On Advent

Are babies born bad? What is original sin? Why does John the Baptist leap in Elizabeth’s womb, welcoming the arrival of his cousin, Jesus? Why will he later say, ‘He must increase, but I must decrease?” What kind of world is this?

            I think ‘original sin’ represents the human capacity to make mistakes, coupled with the likelihood that persons will make them: a potentiality, requiring action before it becomes guilt. Of course, babies are too young to do much wrong. There are myriads of mistakes: simple, complicated, trivial, grave, due often to limitations from outside, maybe not our fault, just our mistake. With consequences, though.

            John Baptist leaps with joy, Elizabeth blesses Mary, John says, ‘I must decrease’: a very strange comment to make. His joy is fulfilled; his message is given; he accomplishes his purpose. They have been waiting for a saviour, to be released in a political sense but also in a spiritual sense. A Prince of Peace. War resulting from, and compounding upon, mistake after mistake at the grave end of the spectrum.

            I like infant baptism, placing a child under the protection of the one who forgives sins, those mistakes made actual with consequences for ourselves and others. At Advent we wait for a Saviour, the shattered fragments of our mistakes fallen over all the world. What kind of world is this?

On Timekeeping

Time, by its nature, cannot be kept, but the observation of its flight is known as timekeeping. A small child interprets the hands of the clock. A twelve-year-old gets a watch for that birthday; a twenty-one-year old a better watch. Some of them flash numbers, a sign of greater accuracy maybe. Carpe diem.

            Time can be kept in music, confining time to beat and measure with stick and metronome. An hourglass times the egg’s boiling; the twenty-four-hour clock lands planes. The watches I’ve owned time years: the one I inherited from my mother, the year overseas, the Roman numerals I bought at the airport to keep me grounded. My watch tells the time when it’s not there. Glance at your wrist where the watch should be and see what happens.

            Physicists find time a real quantity, studied through mathematics. Is it true that Buddhists and Hindus see time as circular, comprising vast ages? Since there are many schools of philosophy, the Dalai Lama says some say past and future are in the mind, others, abstract concepts relative to continuing events.[1] What of the Christian, linear view of time as beginning and ending, a new heaven and a new earth?       

            The present moment exists. Time ‘to cast away the works of darkness’ — a Collect introduced in 1549 — ‘now in the time of this mortal life’ the time to keep time in mind, even if we cannot grasp it.

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[1] http://hhdl.dharmakara.net/hhdlquotes3.html#time (accessed 7 December, 2015).

On Fear

The opposite of fear is peace. The evening collect prays, that ‘by thee we, being defended from the fear of our enemies, may pass our time in rest and quietness’ through peace. Unworldly peace, this is.

            It must be unworldly peace, because in the world, there’s no lasting peace without justice. Effects of injustice routinely devolve to the innocent: in household, nation, or among nations. It may be distant injustice, half a world away; it might be employed by states, democratic or tyrannical, insurgents, religions or cults; it often believes it’s doing good. The Herods of the age go on killing children, by many and various means. Perhaps the greatest fear of many isn’t for selves, but for the child, too young to create injustice, suffering as injustice fires injustice.

            Fear and hate are bedmates. As we are defended from fear, God grant we be made free of hatred. Hate is actually a sin. And what fear makes us do is often sinful also. ‘Wisdom is better than weapons of war’ says that wise Preacher, therefore ‘Fear God,’ who ‘will bring every deed into judgement, including every secret thing, whether good or evil.’ We have enemies: defend us from fear.

On the Father of Lies

Some words are of the devil. ‘Apartheid’, ‘segregation’, ‘separateness’ are all translated as ‘deprivation’: of civil rights, freedoms, dignity, livelihood, hope. Using terms like ‘detention centre’ and ‘resettlement’ when we mean ‘prison’ and ‘exile’ we lie with pretty words. And the devil is the father of lies.

            Desmond Tutu realised the vital nature of truth when he pointed out that the Truth and Reconciliation Commission did not issue blanket amnesty ‘… amnesty is granted only to those who plead guilty, who accept responsibility for what they have done.’ The harm to the national fabric must be spoken in order for people to be able to live together. ‘True reconciliation exposes the awfulness, the abuse, the pain, the degradation, the truth.’ Archbishop Tutu respects the power of ideology and conditioning. The commission revealed how ‘virtually every institution, every aspect of life, came under the control of this ideology. Everything conditioned white people to think and act in a particular kind of way.’ This comprehension leads to compassion, to awareness of human frailty, even the hope that some may become ‘more ready to accept accountability more easily.’[1]

            ‘Perfect repentance’, Rabbi Sacks says, ‘comes about when you find yourself in the same situation but this time you act differently.’ It’s a ‘change of heart’ preceded by ‘regret, remorse, confession.’[2] Confession of the truth.

            This is a warning against ideologies, othering, and untruths. Our time of mass migration presents a challenge to the ethics of every nation. John D’Arcy May suggests ‘that the actual acceptance of people of other faiths and traditions is itself a religious act which must spring from a spirituality of non-violence.’[3] Let us then confess our sins before God, resolving to lead a new life, hewing to the truth of what has been done and is being done by our governments and left undone by ourselves.

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[1] Material in this paragraph from Desmond Tutu, No Future Without Forgiveness (London: Rider, 1999), 51;218;203;204.

[2] Jonathan Sacks, Not in God’s Name: Confronting Religious Violence, (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 2015), 154.

[3] John D’Arcy May, Transcendence and Violence: The Encounter of Buddhist, Christian and Primal Traditions (New York: Continuum, 2003), 153.

On 'Race' and Religion

When I was in Sydney, I knew many South Africans. Some were opponents of apartheid who’d fled imprisonment for their activism. Others were Jewish: they knew a rule basing distinctions on ‘race’ was dangerous and bad for Jews. (The Nazi conflation of religion with ‘race’ viewed religion as unchangeable, so the music of Mendelssohn, a Roman Catholic, couldn’t be played). Some were both.

            The Christian activists opposed a Christian government. Members of the Dutch Reformed Church dominated political life.[1] Many problems of European provenance devolve back to the Reformation: this is one. When Jan Van Riebeeck established it in 1652, the Dutch Reformed Church brought the doctrines of the Synod of Dordt (1618-1619), ‘an extreme version of Calvinist predestination’ that includes ‘the unconditional decree by God of election, the limiting of Christ’s atoning death for humanity to those elect to salvation, the total corruption of humankind, the irresistibility of God’s grace, and the unchallengeable perseverance in saving grace of God’s elect.’[2]

            It’s easy to see how such doctrines support a thinking of division, hierarchy, status and dismissal even upon a homogeneous population. In South Africa, the Dutch Reformed minister who encouraged apartheid was also Prime Minister; there are different grades of Christianity in South Africa to this day.[3]

            That ‘race’ is so easily tied to religion should be a warning to us now, when Muslims, especially Muslim asylum seekers, may be perceived as a ‘race’ apart. Indeed, Serbian nationalism promoted the Bosnian genocide (1992-1995) by casting Muslims as deracinated alien ‘Orientals’.[4] Are asylum seekers so different, so othered, so worthy of concentration camps, deaths, expulsions? We must see to our theology, our humanity, our very souls.

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[1] Division of Religion and Philosophy, University of Cumbria, “Dutch Reformed Church of South Africa,” University of Cumbria, http://www.philtar.ac.uk/encyclopedia/christ/cep/drcsa.html (accessed November 10, 2015).

[2] Diarmaid MacCulloch, Reformation: Europe’s House Divided, 1490-1700 (London: Penguin Books Ltd., 2004), 485; 378.

[3] University of Cumbria, “Dutch Reformed Church of South Africa.” All congregations were desegregated in 1986, however.

[4] Karen Armstrong, Fields of Blood: Religion and the History of Violence (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2004), 374.

On the Left Hand

The nurse inserts a needle into my left hand: it carries needed medicines to a thirsty system. If you’re right-handed, the left knows what the right doesn’t know: so says Keith Jarrett, the great jazz pianist. St. Paul thinks you can know too much.

            I glance at my watch, keeping track of passing time. Some place the price of a car on the left wrist, but mine is simple; all I need is a clear dial outside and a steady tick inside. Somewhat like the rest of me.

            Where the left hand is kept to lowly jobs, good things like writing and eating are reserved for the right. Some say the left-hand road is the devil’s path. But great art is made with the left hand. Left-handed piano works of Britten and Ravel; drawings and paintings by Leonardo. Alms given with the left hand are given secretly, to the pleasure of God.

            What about a theology of the left hand? Is the left the hand God uses in darkness? May darkness exist from the beginning, or the uncreated light?[1] God still moves in that time before the creation of the lesser and the greater lights. When we were not asking too many questions. Are bad events due to the absence of light? What would change, if you changed hands?

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[1] A doctrine of the Eastern Orthodox Church. Refers not to the essence but to the operations of God, as seen at the Transfiguration. See Gregory Palamas (c. 1296-1359).  See also John of Ruysbroeck, Flemish mystic (1294-1381) ‘The uncreated light, which is not God, but is the intermediary between God and the ‘seeing thought’ in contemplation. The uncreated light is neither accepted nor condemned by the Roman Church. What I write here is pure speculation.

On Cropping Pictures

I’m a believer in cropping photographs. I don’t do much photo management: I take pictures by ambient light, flash disabled; I use a small 20 megapixel handheld digital camera; I process little. It’s my method of street photography. But I do crop. As you see, cropping changes the image from broad to intimate. The cropped version of ‘Cantor’ stresses the blue of Diana’s dress and the halo of candles surrounding Rachel, the warmth between the two women. It talks about colour. The full shot is about place, and what happens there. Rachel sings in a church that echoes the history of the colony: the city of Melbourne was proclaimed from its steps in 1848. The picture considers spaced-out churches where the aged, the disabled, the sick and the homeless — the same who came to hear Jesus — still come to hear his liturgy. It also speaks of committed musicians giving their hearts from the choir loft: here present what Britten called ‘the holy triangle’ of composer, performer, and listener. A picture about sound. Where is your field of attention? Is it close, detailed, intimate, appreciative? Or is it broad, detached, gathering experience of place and time? Which do you prefer? It was hard to decide.

On Sermons

Children’s author William Mayne wrote four books about the choir school of Canterbury Cathedral where he had been a pupil. In these stories choirboys could be called out for devising games to be played during the sermon. Somewhat like the joke now going around that choristers should wait for the sermon to check their mobile phones.

            Why sermons? What does a sermon do? Clearly it teaches; it has a purpose to educate often through elucidating the Scriptures. This is why you don’t interrupt a sermon. They don’t seem to be interactive. In some churches asking questions after the sermon is encouraged, but that would be disrespectful during the sermon itself. A Baptist friend told me a sermon doesn’t come from the pastor but it comes from God through the Scriptures. ‘It’s loving and it’s free,’ she said. So you listen. Every proper church service needs a sermon, or at least a homily.

            I like Dominican spirituality. ‘Praise, bless, preach.’ And what is preached is veritas: the truth. The truth is contained in the Gospel, or, rather, the Truth is Jesus Christ. Preaching this is a responsibility and an honour. Listening is a privilege and a blessing. Study, preach, listen, be present. Now.

On Learning the Collects

Children once had to learn the collect off by heart every Sunday. What value in this practice? Such memory work is no longer asked of children: reciting poetry, learning Shakespeare, learning collects. But maybe adults could ask it of ourselves.

            Collects remind us of the passage of seasons and shape of the year, something the commercial secular dimension distorts for its purposes. Some collects are very old, coming down from Late Antiquity: a collect gathers up history, without which we have no guide to this world. A collect is concise, prayer in a nutshell.

            Collects begin with a vocative: O God, Everliving God, Blessed Lord, teaching us divine address. And divine qualities follow: ‘who has caused all Holy Scriptures to be written for our learning.’ The God who does. We pray precisely: ‘keep us … from all things that may hurt us’ and for why? To accomplish the things that God would have done. In Jesus’ name, collects will conclude.

            Memorising collects can be a meditative practice. Mindfully recollecting – ‘Grant that we may in such wise hear them, read, mark, learn and inwardly digest them’ – we can return to them in times of stress, distraction, or self-criticism. It brings a touch of the divine to ordinary negativity. It places us in the divine calendar, at home in our minds.

On Compassion for the Body

In a Mindfulness course, I heard of self-compassion. Everyone suffers. Our own suffering is also worthy of compassion. Mistakes, emotions, confusions can be viewed objectively, with kindness, not subjectively with fear or a need to win.

            Compassion for thoughts and feelings, even for actions can be understood, but what about compassion for the body? St. Francis called his body ‘Brother Donkey,’ mistreating it for many years. St. Paul thought the body should be disciplined to win the race. What about those of us whose bodies cannot win?

            The body is the brain’s field of play. Movement in distant nerves, chemical exchanges, hormonal flows, relaxation states, desires, excitements, breathing, growth and aging: the brain at play. Gentleness with the body is gentleness with the brain.

            Moderation, taking care, providing safety, avoiding haste or violence are gentle behaviours. Can we show this gentleness to our suffering body? Would it make the body itself gentler, easier to manage, feeling understood and so understanding?

            Gentleness refers too to the quality of being well-born, of honourable lineage. The body has this quality: God’s image in human form. Does such a body deserve harsh treatment, impatience, or neglect? Or should a Spirit of kindness, graciousness and good temper rule our dealings with our bodies, the site of so much suffering and compassion?

On Lectio Divina

I’ve been reading His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman. Part science fiction, part theological reflection, Blake and Milton, high fantasy and modern physics. This includes the idea of parallel worlds.

            The monastic practice of Lectio Divina seems similar to me. It’s a way of reading scripture that puts you into a parallel world which informs and infuses us. I read the first eight verses beginning Mark: ‘John did baptise in the wilderness, and preach the baptism of repentance for the remission of sins.’ Because I’m reading King James, I get ‘did baptise’ which appears to me. It’s emphatic. In this parallel world where all the land converges on Jordan River John stands as a marker. I can see the prophet, preparing to baptise the Lord.

            What did John do? He did baptise. He preached. He preached the baptism of spirit, after the water. When I read this passage again, I get the word ‘remission.’ I would dearly love a remission of illness. John preached the remission of sins. Yet it was Jesus who has the actual power to forgive sins. On third reading, John baptised in the wilderness. Are we not in wilderness, much of the time? In this parallel world, some healing is taking place. It’s a world worth exploring: Lectio Divina is one way.

           

On the Body and the Blood

I’ve just received a little over nine bottles of a substance derived from other people’s blood. Nine is the number Dante associates with his blessed lady Beatrice: so much so, that she’s said to be the number nine. Her name calls her a Blessing; her number calls her a miracle. Dante’s maths makes three the sole factor of nine, and three is comprised of Father, Son and Holy Spirit (three in One) the root of miracles.

            Many in hospital were needing miracles. Not only the patients, but the staff were contending with illness, distress, and close calls. A nurse told me she was in this country looking after her dying sister. Another had been a cancer patient on this same ward. A doctor had two sick family members. Being a nurse, a doctor, or a priest won’t exempt you from the suffering all around. The truth of suffering is Buddhism’s first Noble Truth.

            Can the blood of others entering the body contribute to miracles? In Dante’s day it would have seemed so. The blood of one Other in particular carries miraculous power. The recovered nurse believed her faith had made her well. ‘Others can cure,’ she said, ‘but Jesus heals!’

On Temperament

Distractibility, persistence, focus, physical sensitivity, calmness, flexibility, are examples of inborn temperament. Times of sleep and waking, mood, and appetite may be natively determined. We see already in children that one is imaginative, another boisterous, one analytical, one instinctively attuned to the feelings of others. Worry, I’m told, is a genetic trait.

            Characteristics can be learned. I’ve seen extraversion taught to small children, and optimism is famously teachable. What can’t be unlearned may be controlled by various means, though the underlying tendency to care or to jump around may remain. Proust thought our repetitive mistakes, what he called our vices, were the key to our selves. I surely know that certain situations require attentiveness if I’m not to fall to disaster; often I know it too late, and this after decades of experience.     

            Experience modifies. Sometimes it moderates; sometimes it tends to extremes. The hot quick temperament and the cool cautious one may face the same experience with differing results. It’s at the conjunction of temperament and experience that character is formed. The temperament that’s tempered by experience has become the quality of the person, for good or ill.

            While temperament is of God, experience comes from the world. The resulting character is ours to use for life and love and blessing.

On Gravity

George MacDonald wrote a charming story called The Light Princess, about a girl with no gravity. Without gravity, she floated about, neither stable on earth nor sensible in mind. The key to gravity was tears. Grave is a slow solemn tempo in music, a critical situation, a dangerous pass. The grave is where the body lies down.

            But gravity makes us able to walk in the world. It gives each thing its proportional weight. Gravity is the general attraction of everything in the universe, affecting matter, time and space. Without it, would anything hold together?

            What then is frivolity? Is it horses for courses? (Some view horses’ paces weightily.) Celebrities and crime? The serious life’s work of many journalists. Fashion, comedy, or laughter? Is it lack of weightiness, wisdom, or depth? Does each kind of frivolity have its own gravity, based on the attraction of things for one another?

            Veronese shows Jesus at the Resurrection, leaping up from the tomb full of life and lightness. Do we have the hope of losing gravity at the general resurrection, when our deeds call us to account, and the soul commits again to the body? How would gravity behave in a new heaven and a new earth?

On Conversion

I’ve known people who’ve converted, or reconverted, to Buddhism, Judaism, Catholicism, and Born-Again Christianism. One man went from Catholic to Islamic to Biblical Fundamentalist: that’s a lot of conversion. Conversion can change families and friends to unrecognisables, having drastic and sorrowful effects; or it can give illumination and life.

            Scientific conversion talks about energy. Energy being moved from one state to another. Heat to mechanical movement, for example. In closed systems, energy cannot be lost. Maybe it can be frittered away, though.          

            What does Benedict mean by ‘conversion of life?’ Some say the correct translation is ‘conversation’ as a way of life within the monastic setting. Such conversation is with one’s fellows as well as one’s environment as well as with God. The monastic environment is one of constant prayer and saying of the Hours, in the midst of daily work.

            Work is conversion of energy.

            Conversion implies change. And since most of us aren’t monastics, the lay life could be changed to reflect our conversation with God, our fellows, and our environment, or context. Ongoing conversion.

            Try changing something today. Even something small: wear a different colour, pray a new prayer, speak to someone you often ignore. A major conversion would find you. But conversion of energy as a way of life, you can find.

On Compromise

Jesus said: ‘Rise, take up your bed, and walk.’ He says this after he has forgiven the sick man’s sins. The bystanders say, ‘Who can forgive sins but God alone?’ But what’s more difficult? The healing is a kind of arbitration, so they will agree that Jesus has authority over disease.

            Compromise is a third way; the parties combine, rejecting part of each other’s demands and abandoning others. What’s left is the true gold. Compromise also has a negative aspect: computer systems, privacy, health can all be compromised, failing to act ideally due to malware, lack of security, or maladies. This lays them open to vulnerabilities, perils, and harms.

            At present, I sometimes have to compromise with my compromised body. I try to take Jesus’ words as a prescription: rise, get up out of bed, and walk. The purpose of walking in Luke’s Gospel is to glorify God. The purpose of healing is to glorify God. So each day I try to walk a little more.

            You get a compromise between what you want and what you get. We know too much science now to think sins cause illness. We pray for God to be glorified by healing.

On the Tide of the Morning

Lao Tzu said the hallmark of the Sage is the love of doing things at the right time. Finding the right time is a skill and a gift of God. Times of tides are listed and charted for mariners: the moment when the tide turns to retreat or advance can be known.

            Melissa had been ill and bedridden for months. Alzheimer’s had robbed her body of the memory of how to nourish with food. She was thin; the time of her tide was unknown. Her family lovingly stayed and visited, and her devoted mother followed her to the time of the tide. I have the word ‘follow’ from a friend, who was in Vienna to be with her dying aunt, and there’s no English equivalent to this German word. ‘It’s like what the bridesmaid is to the bride,’ said the Austrian nursing staff.

            The right time, with so much suffering, was surely coming, surely. Time then passes another portal; it flows slowly; it’s time beyond measurements and human designs. Waiting for its nature to be revealed.

            It chose the hour after 3AM, the body somehow knowing to take its tide at this instant. ‘If I have knowledge, it will come to an end,’ says Paul, but ‘love never ends.’ And if I have not love, I am nothing.

On Irreplaceable

Everyone has someone who is irreplaceable. In one sense, all of us are, and to God all are surely known. But in terms of daily life, all of us are hanging by a thread.

            Who do you depend on? How would you replace this person? If you were unable to act for yourself, who would act for you? How much depth is there in that list?

            Ideally, all families would be large, devoted, and free of trouble. If instead it seems the Buddha was right, and suffering, especially in the forms of old age, sickness, and death, is pervasive, the possibility of losing the irreplaceable is ever present.

            Children are irreplaceable to parents. The parent mourns the child: in past centuries it was common, leading to the idea the world is a vale of tears. Often it is. Can we be irreplaceable to someone, not living merely for our own concerns?

            I regret spending so little time being reliable, attentive, protective to those outside my circle, so little time seeing what’s actually going on. The Shire of Yarra Ranges community services say they have 3000 frail people on their books for home assistance. Who is irreplaceable? Who’s irreplaceable to you?

On Past Photographs

Last night I dreamed about my photographs from art school. In the morning I gathered enough energy to go downstairs and look around for them. I didn’t find what I was looking for, but I found others, that I’d forgotten, that had an important effect on my aesthetic. There was the time a roll of film got misdeveloped, producing curtainlike sheets of light. My teacher thought it fascinating; I thought it bizarre. When I printed them out, they were fascinating. There were portraits, and genre scenes at the school. The passage of time: remembering images floating up through the chemicals, and how they’ve changed by now.

            When I got to choose a major project, I decided to photograph Mont Albert Road. The school was in Box Hill, and that road is notable for beautiful trees and autumn colours. The buildings were changing. I caught it in the 1990s. And much has changed.

            What I do now owes a lot to what I did then. I was looking for the Mont Albert photographs: no doubt I’ll find them. I find them in the pictures I take today. If you take a photo on the street, you document a moment in the flow of unceasing time. The light, the relationship to beauty, the evidence of where and when. Then chemical; now digital: always changing.

On Remission

After the first flare of statin induced illness that afflicted me in 2011, I was told I was in remission. That lasted only four or five months. I was put onto another course of medication that terminated in 2014, and I was walking, standing, sitting freely for four or five months. The time spent on the medication which (albeit with serious side effects) contained the muscle inflammation, was in its own way a kind of remission. Now they’re giving me chemo, and I’m not in remission with this yet.

            Remission is the good time between the bad times. What did I do with my remission? I finished my MA thesis and got my degree. I worked, and helped put the Carmelite Library catalogue online. I learned to play the Venetian Gondola Songs. I read the lesson at St. Peter’s Eastern Hill and volunteered in St. Peter’s Bookroom.  I homed a lovely rescue dog who spent two happy years with me. I was able to get around and photograph the beautiful city in its many layers of meanings.

            Remission also refers to forgiveness: of sins, debts, guilts. Mark’s Jesus says: ‘Which is easier, to say to the paralytic, ‘Your sins are forgiven?’ or to say, ‘Stand up, take your mat, and walk?’ And for this they glorified God.

On Philemon

Several people in the online course I’m taking question how an officer on Hadrian’s wall can address his slave as ‘brother.’ Paul’s letter to Philemon treats of just this situation. Onesimus, a slave of Philemon, has been assisting Paul in his prison in Rome. Paul is returning Onesimus to his master, calling the slave his 'child' to whom Paul has become a 'father'. He’s tempted to keep Onesimus with him, to help him during his 'imprisonment for the gospel,’ in place of Philemon himself. Note how Paul positions himself as also a father to Philemon in this rhetoric. He wants Onesimus freed as a good deed which is voluntary: a good son, like Philemon, would seek to obey his father's wishes by his own volition, not as 'something forced.’ Willing obedience is honourable. The result will be that Onesimus is no longer a slave, but a 'beloved brother.' Paul expresses his expectation that Philemon will 'do even more than I say' for Onesimus. Note that brothers are sons of the same father, so this title will have reference to Paul as patron.

            The Letter to Philemon is the shortest book in the Bible, but one of the most fascinating stories.

On Old Ideas

One of my library tasks lately has been to check the shelves and add catalogue records to books that don’t have them, so the Cataloguer can create order in the collection and computer records can be kept. Fascinating stuff turns up, some seriously old, some quite quaint, some useful still and some passed on, of interest mainly to historians.  

            Conference papers, acts of meetings, journalistic experiments, dogmatic themes. Explications of everything. Investigations, determinations, arguments. Some books with a beat-up appearance call up the passage of time: Science and Faith in the 21st Century, for example, wakes me to the fact that the 21st century is already 15 years old. How did that happen?

            What strikes me is how current these ideas seemed at the time. I can remember the themes of 1986, although not the catechism on papal teachings of 1908. The latest, newest, things, though often based on the oldest. I give you surrogacy, and Hagar.

             So, too, today’s ideas, the good and the bad. Some ideas, very old, still keep their force. Forgiveness of sins. Reverence towards creation. Active mercy. Reading the signs of the times. We need to read the signs of our own times, and that means now.

On Numbers

I was called in to work suddenly and had to get a key. To get the key, I needed a number. More than one number: I found I didn’t have the phone numbers of several people I had to contact. Many people don’t list their numbers anywhere. Eventually, with the number, I got the key.

            Numbers are everywhere; whenever you count, you need numbers. Much is constructed with them. They’re either with us, or sometimes without us. Think of the hairs of our heads that are numbered or the sands of the seas unnumbered. Who does the counting?

            Some things are important to count, yet uncountable. You may count your friends, or perhaps your enemies, but the count says nothing about value. One friend may be a key: uncountable. One enemy may be more grievous than all the counted rest.

            Our years are said to be counted, somewhere, and the psalmist appeals for our days to be numbered. Of course they’re numbered, only we don’t know what number is on them. Today the exequies for a friend, Robbie Bates, are being performed. Many are counted as mourners. Why number the days, before we fly? The psalmist says: to apply our hearts to wisdom.

On Theological Education

I spent eleven years in a theological school, studying part-time. Years flowed past so when I thought back on it, it seemed much shorter. What’s left when a course like this begins to fade into the past?

            It changed my viewpoint. I learned there are many ways to address a question, from the understanding of Christ Himself, to ecclesiastical history to Gospel contexts. I learned many paths of study.

            I retained less Greek than I would have liked. I never fully mastered my computer. But I found a church community and a place in the continuum of Christianity. I met remarkable people, students and teachers alike.

            Things keep coming back to you. Layers of prayer: from antique liturgical forms to cries from the heart. Biblical stories, coming fresh in your face today in both private and public events. Spiritual examples recalled without warning.

            An Ignatian spiritual director taught me to ask: ‘Where is the love?’ If you’re widowed, or otherwise bereaved, this is a question that appears every day, for the answer isn’t immediately obvious. It becomes a spiritual practice.

            For someone who does not become clergy, theological study still gives a direction for life. A gift to be given.

On Regrets

Even the Dalai Lama, I understand, has regrets. We all know regrets can arise by doing the things we ought not to have done; or even more by not doing the things we ought to have done. And there is no health in us.

            I once brought home a Japanese teacup: blue and white stripes. My late husband was disappointed I’d not bought two, so we could have them both the same, but I didn’t get another. Sadly, my mother refused to buy my brother an orange jumper, thinking the colour didn’t suit. After his death in a crash, she searched everywhere for that lost orange jumper. She did often, ignoring her tastes, buy her children clothing they adored. Just not this time. I let down my neighbour who’d eagerly prepared for an outing, because I’d got myself so exhausted I couldn’t drive anyone anywhere. All regrets, for she is now gone.

            A feeling of loss attends regret. Someone who spends the children’s childhoods at work may later regret, but those times are lost. Regret isn’t retrievable. A blue teacup; an orange jumper; a trip to the dog show. The regret is about what came afterward. Loss of an opportunity to show love, compassion, commitment.

            Regret is related to remorse: a wholesome sentiment. Who is it that testifies for us? It is Jesus, standing at the right hand of God.

On Worry

I know people who prefer to plan, not worry. Plan B isn’t enough: you need plans C and D as well. They always find a way through.

            I find, myself, that a limited amount of worry in the daytime is ok. If you don’t let it take over. But night time worry, when you should be sleeping, is a waste of time. Since you’re just lying there, and can’t take a walk, you need a substitute thought realm to distract worry, and the most effective is maths.

            Now I’m hopeless at mental arithmetic. As a child I found it so boring I couldn’t concentrate at all, but you want boring to contradict all that thrilling worry, don’t you? Catastrophising is a form of entertainment. The more exciting it becomes the more all those energising worry chemicals float about your body, keeping you awake, alert, and alarmed.  

            I began with the eleven times tables because I thought I could probably just about handle the ones. Then I worked out that eleven fifteens was the same as fifteen elevens. A breakthrough! You have to check something like that a number of times. Keep it up, and put worry to bed.

On Mood

I recall the fashion when I was young for mood rings. The ring changed colour apparently according to your mood: in fact, according to your temperature. What is mood? The word is related to mind or spirit: a spirited mood would be a brave one.

            Moods can be affected by many things: even weather. Somehow I know what sun and moon are doing, even within the house. A full moon means a sleepless night. An overcast sky is lowering; a sunny day encouraging. A walk in light sunshine is calming.

            A listening walk is fine meditation. Realising how noisy our vehicles are: they block out bees, birds, even barking dogs. Chainsaws with their scything grind; shovels scraping, mowers rattling. The dog’s toenails scraping the footpath; wind sounds past my ears; the kids’ ball bouncing.

            A fine day is enlivening. The road mender who came to tell the church the road would be refinished next week (“a road only lasts four or five years, so we have to work at it continually”) gave a recipe for life. Our life roads need refinishing too, maybe just as often. “What a beautiful day,” he said. “Makes you glad to be alive!”

On Communication

When I was a student of Art History, I was sent to the museum to examine prints of Goya’s Los Desastres de la Guerra. These were kept in map drawers and handled with white gloves. The dramatic images of starvation, torture, murder, defilement and death during Napoleon’s Peninsular War in Spain have influenced artists for two centuries. The disasters of war have not changed.

            In Wellington’s time, communication determined battles. News of ceasefires and peace agreements might take weeks to reach engaged armies. The enemy’s communications could be delayed or halted so orders and dispositions failed to reach them. Much depended on the weather.

            History is vital. We need to remember Napoleon and others seeking world domination. We need also to view our own time and the ways it differs from the past. Chiefly at the present, we should understand communication.

            Reading news of the massive earthquake in Nepal (an act of nature) I learned that all the Sherpas at Mt. Everest are on Facebook. People in Nepal consult technology. Very soon, no corner of the earth will be unconnected, with implications for the whole world.

            How does God communicate with us? Can our orders and dispositions be delayed? Are we fighting battles when peace is already agreed? Should we, like Wellington, hold back when communications are not yet clear? Liturgy, reading, prayer: listen, and attend.

On Praying Some Prayers

The past weeks have been conducive to prayer. Earth trembles, cities crumble, people lie fearful in rain without shelter. Men face firing squads, women slavery; thousands drown fleeing wars and tyrannies. What prayers to pray?

            Do I have the right to pray for my own health and agency? Every day I thank God for treatments and think one little miracle wouldn’t hurt. I lie in comfort in a brilliant hospital, smiling angelic-faced attendants drip-feeding miraculous medicines. While others lie in rain or drown in cold sea. What prayers to pray?

            All over the world, governments get it wrong, and imbuing the hearts of ministers with righteousness is slower than the drip in my hand. Prisoners die by noose, gun and knife, and a variety of inventions devised by inventive souls. The Lady Jane Grey, a fervent Evangelical, asked her executioners: ‘May I say this Psalm?’ and began Miserere Mihi, aged 16.

            You can pray for all prisoners and captives, and sometimes this is heard: nearly 300 women and girls freed from captivity by military action. I can send money to Oxfam, and hope for blankets, water, shelter, to be given. Brushing past my conscience, still praying for myself. What prayers to pray?

            Or you can pray, with the Buddhists, for the welfare of all sentient beings. The West has been taught to say this, thank God, but much enlightenment must come to pass.

            The Lord, says the Psalm, is plenteous in mercy. What prayers to pray?