from a long bucket that had handles down the side. At times the red glow on the walls of the beast indicated that the level of heat was more than it could bear but some of us would have been happy to unburden it as we sat shivering in the outlying districts of the room. Of course it depended where you were sitting in the classroom as to how much effect the stove had on your ability to perform simple tasks and to think coherently. Those closest, in the tropics, had small drops of sweat settling on their foreheads, others in the temperate middle of the room were pleasantly comfortable while a few in outer Siberia could only take the testimony of far off friends tat the red glow was actually heat. But in truth, the warmest thing in the whole room, apart from the stove itself and possibly the headmaster, was the crate of previously half frozen milk that had been nestled up against the fire guard since early morning and which hardly chilled the back of the throat at break time.

Oil? Never heard of it in those days, except for the little tin of 3 in 1 with the long spout that dad used for a variety of purposes on the farm, but mostly for the lawnmower. Yes, there was also an old gallon tin lying on a shelf in the garage but it seemed to have been there for years so its use was generally not important to the smooth running of things. As for heating the house, that job was left entirely in the hands of the old Wellstood cooker in the kitchen that ate coal for fun and poured out any heat that mum hadn't used for cooking. When the fire door was open the heat was truly breathtaking and many winter evenings we would all congregate in the kitchen and enjoy its warmth. The trouble was that it didn't heat the rest of the house so every other room was completely dependent on the external temperature and on a cold night it was easy to see your breath. So I lived through most of my teens knowing that the only radiators at home were in the front of dad's Morris Oxford and his Ferguson tractor. But eventually, as the old cooker began to die a slow death, they took the plunge, installed a new model and with it, in came the radiators and the oil pipeline, direct from the oil rig. Suddenly everywhere was warm and there was no longer any need to race from bathroom to bedroom in order to have created enough heat to survive the night. So I know exactly what it is to not be dependent on oil and also the change that it can bring to a life.

But the coveted liquid is now more scarce than ever and certainly more expensive and now that we have the hitherto unheard of situation where oil is being stolen from tanks at homes, has it become more important than money itself? Isn't it strange that in a world where excess and lavishness seem to dominate our media reports, so many can no longer afford to keep themselves warm. And as the situation snowballs, all types of oil driven transport have become so much more expensive, affecting the price of our holidays, our electricity,our groceries, our journeys to work and for some, their businesses. So why is it so important? Simply because oil doesn't just have on job. Yes we use forms of it to heat our homes, to power our cars, lorries and aeroplanes and to lubricate machines but it's equally important in its role as a raw material for plastics production, in fertilisers and additives and there just isn't enough to go around. But the most wonderful thing about oil is that, according to scientists, it has been formed from the dead bodies of microscopic animals and plants over a very long period. Isn't that amazing that our Creator had another use for all those little things long after they had died. It makes me think that God really does have a plan for each of us, not just to go to heaven and worship Him when we die physically, but more importantly when we put our faith in Him as Saviour and die to ourselves, He creates something completely new that is far better than the lives we were living before. Paul reiterates this sentiment in Philippians when he says 'For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.' And also in his letter to the Corinthian church he writes, 'Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come.'

To be honest, school as a kid wasn't that cold at all, though home was pretty chilly. But a few million dead animals and plants made a difference. In God's hands we can make a bigger impact..

O is for OBSTRUCTION

2008-06-02T20:07:00.000+01:00

If you think about it, there is only a handful of sitcoms on television that you could really call great. You know the sort you can watch again and again and never get tired of the jokes you have heard so many times. I guess if I was asked to nominate my top ten, it would go something like this, in no particular order. Fawlty Towers, One Foot on the Grave, The Office, I'm Alan Partridge, The Good Life, Arrested Development, Black Books, Married with Children, Black Adder and Keeping Up Appearances. And I haven't even mentioned such television monuments as Only Fools and Horses, Porridge, Friends, Dad's Army, Cheers, Steptoe and Son, Till death us do Part, The likely Lads, Reggie Perrin and Phoenix Nights. Wow, that's another ten. Maybe I was a bit hasty in my initial verdict. And I reckon if you were to sit down and compose your top ten, many of the ones I have mentioned might feature but I'm pretty sure there'd be a few others that I've forgotten altogether.

And then there are those classic moments that you never forget in a certain programme. Moments like Basil Fawlty's Jackboot walk, his bashing of the car with a tree and asking a lady guest if she expected to see the Hanging Gardens of Babylon through her hotel window in Torquay. Things like the Little Book of Calm in Black Books, the henpecked husbands of Hyacinth, Marge and Sybil, the dysfunctional Bluth, Bundy, Garnett and Simpson families and the hopeless cases that were David Brent, Alan Partridge, Del Boy and Victor Meldrew.

But the King of all sitcoms for me will always be Father Ted. The first time I viewed it, I couldn't believe the golden nugget I had discovered quite by accident one night on Channel Four. And its brilliance was brought home to me the other night with stark reality in the episode Speed 3.

The story is about an over amorous milkman called Pat Mustard who loses his job due to Father Ted's interference and then subsequently plants a bomb under the milk float that Father Dougal is driving. In a parody of Speed the movie, Dougal is forced to keep the milk float above the devastating speed of four miles per hour or the bomb will be activated and explode. Meanwhile Father Ted and his cronies, in attempting to solve the problem, draw alongside on a trailer towed by a dump truck and say Mass for the unfortunate Dougal and after watching the Poseidon adventure all the way through for clues, because a famous actor played the part of a priest in the movie, can only come up with the plan to say another Mass. Meanwhile, Dougal, continuing to hold a steady speed of just above four miles per hour, meets a crisis in the form of an obstruction up ahead on the road. This consists of ten large, identical cardboard boxes piled in pyramid shape. Two things make this scene outrageously funny. First, it never occurs to either Dougal or Ted to steer the milk float to the other side of the road and just drive past the obstruction. And secondly, when Ted races ahead to dismantle the boxes, he insists on rebuilding them, one by one, back into the pyramid shape on the other side of the road, just rescuing the last one before the milk float arrives. Then in true Starsky and Hutch style, he roars through the assembled boxes, scattering them everywhere. And that's the beauty of the show, making the simplest of tasks into something almost impossible.

Of course what makes it all the more funny is that many of us take the hard way to overcome obstructions when the answer is staring at us in the face. Not like David, who saw the only way to meet the obstruction called Goliath was to meet him head on. Not like Moses who soon realised that only the Plagues God would send could change Pharaoh's heart. But maybe like the Israelites who could have been in the land 'flowing with milk and honey' in a very short time but took forty years because they couldn't deal with the obstructions they kept creating. And as I watch our province forge ahead towards a lasting peace after over thirty years of violence, I think of how so many lost their lives because of the obstructions of pride, hatred and vengeance that filled so many heads for so long. And I think of God who realised that the biggest obstruction to man being reconciled to Him was our sin and provided His Son to remove that barrier once and for all, through His death on the cross. And yet too many of us want to try and remove that obstruction ourselves, through living upright lives, paying money to the church, singing in the choir, serving on a church body or in some other self thought way. And then someday we realise that all we have done is move the obstruction a bit further down the road but haven't got rid of it at all. Only Jesus removes it completely and He then will lead us on towards His Father. After all, He said, 'I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.' Whatever is obstructing your path to the Father today, ask Jesus to take it away and enjoy the freedom of a clear path ahead.

O is for OBEY

2008-06-01T18:03:00.000+01:00

Wife is paranoid about hand washing before coming into contact with food. So before I make her a beautiful tea each evening, her first comment will always be, 'have you washed your hands?' I must confess that there have been occasions when it has slipped my mind, though I probably work on the principle that as the food is going to be cooked completely through, any bugs that might have been along for the ride would be killed by the heat anyway. Still, by the frown on her face it is probably best to obey, though of late i think it has just become a habit to her and she says it automatically. I think I could probably answer by saying 'three blind mice' and she would reply 'that's good, now carry on and make my tea.'

Obedience is one of those things that means different things to different people. And i suppose it's all really about one person or group setting down a law, you can call it dictating if you want, and another deciding whether to obey it or not. We have rules for our cat involving where he can sit in the house, which really amounts to only one place, his basket, but occasionally he jumps up on to a lap and settles down for a snooze. and sometimes, if we aren't looking, he will make himself comfortable on the sofa. Is he being disobedient? I guess he's not sure, when sometimes he is accommodated on a knee and other times shunned. Anyway, I think he's a chancer at times and tries to see how far this whole obedience lark can be pushed. But are we any different? For instance, what really makes you slow down when you enter a built up area? The 30mph sign? I don't think so. More likely, the overhead camera or the hidden police officer waiting to jump out from behind a pillar and stop you. And when you're in a hurry, where does your sense of obedience to the speed limit go as you weave in and out past slower moving vehicles, sometimes crossing solid white lines along the way? OK so you're a slow driver and never cross the speed limits. And you never, ever throw litter out of the car window, you haven't stolen anything, apart form the occasional biscuit from the cookie barrel and you are aren't a murderer, though you enjoy the odd spot of shooting or hunting. You do everything your parents tell you, even though you're well over thirty now, except on those occasions, which seem to happen quite often, that you know your judgement in a situation is much better than theirs. And you never tell lies, though sometimes a half truth is the best way to avoid a confrontation. Oh yes and you keep the Sabbath day holy, at least until one o'clock and occasionally for an hour in the evening too. You're a faithful husband or wife, aren't jealous of what your next door neighbour has and you don't use swear words. Lastly, you worship the living and true God, the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob, the God of your forefathers and He has top billing in your life, though a flashy car, a nice house in a nice setting and all the modern mod cons are important to have too. Good. I'm glad that others might be just like I am at times.

That's why I'm glad I went to church today. Paul, our minister, was reading from the other Paul's letter to the Galatians and used the heading 'Are you a Christian or merely religious?' And that's when they both reminded me why God accepts me, imperfect and liable to failure on any day of the week. It's not because I obey the laws or the ten commandments for in Galatians I read, 'Cursed is everyone who does not observe and obey all the commands that are written in God’s Book of the Law.' And today I understood the most important word in that sentence is ALL. If we could be reconciled to God through our own efforts of obeying the law, none of us would ever be pure enough to be in His presence, for we all break the law, even in the smallest things we do, think and say. To return to Paul's writings to the Galatian church (and Paul's sermon today), 'It is clear that no one can be made right with God by trying to keep the law. For the Scriptures say, “It is through faith that a righteous person has life.' And that faith is found through the grace of God whose Son died for all our sins, past, present and future and who blesses those who believe with the same blessings that He promised to Abraham. After that, obedience to His calling tends to be what we want to do to please Him, not just for ourselves. Habakkuk wrote, 'The righteous will live by faith' while Jesus Himself said 'Blessed rather are those who hear the word of God and obey it.' He also said, 'Whoever has my commands and obeys them, he is the one who loves me. He who loves me will be loved by my Father, and I too will love him and show myself to him.' When we obey the Law Giver then we show our love in a way that trying to keep His laws can never illustrate. Obedience is indeed a discipline but it starts at the foot of the cross, not at the foot of Mount Sinai.

O is for OLYMPICS

2008-05-31T17:53:00.000+01:00

I once bought a television for wife. Now this is not meant to sound unusual as over the thirty or so years that we have known each other, I have on occasions bought the odd gift and it has often been a surprise. The television was certainly a surprise. It was way back in 1984 and we had been married for just over a year when our dentist in consultation with the doctors, decided it was time that wife had her wisdom teeth removed. For a woman this can be a risky operation as losing wisdom in any form is not advisable but having to go through pain to achieve this loss makes it seemingly unwise in the first place. Still, somewhere in the back of the male mind is the possibility that such an operation on the mouth area might render the patient speechless for a few days during the recovery period, or at least a reduction in the number of words uttered per minute. Weighing up the situation, I encouraged her to take the dentist's advice and go for it. It was back in the days when Musgrave hospital in Belfast resembled an army training camp with a whole village of Nissan huts enclosing the main wards, corridors and some operating theatres. It was a complete maze inside, in need of a severe make over but the work that was done by the doctors and nurses was superb in every way. It was also back in the days when getting wisdom teeth removed required several days in hospital, an operation under general anaesthetic and a recovery period before release, not like today, when the pressure of lack of beds almost means you could be wheeled out to the car after your operation. When I hear of people having their wisdom teeth removed these days, I squirm and frown and offer sympathy but most folks have them removed by their own dentist unless there is a more difficult extraction.

Anyway, back to the television. Our house was cold and I mean, cold. Indeed the only really warm place in the house was under cover of the bedsheets, so it occurred to me that as wife would be spending some time on the mattress in days following her operation, how nice it would be if she could lie there and watch television. The fact that it was almost the end of July and the bedroom was like an oven didn't deter me from my intention to have a television in the bedroom before she returned to base. The presence of an aerial socket was certainly an incentive but maybe not as big a one as the Olympic Games that were just about to start. So I again weighed up the situation thinking carefully about those lonely nights I would have to spend in the house on my own when my wife of just one year was far away in Belfast. I then began to think even more carefully about those Olympics, beginning in Los Angeles and because of the time difference, being broadcast live to GB from just before midnight and into the early morning. And I thought of the perfect companion a television might be for a lonely husband, who could watch live sport into the wee small hours and time apart from my beloved would pass more quickly. So I bought a television. And do you know, I really got hooked on swimming that year, watching every heat and final until about three o'clock in the morning, as well as glimpses of other sports that were being shown during the first week. For those of you who can't remember or just don't care (wife belongs to the latter category), the 1984 Olympics were the games of Victor Davis, Carl Lewis, Mary Decker and Zola Budd, a young Steve Redgrave on his way to first Olympic glory and an older Daley Thompson having his second triumph. And we saw for the first time, a women's marathon and the contorted smiles of the synchronised swimmers.

But back to the television. Wife was tremendously impressed with my show of undying love toward her and for days enjoyed the comfort of a warm bed and a glowing screen but I think it eventually began to dawn on her, and of course it took more time after having those wisdom teeth removed, when I continued to watch the box into the early morning, that maybe I also had an ulterior motive for my purchase. I have no comment to make.

So what are our motives when we do things. IS it because we really care about others or is it sometimes for self glory or self promotion or the praise of others. I'm not always sure. Jesus tells us in Matthew ch 6, 'And when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by men. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full.' When we give to others do we do it in secret or for all to see, when we help the poor or needy, will everyone know about it and when we help others to salvation, do we actually feel elevated about ourselves, .when it is only by God's grace that we are saved. If you will truly follow your Master, hide the words of David in your heart as he spoke to Solomon, 'Serve him with wholehearted devotion and with a willing mind, for the LORD searches every heart and understands every motive behind the thoughts.' There's more than a gold medal waiting.

O is for OPPORTUNITY

2008-05-31T07:10:00.000+01:00

All the talk in school this week has been about the television show, 'Britain's got Talent', a contest that isn't just based on how well you can sing or dance but covers the whole spectrum of variety entertainment with such diverse acts as magicians, acrobats and performing animals competing with the usual posse of singers, dancers and musicians for that coveted final spot. It's the brainchild of Simon Cowell but those of us with long memories and many birthdays recall a very similar programme that disappeared from our screens in the late seventies after a run of over fifteen years. I remember Opportunity Knocks for several reasons. First, its presenter, Hughie Green, already famous as host of 'Double Your Money', used to wink his way through the programme with an over use of the word 'friends' and then there was the 'clapometer', a strange sort of dial that used to appear unsteadily on screen and a rickety needle that used to ascend and descend the scale depending on how loudly the audience applauded each act. This was supposed to be an indicator how popular the act was and maybe also how good it was, but all you needed to do was to pack the audience with your friends on the night you were performing and you were pretty certain to make the needle rise higher than anyone else.

There were many great acts that started out their careers on the programme, such as Les Dawson, Little and Large, Peters and Lee, Frank Carson, Stan Boardman, Freddie Starr and Pam Ayres but the ones that stick out in my mind were those that found instant fame through the programme but discovered that it didn't really last more than fifteen minutes. Don't you remember Bernie Flint, the folk singer, who just seemed to win week after week, the pianist Bobby Crush, the child stars Neil Reid and Lena Zavaroni and of course Tony Holland the guy who appeared in his swimming trunks and flexed his muscles for weeks on end in rhythm with 'Wheels Cha Cha.' And I mean that most sincerely folks!

But it had plenty of competition from another programme, New Faces, run on the same lines that gave people such as Roy Walker, Michael Barrymore, Lenny Henry, Les Dennis, Victoria Wood, Showadywaddy, the Chuckle brothers (not Ian and Martin who weren't exactly chuckling at each other about that time) and Malandra Burrows who went on to star in Emmerdale but won New Faces before she was ten years old. The only difference between the two talent shows was in how the winner was picked, with New Faces preferring to have a panel some of whom were much more direct and uncharitable than Cowell ever has been and who also scored each act. On the other hand Opportunity Knocks host, Hughie Green always reminded the audience that the 'clapometer is only for fun' and encouraged folks at home to send in their votes on a postcard with the winner being announced at the beginning of the following week's programme.

How times have changed with phone lines and texts meaning that within the hour, we now know the result in most of the similar modern talent shows. But one thing hasn't changed and that is the desire of so many people to take advantage of the opportunity to find fame, even if it lasts a lot less than fifteen minutes. And while there are those who seek every opportunity to find favour and fame in man's eyes, our goal as believers should be to use our times as best we can in the service of our Saviour. Paul writes to the Christians in Ephesus, 'Be very careful, then, how you live—not as unwise but as wise, making the most of every opportunity, because the days are evil. Therefore do not be foolish, but understand what the Lord's will is.' And when the opportunity knocks to be a witness for Him, don't be distracted by the applause of man but know that the One whose opinion really counts as ready to bless His servant.

O is for ORANGE

2008-05-29T19:02:00.000+01:00

We live in a strange country, where colour dominates much more than we think. For example, it's alright to wear the blue of Leinster but unlikely that the same folks would sport the blue of Linfield or Rangers and of course the reverse is also true. And many of us are happy to wave red scarves or wear red tops showing our allegiance to Manchester United or Liverpool but at home the same red of Cliftonville wouldn't be welcomed at Portadown and of course vice versa again. And the red flags that waved all over Cardiff to celebrate Munster's victory recently were not the red of Wales and wouldn't be seen in the hands of an Irishman on Six Nations day.

And while many who wear blue or red to follow their Irish League team here, proudly put on the green of Northern Ireland, there are others who wear red, that would never be seen wearing that green jersey but would happily wear a different green top with another emblem. And those same people prefer to follow the green and white hoops or the red of Munster but not the white of Ulster and possibly the blue of Leinster. Confused? I haven't started yet.

Beyond sport, we have men (and women) who wear orange and probably prefer red, white and blue together but only really like the white of Ulster on its own and also are likely to be keen on purple too. And when they have worn orange for a while, they may also get a liking for darker colours like black, in which case they are then called blackmen instead of orangemen, though to be honest, most of them are white men. Indeed the only blackmen on parade whose colour matches their name are usually visitors from another land and they are always made most welcome. And most blackmen parade on what is commonly called the last Saturday though you can take it from me that it never is the last one because I have lived through many of these and there is always another Saturday that follows the last one. Anyway, it would be fairly uncommon, indeed downright rare to see any green and white hooped tops on such occasions, though some might be spotted at a safe distance, but on another day, possibly only a day later those same tops might be exchanged for an orange top, though most of the men and women who wear orange on parade would be unlikely to be wearing those orange tops on any other day. And nor would the blackmen. And just to make it totally confusing, the green and white hooped wearers or the orange topped fans would not be likely to ear red, white and blue together but might wear any of the three on its own while the orangemen, not to be confused with the orange jerseys, would never think of waving a green, white and orange flag but find all three individual colours acceptable. So we can't even agree over orange or indeed green. Maybe that's the main reason that the national flag of Ireland has a rectangle of white separating those two colours, like a sign of peace.

However trivial it may seem to an outsider, colour in our country could have been a lifeline or a death sentence in the past and just because you were wearing orange didn't guarantee your safety for it was more about how you wore the colour and whether it was in a sash around your neck or a sports jersey. And the sight of a green and white hooped top to one wearing blue, never took account of the person, but only the colour he signified. Probably nowhere in the whole world does colour tells us so much about a person than here. I'm sure Johnny Cash had no idea how profound he was when he penned his song, 'Forty Shades of Green' about this island for I think sometimes we see the shade that we want to see and not the person.

Thankfully God keeps no record of the colours we wear nor of the shade of our skin. Indeed the word 'orange' never appears in the whole Bible and 'green' is only used exclusively in conjunction with plants. But He does have a particular interest in the colour of our hearts and that's why the prophet Isaiah records, 'Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.'

As I watched those Munster fans, including my minister, show their support with red flags, jerseys and scarves, I thought once more about nailing our spiritual colours to the mast instead of the colours of our community.

O is for ORCHARD

2008-05-28T19:36:00.000+01:00

Home was once surrounded by orchards, full of old apple trees that had been there long before me and maybe even my dad. They carried a certain degree of mystery, almost like walking into a secret world, when you ventured through the gate. At times, in the early summer it was a world full of darkness as the canopy of leaves and branches from neighbouring trees intermingled and blocked out the sunlight and the grass and nettles wrong the trees and in the passageways between them, grew to a height that made it almost impossible to walk through the orchard, except along the tracks left by the sprayer. Then, as the harvest time grew closer, a tractor and mower would arrive and an hour or two later, the whole place was a joy to behold, still dark but with grass no longer than the average lawn. Yet it still held a certain mystery and apprehension to a young child, not knowing what was hiding on the other side of a thick tree trunk,for the area was well known as the haunt of badgers, foxes and the odd imaginary over sized hound! Little did I know at the time, that such creatures felt more fear than I did.

Most orchards are planted on a slope to help rain run off, but until you view some of the slopes from the height of a tractor seat, it's difficult to realise how steep some orchards actually can be. Many times I mowed the orchards around our house, ever watchful for the branches that suddenly appeared in front, just about neck level and the sudden drops or steep banks that often remained concealed beneath long grass.

There were great advantages in having an orchard close by, especially in the late summer and approaching autumn when the Bramleys were just perfect for cooking apple tarts and some of our uncles and aunts often seemed to be able to find an excuse to visit around this time, knowing that before they left for home, dad would have filled a small cardboard box or a couple of plastic bags with theses huge cooking apples, enough to last the whole of the winter. It was also a great place for hide and seek with the cousins when there was a distinct home advantage in such games. Also there is no greater feeling than crunching through the autumn leaves that form a brown and orange carpet or ambling across a snow or ice covered terrain sheltered by an umbrella of glistening, icy branches, frozen in time.

But it wasn't all good. Every time the sprayer arrived, mum had to bring in her clothes from the washing line as the fine mist often strayed from the adjacent orchard and settled on anything in its flight path. Thus windows often had a thin film of liquid on the outside which made them less than transparent. Also, because the orchard entrance required the machinery to pass through our yard, the concrete surface was invariably covered by two continuous tracks of muck and grass that once had its home beneath the trees. And of course since it almost always rained continuously during harvest season, more dirt than at other times seemed to end up on our yard.

Like any other enterprise, the orchard required continual attention, with winter pruning, weed killing, hedge cutting, spraying, grass cutting and replacing old trees all necessary chores. But you always knew when it was getting close to apple picking time for the farmer would arrive with a trailer full of ladders and buckets with special hooks and then a whole load of apple boxes, placed at strategic points throughout the orchard. Then the 'pullers' would arrive with their biscuit boxes full of sustenance and would plague mum at various times during the day to fill a flask with boiling water. Many of them had taken holidays from their main job, while others had 'signed off' for a few weeks to spend every daylight hour in the orchard, but a few took the risk of working while still drawing their dole money. I remember one day, when there was a raid by the dole office to catch those who were two timing and one of the raiders ordered my dad down off the ladder where he was pulling. Imagine his embarrassment and shock when he discovered that dad owned the orchard. I wasn't there just at that moment, but knowing dad, I'm sure the guy left with his tail firmly between his legs and his ears warmed.

But then came the day when the trees grew old, they began to produce less fruit, some died, the farmer made less money and because they were no longer of any use, he pulled them out. It reminds me of the parable Jesus told about the vine that had brought forth no fruit for three years and which the owner wanted to cut down. But his worker said, 'Sir,leave it alone for one more year, and I'll dig around it and fertilize it. If it bears fruit next year, fine! If not, then cut it down.' You know we all grow older and in our comfort zones there is a tendency to take it easy, to think that we've done it all and deserve a rest, but the truth is, that is when we start to produce less fruit for God. He may not cut us down, more likely he will give us another opportunity to be fruitful in His orchard.

And remember this, the big, old trees in the orchard may produce less fruit than they once did, but they usually still produce more than the young trees.

O is for OFFENSIVE

2008-05-27T18:24:00.000+01:00

It's probably one of the best known stories that Jesus told during His time here on earth. At the time it was a comment on our social responsibility, our concern and compassion for others, the importance of living out our faith and not just paying lip service and about what or whom actually constitutes our neighbour. But mostly, it was about recognising that neither religion, race, nationality, gender or age should become a barrier to our commitment to help others. And while Jesus related the parable of The Good Samaritan to the Jews, underlining their requirement to show compassion to their greatest enemies of the time, the story could easily be transferred to modern day to confront Protestants and Catholics, Muslims and 'Christians', heterosexuals and gays, blacks and whites, feminists and male chauvinists, atheists and believers, rich and poor, young and old, Tutsis and Hutus, even rival football fans. Indeed any two groups that find each other offensive in some way.

I was reminded of the story today when a group form a church in USA visited our school and told the parable through a hastily organised drama sketch. It reminded me of a few years back when we used some of the pupils from school to make a video of the same story, calling it, rather appropriately, 'Neighbours', though any comparison with the acting on Ramsey Street was purely coincidental - ours was much better! Anyway, we used a bike instead of a donkey and the robbers were much more nineties than biblical in their dress though essentially when you've seen one robber, you don't want to see another! We got a handful of pupils from two schools with different religious backgrounds and asked them some 'staged' questions to which they had learned off answers to fit the overall script. But it did allow us to really explore who our neighbour actually is, what our responsibility should be and how we should react towards others. We even thought about those in the story who would have been expected to help and didn't, for whatever reason and so the job of rescuing the man was left an individual from his nation's greatest enemy. And in the midst of it all we asked why the man was carrying valuables in such a dangerous area, why he hadn't chosen a different route and what might have been the motivating factors behind the robbers' desire to steal and also to inflict wounds on their prey.

But this morning, with our visitors, the story was brought to me in a way that I had never really experienced before. Let me tell you, the guys from the States told the story wonderfully but it wasn't what they did or said that focussed my mind. As they asked for volunteers from the pupils to help with the drama, wife called up six individuals to help. Knowing the importance of acting out the story as it was read, another teacher and myself began to wonder why she had had chosen to of our foreign nationals to act. I thought to myself, 'how will they understand what is said?' And so the kids were dressed up for the occasion and the story was started and performed . But here's the strangest thing. Out of the six children who acted, the man left for dead by the robbers should portrayed by a Lithuanian boy in my class and the Samaritan who came to his aid was played by a Latvian girl. And as the narrator read his text, I was fixed on the words he spoke, when he said, 'imagine the only person who could help was somebody of another nationality.' Unknown to him, that was exactly what was happening in real life as two children from neighbouring countries played out the parable of The Good Samaritan right in front of our eyes. Historically the two nations haven't always been friends and though they are close neighbours and have long been good allies, the moment was not lost on me, though the narrator wasn't even aware that it had happened.

Hasn't God a wonderfully strange way of bringing home His point, even to those who think they know the story well. Wife had no idea why she had picked both children and certainly had no control over the fact that one would be portrayed helping the other. But it taught me this morning, once again, that God loves everyone, that nobody is beyond His salvation and indeed He wishes that everyone might be saved. That's why He is waiting so long before returning because, as Peter writes, 'The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. He is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.' Although some of the things we do might be offensive to Him, no human being is offensive to God. He is our example. Let us live our lives in His shadow.

O is for OVER

2008-05-26T20:56:00.000+01:00

You should have seen their faces. In fact maybe you did. The clock showed just ten minutes left and their team were losing by three goals to one, the winner promoted to a higher league and the loser destined to another season in the lowest division. A mixture of despair, hopelessness and resignation written in their eyes, most probably divided in thoughts between waiting to cheer their team at the final whistle and leaving early to avoid the lap of honour by the victors. Then from nowhere, the ball fell to one of their players and seconds later was bulging in the net. Frowns changed to smiles, silence became cheers of encouragement and somewhere in their thoughts, a revival was not out of the question. Across the ground on the opposing terrace, songs of victory and undeniable support became muted, tension that had seemed to vanish with the third goal, returned and that element of doubt in their team's ability reflected in their less than convincing cheering. They needn't have worried, for the players on the pitch had more faith in their own ability than the supporters on the terrace and when it was over, they still had that goal to spare. Such was the excitement and the passion of all concerned, you would have thought this was a Champions League Final, but it was only the second division play off decider between Stockport and Rochdale, to decide who would get out of the old fourth division into the hardly millionaire row of division three, or in its modern, less demeaning reincarnation as division one.

Less than a week ago, like millions around the world, I had remained fixed on the television screen until late, though not as late as those at the game in Moscow, watching the thickness of a post deprive one team of victory in the penalty shoot out and a goalkeeper's glove secure victory for their opponents. A good friend, who supports the winners with a passion which still allows him to be objective in his opinions about his own and opposing teams, was already on his way out of the door, assuming that the game was over, when the cheer made him return to victory. In truth, all of us who follow sport, should know better than to believe any game is ended before the final whistle. Only weeks ago, I gazed in disbelief as Arsenal score a late equaliser at Liverpool to take them through to the semi final but in the few seconds that I left the room in despair, a penalty at the other end had totally changed the game again. It took me back almost twenty years to the night at the same ground when the same two teams battled for the league title but on that occasion, the Londoners scored in the last minute to claim the trophy. Or the night AC Milan had the Champions League won at half time but still contrived to lose it to the mighty Reds. Like I say, in sport, a game, a contest or a race is never over till it's over. Just remember Jonny Wilkinson, Red Rum, Wasps, Munster, Henman and yes, Manchester United, in Europe.

But when it is over, then it really is over and the sporting world is full of players, athletes, competitors and fans, for whom the words, 'if only' bring back memories of what might have been. Reporters, journalists, panel experts and commentators make a living out of analysing what might have been, where it all went wrong and how it could have been so different but all the discussion and arguments the recriminations and blame, the excuses and protesting will never change a thing for when the game is over, the result stands.

I'm always moved by that song, 'when it's all been said and done' ans while the lyrics reflect those of a believer who ponders whether they have given enough to Jesus, it is equally appropriate to those who as yet find themselves outside of God's kingdom. On that day when our life on earth is over and we stand before the risen King, all the excuses, blame shifting and pleading will not alter the result one little bit for the great Judge will already have decided our destiny. Jesus says, 'There is a judge for the one who rejects me and does not accept my words; that very word which I spoke will condemn him at the last day.' And John the disciple in his vision of the end days in the Book of revelation, records, 'And I saw the dead, great and small, standing before the throne, and books were opened. Another book was opened, which is the book of life. The dead were judged according to what they had done as recorded in the books.'

When it is over, it will truly be over. You know, nobody knows exactly the moment when a referee blows that final whistle and while he waits, there is always time to change the result. Don't wait till it's over.

O is for OUTSTANDING

2008-05-25T17:52:00.000+01:00

The Guinness Book of Records calls him the world's greatest living explorer and not without some justification for Sir Ranulph Fiennes has been an outstanding individual during his life to date. Even his full name of Sir Ranulph Twisleton-Wykeham-Fiennes is outstanding but that pales into insignificance compared to his feats of endurance and exploration which have made hi a household name throughout the world. He was the first man to reach both north and south poles over the surface and to cross the Antarctic on foot and from the early sixties he has been an intrepid traveller, leading expeditions along the Nile by hovercraft and on Norway's Jostedalsbreen Glacier and he was part of the Transglobe expedition for three years, journeying over fifty thousand miles around the surface of the earth. Then in the early nineties he discovered the lost city of Ubar in Oman. But I think his greatest feat to date was in 2003 when, along with Mike Stroud, he took part in the Land Rover 7x7x7 challenge and together they completed seven marathons in seven days on seven different continents covering such diverse destinations as Patagonia, Falkland Islands, Sydney, Singapore, London, Cairo and New York. However what made this achievement doubly special was the fact that Fiennes had suffered a heart attack four months previously and had undergone a double by pass operation. More recently he has taken to exploring upwards as he Decided to climb the Eiger in order to raise money for Marie Curie Children's cancer and this despite his terrible fear of heights.

However it hasn't all been good news. In 2000 he made an attempt to walk to the North Pole without assistance but had to abandon his efforts when he suffered severe frostbite on his left hand while rescuing his sleds that had fallen through weak ice. On his return home he became impatient and in pain waiting for amputation surgery to his finger tips and so removed the offending digits himself with a saw! This had followed an earlier and successful attempt across Antarctica during which he and his comrade suffered frostbite and had to be rescued after completing their journey. As recently as 2005 he failed in his attempt to conquer Everest and only this morning had to abandon a further effort to climb the world's highest mountain as he hoped to be the oldest British person to do so and also raise a lot more money for charity. But even to get so close to the summit is an outstanding achievement in itself for a man on the verge of retirement age and suffering from vertigo, prostrate cancer and heart problems. So I salute his bravery, however foolish it may seem to some, his sense of adventure, his determination, but also his interest in others by his willingness to continue to raise money for worthy charities.

Fiennes is not alone in this world for being remembered for outstanding achievements. The names of Columbus and Magellan, Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins, Hillary and Tensing Norgay, Livingstone, Hudson, Lindbergh, the Wright brothers will forever be etched in our history because they possessed those same qualities in abundance. But away from such tales of adventure and exploration we also recall people like Dr Christian Barnard, Alexander Fleming, Edward Jenner, Louis Pasteur, Lord Lister and Marie Curie, whose outstanding pioneering work gave us all the opportunity of a greater quality of life. And I could go on, listing outstanding people in sport, music, business and every other sphere of life. But a word of caution. How many of these outstanding human achievements will God remember when we stand before Him.

The prophet Micah asks the question, 'With what shall I come before the LORD and bow down before the exalted God?' Jesus answers that question by saying 'I tell you, whoever acknowledges me before men, the Son of Man will also acknowledge him before the angels of God.' I love that old hymn which says, 'Nothing in my hand I bring, simply to Thy cross I cling.' And that's what He will remember, our faith in Him as our Saviour. Maybe that's something that is still outstanding in your life!

O is for OLDER

2008-05-24T19:58:00.000+01:00

My sister is over two years older than I am, though she doesn't like to be reminded of such figures. In fact, on our respective birthday cards she is the more likely to stress the fact that I am getting older. Maybe it's just a woman thing but I think I'm the only member of our staff with my natural hair colour and I suppose I don't go to any great lengths to hide my age, and, anyway, looks can be incredibly deceiving. For some people age effortlessly while for others the getting older process is written all over the wrinkles on their faces. I suppose you can hide advancing years on the outside but internally, Old Father Time just marches on.

Often I like to remind wife that when we started to date, she was three quarters of my age, but when we married she was four fifths and now, in the year of our silver wedding anniversary, she is nine tenths of the age I have reached. I keep telling her she is getting closer so she must be growing older more quickly than I am, so I reckon if I live to be one hundred, she'll have already passed me. However, I might also add that to suggest such things to a lady is probably not a brilliant idea as it can cause strange reactions and might even lead to bruising or at the very least picture and no sound! Not that I'm speaking from experience, you understand, it's just a hunch.

But it is weird how one's vision of age changes as we get older and maybe also how others perceive us in a way that we don't see ourselves. Somehow, middle age just seems to land on your doorstep, without any warning. One day you're a twenty or thirty something and the next, you're no longer able to go to the young adults after-church coffee bar because all the younger set who were kids and teenagers yesterday, grew up overnight and give you the funniest looks. I think I first realised what older really meant, one day on the rugby field, when a mate, whom I had played in the same team since age twelve to our then position of moving back down through the teams at the club,had an altercation with his opponent and during the words that were exchanged he was referred to as a 'fossil'. Maybe it was because he had gone prematurely grey and maybe we all fell about laughing too much immediately after that, but it did stick as a sharp reminder that no matter who you are, there is always a younger pretender waiting, sometimes impatiently, for your throne.

The trouble is that life seems to move so fast, that I can recall vividly many of the thing I was doing when I was the age of our two boys and even now they are beyond the teenage years so I guess the eleven year olds in my class would consider them to be old too. I'm not even going to consider what they think of me, but the other week when it was my birthday and the whole school sang 'Happy Birthday' to me in Assembly, a primary one girl laughed uncontrollably through the whole verse and for a while afterwards too. Maybe I should be like a good friend of mine, who decided to stop having birthdays after he reached forty. Being older has many drawbacks. You can score goals and tries in your head but not on the pitch, you can race one hundred metres and still not be out of breath, though getting the car stopped quickly can be a problem. You can see the newspaper but you can't read it, you can see the film but you can't hear it, you remember your wife's birthday but forget to buy hr a present and, if you're waiting for your woman to get herself ready to go out, just double the time you used to give her when you first got married. But there are hidden advantages too. All those years of experience in life have taught you how to recognise a strange sound under the bonnet, how to advise your children so that they don't make the same mistakes you did and of course how to say the right things at the right time.

I guess if getting older has taught me anything it is to be patient, with my temper, with my words and with my actions. But it has also taught me that hindsight is a wonderful thing, for in looking back I can see how God's hand has been with me in the small things and the big decisions and that it is He who has taught me patience and hopefully grace toward others. But I think He also teaches me that getting older does not mean becoming less useful for Him but simply involves being used in a different way, possibly even a different sphere of service. People like Abraham, Sarah, Noah, Zechariah, Elizabeth, and Anna were all well advanced in years when God gave them a special job and while I haven't reached their senior years, I understand that God never stops working with us and we continue each day as we get older in the faith of trying to be more like Him. I suppose my prayer to Him would echo that of the Psalmist who wrote, 'Even when I am old and gray, do not forsake me, O God, till I declare your power to the next generation, your might to all who are to come.' OLDER? OR LED?

O is for OPEN

2008-05-23T21:32:00.000+01:00

It was a bad habit to get into but it always saved a few seconds when time was of the essence though to be perfectly honest, when you're a student, time is hardly an important factor, apart occasionally from having to get an assignment in on time or being late for a lecture. So I just got into the habit and deep down, I knew that sooner or later, I would fall victim to my own stupidity. It was a Tuesday morning, I think and I had just parked the old Allegro in the car park, outside the university, jumped out hurriedly, though not even remotely late for the day's education and banged the door shut, while holding the outside handle, to save time in having to lock it with the keys. It was at this precise moment that I noticed the keys were still hanging from the ignition beside the steering wheel. A chill of panic rushed through my veins but then I quickly got things into perspective and realised that education would have to wait a little bit longer for there was a set of keys to be freed from their prison and a door that had to be opened.

It's a funny thing but we had all often talked about the different ways in which thieves break into cars and now I had the opportunity to try them out. One suggestion was cutting a hole in a tennis ball and squeezing it against the keyhole, in the hope that the out rushing air would spring the lock and thus the door would open. The lack of a tennis ball in my pocket on the way to lectures sort of made me count that one out immediately. However I did manage to acquire a wire coat hanger from a fellow student in the neighbourhood and decided to set about the task of pushing it into the space between the driver window and its rubber surround, eventually looping it around the little rimmed lock button and springing it upwards. But you don't look entirely inconspicuous nor convincing when you are standing outside a car in a car park and holding a coat hanger near the window. I wanted to hold up a big poster that said, 'it's my car actually,' in response to all the looks of suspicion glanced in my direction by the cavalcade of motorists hurrying to work. Still, the whole thing was over in about a minute, hardly a record for breaking and entering an Allegro but I felt pretty pleased with myself in a strangely inverse kind of way. It was almost part of growing up, like part of my initiation into adulthood, my passing from a naive teenager into a man of the world. Yes I had broken into a car and nobody could lay a finger on me for doing it. Anyway, twice more I had to perform the same task, once on another car of my own, though I discovered that German cars take a little bit more effort than British ones and then one day I was able to use my well honed skills to rescue a damsel in distress, though I was slightly distressed about the danger of damaging her metallic paint during the process.

Since those days, with the advent of central locking using the key, such dangers are unlikely. But I now find that when I am locking the doors of my car by pressing the button on the key, I probably do it on average, about three times just to see the indicator lights flash and put my mind at rest that the doors are definitely not open. And today my lingering could have saved someone's life. We had just parked in another car park with the intention of getting some groceries in the late afternoon and wife had walked on slightly ahead while I checked just a couple more times that the indicators were giving me the go ahead to leave the car. But just as I made my way across the park towards the shops what should be rolling down the incline towards me only a shopping trolley, without any brakes or flashing lights but with one very concerned looking toddler sitting on board and an even more stressed looking female chasing some yards behind. A quick calculation in my head assured me that the speed of the trolley was greater than that of the lady in pursuit and that it would reach the part where cars pass long before the mother could reach it. Brushing past a shiny BMW and redirected by its wing mirror, the trolley and helpless passenger headed straight in my direction and into my arms. Thankfully no car was passing but had I not been there, it would certainly have careered across the park and come to rest rather suddenly against a parked vehicle. At the end, there was a short nervous laugh from the female and a thank you and we all went on our way, but I'm glad I had stopped to check if the car doors were open or shut.

Sometimes I wonder why we are just in the right place at the right time, whether it be stopping a runaway shopping trolley or helping a damsel to open her car and then I remember that even in the simple things in life, God is still in control. I think of how he sent Philip to speak to the Ethiopian and the Gospel goes to Africa, how a shepherd boy just happened to be coming to see his brothers and Goliath is defeated. I think of Joseph who ended up as a slave in Egypt but saved the country from starvation and Ananias who live in Straight Street, Damascus just when Saul needed to get his sight back. And God continues to send those to us, sometimes with just a chance remark, or a text message, a phone call or a word of encouragement and often we find ourselves in the same position where our past experiences or our faith help us to help somebody else in their time of need. And doesn't Jesus say of His followers, 'For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.' That's what it is to be open for God, to meet someone else's needs, not out of any duty but because we are filled with the same love and compassion that Jesus shows us, walking in His likeness. The question is, when God opens those doors, are we ready to walk through?

O is for OCTOBER

2008-05-22T19:25:00.000+01:00

I know a man who can't pronounce October properly. I know he went to school, around the same time as I did and even then he couldn't say it properly, though I didn't have the heart to tell him and haven't got round to rectifying the situation forty years later. So when I hear him talk refer to the tenth month of the year as Obtober, I just have a little smile inside, though he never knows. Funny but the same guy can't pronounce puncture either and in the relatively few instances when he and I have discussed flat tyres he tends to talk about having a pumpture, and I can see where he's coming from, for there is a definite relationship between a pump and a flat wheel. Anyway the guy's nearly fifty now and as he has made it this far without total command of the English language, I reckon he'll get by without my intervention.

It reminds me of another man, much closer to my dad's age,who often came to visit us on Sunday evenings and would regularly utter a myriad of mispronunciations that would send dad into raptures of laughter, though our guest always thought he was just enjoying the story he was telling. He would often talk about linoleum on the floor as melodion and when a special speaker called Richard Wurmbrand came to preach at our church shortly after his release form a Russian prison, our good friend referred to him as Mr Woodworm!
But, no matter how you pronounce it, October is still a bit special in our house. Our first son came into this world in October, somewhere around about six thirty on the morning of the fourteenth when most people were either still in bed or just preparing for the birth of a new day. We hadn't planned it for the tenth month and at the time it seemed just a little inconvenient, having moved into our new house only a few weeks previously. But all that seemed unimportant when the young sprog appeared to brighten up a nice autumn morning and also the following few months of sleepless nights during which I was able to watch 'The Guns of Navarone' all the way through for the first time, though normally I wouldn't have chosen to view it at three o'clock in the morning. As some sort of remembrance ritual, I recently sat down and watched it all again, for only the second time, some twenty years later and it was just as good, probably because I had forgotten the whole story in the intervening period! October is also the month dad died, just nearly four years ago now. I always remember it because we 'celebrated' youngest son's eighteenth birthday the day after the funeral. It didn't seem much like a celebration at the time but I guess dad was the sort of character who would have told us to 'stop the crying' and get with it. Still it wasn't easy to do and the thing is, even though he had almost reached ninety and was in clearly failing health, I never really expected him to leave so quickly. But at least he got to make his last journey along the lane where he had lived all his life, in beautiful sunshine. A year later in the same month we still wouldn't be celebrating as mum was diagnosed with terminal illness that would claim her life long before the following October, by which time my father in law would be reaching the latter stages of his losing battle with Alzheimer's. Yes, October has lots of memories, but even amidst the occasional clouds, God provides the sunshine, sometimes in the simple things, like a colourful autumn leaf fall or the last remnants of an apple harvest, or the breeze of a strong wind. I'm often reminded that as the dark evenings begin to envelop us with ever increasing speed and house lights appear glowing from late afternoon, that somewhere in the not too distant future, we will no longer be prisoners of the autumn and winter darkness as the light invades our lives and stays just that little bit longer each day.

And so it is with Jesus, who banishes the darkness that surrounds us, who comforts us when the clouds arrive and who promises us a bright future in His holy presence, regardless of the travails that we must endure on earth. Like the Psalmist, I can say 'You, O LORD, keep my lamp burning; my God turns my darkness into light.'

We have five deciduous trees on our lawn. When October took away their leaves last year, they looked dead to the uninitiated. As I gaze on them today, they sway in all their glory, a delightful collection of colours. When Jesus raised Lazarus, he said he was only sleeping, though everyone knew he had died. But through the resurrection power of God, he was raised to life and so we shall be at the last day if our faith had been in the Son of the Most High and we have asked Him to be our Saviour. And it really doesn't matter if I'm not eloquent with words for my heavenly Father knows what I mean.

P is for PEACE

2008-05-21T18:30:00.000+01:00

And so at last the war has ended in our province. At least that's what we're being told. The only problem is that some people won't admit to saying that it's over because they don't think it was a war in the first place, while other groups want to keep it going, but not those who used to be involved but are now in government with all the financial and material benefits that such a position might accrue. So when is a war not a war, if people are being killed. Some say it was never a war because many who died were murdered and not killed in the sense in which soldiers lose their lives in battle during combat. And I can see their reasoning for hundreds of innocent civilians died sometimes because of no other reason than they had contact with army or police during their work while many others had their lives cut short when out of uniform. And in this so called war there weren't just two sides, for there were three distinct groups and often even within those groups they fell out and murdered each other. So we didn't refer to some groups as armies but instead called them terrorists. But anyway it's all over now, at least the fighting bit, or so they say anyhow. It's just that I can't quite reconcile the attitudes and intransigent positions of many of the players with the words of peace that they utter. Am I alone?

So I ask myself , what is peace? Is it a time when there are no wars? Well that depends where you live for in 2006, there were at least sixteen disturbances in the world that could have been classified as war. Maybe it's a state of mutual harmony between people though I guess we can live alongside many people whose ideas and ours would hardly be harmonised but we manage to get by. I suppose it could be classified as a freedom from civil commotion and violence of a community, but I know that hardly exists in many of our towns and cities even though we are meant to be living in peace time. My dictionary suggests that peace is the 'normal, non warring condition of a nation, group of nations, or the world,' but I hardly think it has been normal for a long time. Maybe peace is a more personal thing altogether. I often heard my dad say, 'would you give my head peace' and I reckon whatever we were doing was causing some sort of annoyance inside his head and disturbing the tranquility and serenity of his mind.

I once wrote a poem about peace. It made me really think how fragile it can be, when we can forgive but not forget, when we can look at others but never speak, when we can walk our streets but not without worry, when we can live only because of the rules we have made to keep peace. Agreeing to disagree is hardly the formula for everlasting peace. But it also made me realise that peace starts with the individual for when our hearts are not at peace and full of peace, we will always find a way to shatter it. Indeed the peace that Jesus give is listed among the fruits of the Spirit that also include love, joy, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness and isn't it true that for real peace in our hearts we need to possess all the others too. Jesus said 'Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you.' And He brings that peace to every person when we believe in Him as our Saviour. Paul also tells us that 'the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.'

So everlasting peace doesn't begin with a set of rules but a changing of the heart and then we will know the truth of Isaiah's words about His Creator, when he says 'You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast, because he trusts in you.'

P is for POSSESSIONS

2008-05-20T17:54:00.000+01:00

A very close friend of my sister took ill recently while on a short break in France. Although she showed considerable signs of improvement in the days following, eventually an infection took her life. Since they had been good friends for many years and shared a house when they worked in the same area of England, my sister took on part of the responsibility of sorting out her friend's possessions in readiness for the family to dispose of the house. What she didn't expect to find was that things in the home which had been of great personal significance were largely worthless in anybody else's eyes and it seemed like a lifetime spent gathering bits and pieces had only brought value to the one who owned them. And then only fleetingly. Such was the apathy of others towards second hand items that an almost new cooker couldn't even be offloaded for more than thirty pounds and as for clothes, well they were really only of interest to charity shops and the like.

It may seem slightly morbid and I may have commented on this before, but staring into a coffin makes you realise that no matter what possessions we have on earth, everything is left behind. So why do we do it? I know that I'm a great hoarder, probably like most people and I do have a bit of a reluctance about throwing junk out, even down to the spare screws that might come with a piece of self build furniture. The other day, an engineer fitted some new computer equipment in school and when I was clearing out the boxes he had left behind, I found this shiny, new metal bracket complete with fittings, that would be absolutely of no use, unless you were the owner of the kind of equipment he had installed. Still, it looked interesting enough for me to set it on a shelf in my room, a place form where I will probably have to move it again in a few year from now. I also have two obsolete computers in the attic along with a chest of drawers that I had to partially dismantle to get it up there. Also a couple of old bookcases sit alongside it and several suitcases that will never get another holiday. And there are ornaments, pictures and toys that the boys had many years ago plus a multitude of old VHS video tapes going back before the original Live Aid concert in 1985. I have half threatened to put the best ones on to DVD but what about when that format becomes obsolete. Anyway, the only person who is really interested in them is yours truly and when I'm gone, somebody will come along and light a big fire with the things that I thought were worth keeping.

And don't tell me that you don't have certain possessions on which you place great importance, for I think we all have such items, either relics from our past or present days things, expensive or very cheap, big or small, old or new, but they're still important to us. I suppose my computer, ipod and mobile would be near the top of my list, though I wonder how I survived for forty years without any of them, for my quality of life wasn't any less rich. And I do like to have a guitar around, while a pair of glasses are a possession that has become more of a necessity than desirable. But I have seen the time when a football or a rugby ball, a record player, a cassette tape or a poster of Liverpool FC would have been essential possessions. How times change, but maybe it at least makes you reminisce?

Of course there is nothing wrong with having nice things. Indeed, the writer of Ecclesiastes writes, ' when God gives any man wealth and possessions, and enables him to enjoy them, to accept his lot and be happy in his work—this is a gift of God', but Jesus crystallised it for me when He said 'a man's life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions.' The apostles of the early church, set us a good example to follow, for 'no one claimed that any of his possessions was his own, but they shared everything they had.' And isn't that important as believers to realise that it's not what possessions we have but what we actually do with them for the benefit of others. Yet for some, it's those very possessions that keep us away from God. The young man who had kept all the commandments found it hard to take when Jesus told him to sell what he had and give to those in need. Matthew records that 'he went away sorrowful: for he had great possessions.'

Like I say, looking at what remains of a loved one who has passed beyond this life, focuses the mind on what we leave behind, but it also reminds me that the greatest possession we can have, of eternal life with God, is ours to keep for ever.

P is for PRESBYTERIAN

2008-05-19T08:17:00.000+01:00

I'm a Presbyterian living in a Methodist body - or is it the other way round? Wife's even worse off for she's a a reluctant Presbyterian, wearing Methodist clothes but living inside an Anglican skin. And sons aren't much better, with one bobbing between a couple of Presbyterian churches, when he's not at a Methodist building or one of several Baptist establishments he frequents while the other is best described as a Presbyterian, Methodist, Baptist, Pentecostal, Brethren worship leader with a touch of Vineyard. Confused? Actually, we're not at all, though you might think so. But of course the common denominator is not all about denominations at all, for the only word that really matters is Christian. And I don't mean that broad definition which defines an individual, group or country according to a main religious leaning. We can talk about people being Christian as opposed to Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist or Sikh but to be a Christian in the true sense of the word involves a much more personal faith and belief in Jesus as God's Son and Saviour of the world. In other words, we are 'Christ's ones' and that doesn't always apply to everyone who walks under the banner of Christianity.

The Presbyterian church building where I grew up was an ancient and traditional affair but two things I remember well was the old tree near the entrance where us boys always congregated between Sunday School and the church service to talk about the previous day's football results, though now I guess there wouldn't be much to say, since most of the games happen on the Sabbath itself. But I also recall the old stable whee the 'men' gathered for a smoke and a chat before filing in just when the minster was about to commence proceedings. The service itself was pretty standard, with a sung Psalm at the start, prayers, two Bible readings with a hymn sandwiched between, a children's address and hymn, the announcements and offering and another prayer, which was always the time to slip in a sweet before the sermon and then ending about forty five minutes after the sermon had begun with a closing hymn or Paraphrase. Throw in the odd choir anthem at the offering and you could probably be spot on every Sunday with the running order. I guess it's still much the same today and probably like most churches there is a certain amount of security in having a regular agenda. I always remember too the little piece of purple cloth that hung down in front of the pulpit showing an embroidered picture of the burning bush and those words that I viewed every Sunday from the choir, 'ardens sed virens.' that, I think, roughly translated meant, 'burning but flourishing,' a reference to the bush where Moses encountered God and discovered his mission to free the Israelites from captivity. I recently discovered that the bush in question should be a desert acacia with some tangled branches containing both green leaves and white flowers. I used to think it meant 'burned but not consumed' and even in my basic understanding of foreign languages, I couldn't find any word which would have represented 'not' in that phrase.

Anyway, like most churches, the Presbyterian family has its own internal structure and as I have talked to many other denominations about their own levels of responsibility and hierarchy, I have discovered that all the main churches have similarities in positions of leadership and all have many differences in doctrinal positions and interpretation of Scripture. Presbyterians have Presbyteries,elders and committees, Church of Ireland have Parishes, Select Vestry and Churchwardens, Methodists have Circuits, stewards, leader's committees and lay preachers while Baptists have Conferences, pastors, deacons and elders. Essentially, every church has a group of people who have overall responsibility for keeping everything running on a week to week basis and every time I'm talking to someone from another denomination, I almost invariably try to equate what they tell me with my own Presbyterian background. Suffice to say that, every 'Christian' church has its strong points and while I still feel a Presbyterian at heart, years of sharing worship with believers from many denominations that I haven't even mentioned, assure me that when Jesus said to His disciples ' Go into all the world and preach the good news to all creation,' He hadn't any particular denomination in mind. And that is why when one group of believers casts a critical eye on their neighbours, I think sometimes we need to remember the words of Peter when he said 'We believe it is through the grace of our Lord Jesus that we are saved.' Nothing added to that makes us Christians, for God doesn't accept us on the basis of our denomination but wholly on the sincerity of our faith in Him. And he won't be asking me if I'm a good Presbyterian.

P is for PERISHABLE

2008-05-18T18:16:00.000+01:00

When cat was still a kitten, he used to disappear occasionally into the other rooms in the house, when we weren't watching. We should have known better for as yet he wasn't house trained. Then one day a strange aroma began to waft through the house and as the evening wore on and the next day arrived, we began to suspect that the smell, getting stronger by the hour, might have a sinister cause, somewhere in the spare room which now appeared to be the epicentre. After some initial investigations, that only took about two minutes, a wet patch was discovered on an old, disused sofa that seemed to be closely related to the offending stench. Kitten was evicted, after some stern words but it took much longer to evict the smell for as the sofa dried out the misdemeanours of the feline hung in the air for days as a reminder of our neglect and carelessness as much as the kitten's unknown mistake. Even the presence of a variety of air freshener sprays, pot pourri and flowers did little to redeem things and eventually the sofa found its way out of the house.

So this week when a strange aroma began to surface in my classroom, I immediately drew on all my experience of the past and came to some rapid if slightly unfounded conclusions. You see, I knew that our caretaker had lots of cats which moved easily in and out of his own house and, as far as I knew, were all house trained, but on many mornings as I arrived or late in the evening when I was packing up to leave, either a single white feline or a mottled brown kitten would be standing somewhere near the front door, waiting patiently for their master to emerge. I assumed that maybe they had gained entry through the front door and then into my room and somewhere in the mists of time had left a calling card near the back windows. All this I had based on the similarity of the aroma emanating from that area with the one that I remembered from our sofa. I suppose I should have been a little more thorough in my investigations, noting that the cats always ran away every time the door was open and also would have had to stand on their hind legs to turn the handle and gain entry to the classroom. And I guess I should also have noted that the pupils always left the milk cartons at the rear of the room every morning. So when the sun came out last week and the room got hotter until it was stifling, the aroma became unbearable, almost to the point where drivers on the main road were holding their noses on the way past. Well not exactly, but it was bad. I had intended to investigate it before but now there was no time to lose. And it only took ten seconds to discover the cause. For lying at the back of one of the plastic drawers, lodged behind a block or two of old file paper, was an almost full carton of milk, dated December 2007. Enough said!

Like all foods, milk perishes quickly and you don't have to leave it for six months to discover that. Wife is paranoid about sell-by dates on food and although I have tried to convince her that, in most cases, these are only guides, some cartons and packages end up in the bin anyway. But you can usually tell when food has perished beyond use by its colour and especially its smell though I suppose from the day it hits the shelves, deterioration has already set in. It just can't be reversed and almost all our preserving methods will eventually succumb to the dreaded microbes that make it unpalatable.

I was reading today from the New Living Translation, in Paul's letter to the Corinthian church and was reminded once again just how frail we are as humans. He writes 'But this precious treasure - the light and power that now shine within us - is held in perishable containers, that is, in our weak bodies.' But he also gives us great confidence when he writes, 'For we know that when this earthly tent we live in is taken down (that is, when we die and leave this earthly body), we will have a house in heaven, an eternal body made for us by God himself and not by human hands.' I suppose, like most people, as I get older, I know I'm not able to have the same stamina, can't run as fast and the bones and muscles ache just a little more after a hard day than they did even ten years ago. And I've watched as the senior members of my family circle have become old and have seen their bodies head towards the inevitable perishable stage. We can't put off the passage of time and despite the creams and remedies and surgery that many try, life is shorter at the end of each day. But here's a thought that keeps me going. Not only is God going to give me a new body that will not perish with time but while I'm here on earth I intend to live the rest of my years for His glory and not mine and then look forward to everlasting happiness in His presence. Jesus says, 'Don’t be so concerned about perishable things like food. Spend your energy seeking the eternal life that the Son of Man can give you. For God the Father has given me the seal of his approval.' With God you're never past your sell-by date.