Sunday's Coming!

Palm Sunday

A sermon for Palm Sunday. The readings are: Isaiah 50:4-9 and John 12:12-16.

This might not be a sermon I'd preach at this time next year. But it's the word I have to bring on Sunday.

Today I want to share with you about the disgrace of the triumphal entry.

Because the triumphal entry, as we ‘headline’ the narrative as. Is a narrative in which assumptions are turned upside down. And it is a narrative in which everything that one might expect to happen, doesn’t happen, or at least, doesn’t happen in the way expected.

It may happen in the way prophesied long before.

But it doesn’t happen in a way that everyone can really understand.

Because the triumphal entry is the moment.

It is the moment when all the different strands of Jesus’ life get woven together in a way that some rejoice in and some are confused by some. Some are hopeful about. And some are bemused about.

The triumphal entry isn’t necessarily a triumph in the way the people of Jesus’ day, or indeed, the way that we, think about a triumphal entry.

So today I want to make three points.

The first is that the triumphal entry is the moment when the different strands of Jesus’ life are woven together in the public eye.

The second is that the triumphal entry is only a triumphal entry because it is a disgrace leading to a disgrace.

The third is that triumphal entry provides a model for us, as to how we could live our lives.

So the first.

Up until this point in his life Jesus has lived a life of love for others. He has willingly given up any hope of creature comforts and security, to live a life as a poured out offering to God.

Jesus has given of himself in his love.

In his energies, spent with the poor.

And his time spent with the broken.

The unclean.

The diseased.

The forsaken.

The forgotten.

The despised.

The outsiders.

The ritually impure.

The unwanted.

The unloved.

The despairing.

The dirty.

The depraved.

The villains.

The disassociated with the culture and the empire.

The powerless.

The power holders.

This is the life that Jesus has led.

And these are the people that Jesus has loved.

There is no doubt that Jesus’ actions were often with the forgotten.

The Liberation Theology movement of the 1960’s and 1970’s in South America would have us believe that Jesus had a “preferential option for the poor”.

That Jesus’ preference was to serve the poor. That his love was preferentially focused on the poor.

I can see how liberation theology gets to that point.

But I think they might miss the point.

Jesus’ preferential option, is for everyone.

There is no one outside of the remit of his love.

The centurion. Or the bleeding woman.

The tax collector or the rich young man.

It would be easy to say that Jesus had a preferential option for the poor, but I think that is a misread.

Jesus spent so much time with the poor and broken, not only because he loved them and had hopes for them, and cared for them, and wanted the best for them and wanted to love them, and for them to find shalom, but Jesus also spent time for the poor as a model of how the rich, the Pharisees, the ruling elite, should live, side by side with the poor.

In relationships of mutual love and respect with the poor.

Jesus’ preferential option was for everyone, and he knew that for people to really live, to embrace life in all its abundance, their and our, standards and expectations would have to be turned upside down.

That the dreams they had would have to be turned upside down.

And this is exactly what is enacted in the triumphal entry.

The threads of Jesus’ life of loving the poor. Of living to different standards. Of living by different expectations. All of these things. All of these aspects of his life are in some way evoked by the triumphal entry.

Certainly, there are prophecies that predicted that the Messiah would enter Jerusalem on a donkey, on a colt.

The prophet Zechariah had prophesied how Israel’s true king would approach the city, ‘Rejoice greatly, O Daughter of Zion! Shout, Daughter of Jerusalem! See, your king comes to you, righteous and having salvation, gentle and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.’ (Zechariah 9:9)

This prophecy hung in the air, like radio static, a background noise in people’s minds, ringing bells for them.

But there is also an expectation associated with past experience. That expects something vastly different. That holds onto the prophecy, but expects to see it played out very differently.

As he approached Jerusalem the people began shouting, “blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord”.

Most of the crowd were excited, it was Passover time after all and the people were ready to praise God for the arrival of the last true king. They shared the sense of occasion, the excitement and anticipation. Many in the crowd knew Jesus, he’d been to Jerusalem before and he was returning, riding a donkey.

Jesus the king was coming.

Culpepper suggests that, ‘Jesus was a king, but no ordinary one – the king of fishermen, tax collectors, Samaritans, harlots, blind men, demoniacs and cripples. Those who followed Jesus were a ragtag bunch, pathetically unfit for the grand hopes that danced in their imaginations.’

Over the years Jerusalem had seen plenty of kings and generals arriving in triumph.

And the arrival of kings and generals pretty much always followed a standard pattern.

Whether celebrating the return of a victorious general after a battle or welcoming a new conqueror, taking over the city, four things would happen.

1. The conqueror or ruler would be escorted into the city by its citizens or the conquerors army.

2. The procession would be accompanied by hymns or announcements of greatness.

3. There would be elements of the procession that depict the authority of the ruler.

4. The entrance would be followed by a ritual act such as sacrifice which takes place in the temple, so the ruler symbolically takes ownership of the whole city.

But Jesus does not enter Jerusalem as a conqueror, a warlord, or a returning general, on a grand war horse, covered in armour, followed by a huge army.

Jesus approached Jerusalem on a donkey. Not as a conqueror, but as a servant.

The truth is, Jesus’ triumphal entry had more in common with travelling through the slums with the poor than it did with parading towards an enemy with a vast and experienced army, expectant of military victory.

Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem had excited noise and clamour, but in Luke’s account of the narrative, in the midst of it Jesus wept, heavy with the burden of pain yet to befall Jerusalem. Unlike a world champion boxer entering a ring expectant of an easy victory, Jesus’ heart is heavy. Heavy but determined.

Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem was one in which the true and righteous King entered the city with an attitude of servanthood, rather than as commander in chief surrounded by state of the art military equipment ready to take the place by force.

Jesus’ triumphal entry tied up all the threads of his life, into one visual, prophetic act that would stand as a metaphor and symbol of his values and purpose.

The second point I want to make is that the triumphal entry is only a triumphal entry because it is a disgrace leading to a disgrace.

We find in our Isaiah reading, words of prophecy. And prophecy is a complicated beast. Prophecy in the Old Testament doesn’t necessarily relate to just one event or occurrence. So in our reading today we have one of the three pictures of the Suffering Servant given in the book of Isaiah. And the suffering servant in this passage, refers to Isaiah himself, a man carrying the burdens of speaking unwelcome words to a community who don’t want to hear what he has to say.

But this prophetic image of the suffering servant also relates to Christ and his sufferings on behalf of so many.

And so we read in Isaiah 50:6, of Isaiah and Christ, offering their backs to those who beat them, that they won’t hide their faces away. Instead they will be open to the Sovereign Lord’s call to be vulnerable.

And Isaiah 50:7 states, “Because the Sovereign LORD helps me, I will not be disgraced.”

Christ will not be disgraced.

Christ will not be disgraced even though he will set his face towards Jerusalem and willingly walk towards his death. Ultimately Christ will not be disgraced, as he will die, be resurrected and then will come the time for the ascension. In the end Christ will not be disgraced.

As Jesus enters Jerusalem, it’s clear that his way is not the anticipated way. Many of the different factions of the crowd would have been expecting different things from this king, many would have been expecting him to negotiate with the Roman rulers, entering in victory, many would have been expecting him to enter Jerusalem with a great army, ready to take back the temple for God. Many of them would have been expecting Jesus to take on a key role within the temple, to reform the temple practices.

Instead, Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem, is to them a disgrace: instead of military victory, or religious victory or political victory, Jesus brings with him a donkey he rides as a fulfilment of a prophecy, and Jesus arrives with a rag tag group of the poor, the unclean, the socially excluded.

Rather than arriving in a fashion everyone expects, Jesus turns the expectations of standards upside down.

Rather than arriving to preach in a cassock alb, or cassock and surplus, as expected, Jesus stands in an old T-shirt, marked and dirty. Turning the standards of the world upside down. (By the way, just to be clear, I’m not suggesting I’m Jesus!)

But for Jesus, even in this social disgrace of his arrival in Jerusalem, Jesus is still cheered, there is still a hope with the crowd, for Jesus.

But notice, only a short time after, that before Pilate the crowd have turned and deserted him, calling instead for his crucifixion. And then, at the cross, the crowd have deserted Jesus in his final disgrace, the ultimate disgrace, crucified like a petty criminal amongst other petty criminals.

In a worldly sense, it’s hard to see anything but disgrace here.

As Claiborne and Wilson-Hartgrove suggest, the way of Christ was not the way of a conquering king, instead, “Here was a king who ruled with a towel rather than an iron fist, a king who rode a donkey instead of a warhorse, a king who carried a cross rather than a sword.”

 Instead of a military triumphal entry with pomp and ceremony. We encounter a Christ whose triumphal entry is that of a servant. A triumphal entry shadowed in disgrace.

The third point I want to make is that the triumphal entry provides a model for us, as to how we could live our lives.

Quite simply, Jesus enters Jerusalem with his face, “set like flint” as Isaiah puts it. There is a task to be done. There are people to serve. There is a new kingdom to pronounce. There is hope to enact. there is resurrection to await. there is the knowledge that in the eyes and mouths of many Jesus will encounter in Jerusalem, they will be disappointed with him, their perceptions shattered.

But for so many others, there are hopes fulfilled and dreams set ablaze. Jesus enters Jerusalem resolutely. And he enters Jerusalem to serve. And he enters Jerusalem with hope.

And these characteristics of resolute, hopeful servanthood can be for us a word to challenge, encourage, and refresh us, even in the discomfort that we might come to encounter.

Dialogue, the Purpose of Preaching and the Toothless Walrus.

Recently I have been experimenting (prayerfully - I hope) with how I preach.

For me preaching is a life long journey, and with preaching comes the opportunity to experiment creatively, but also to break your back with false aspirations.

At times I have preached from full scripts.

At other times I have preached from scripts much more weighted in the style of popular theology books.

Sometimes.

Sometimes I have preached using only three words as markers.

Markers in the sand. (OK, enough with the pop. theology style....
..... For now.)

Sometimes, when I haven't been able to prep a sermon and only have a post-it note to preach from I have felt like kicking myself.

But then, that's idolatry.

What matters is the motive, and the discernment, and the hope, and the prayer.

Recently I have been thinking through the interaction between blogs and preaching.

Occasionally I will post a sermon on this blog after I have preached.

I generally only do this if I have a full script written (if that's right or wrong, who knows, another question to contemplate).

But the point is, when do I post these blog sermons? Usually, after I have preached them in church.

And that's interesting, I did that by default. I do that by default.

I preach and then I post the preach.

But ultimately I want a dialogue about my sermons, about God. I want to talk to people about sermons. But by posting the sermons after the preach.
After they have happened. I naturally limit the dialogue.

In an ever moving culture especially a digital fast paced blogosphere (see how outdated that feels already, "blogosphere????") people move on to the next thing.
If I blog post a sermon I preached yesterday, why should I expect people to engage with it?

And if I want a person to person conversation (whatever that means) with a blog reader then it will always be after the preach has occurred. After the "final word" from the pulpit,  "six feet above contradiction" is preached.


Two things happen off the back of this:

1. the first is that a conversation partner's voice is always heard after a message is given to a wider audience in the act of preaching. Therefore, the discussion naturally becomes something of an addendum, or an appendix to the preach.

2. the second is that, as a preacher, I implicitly close myself down to being shaped by the input of others. Basically I present a, "yes I'd love to hear what you think, but not in a way that might shape what I think, and actually, what I will say in my preach." I am closing myself off from the other, but doing so, whilst appearing to be open to embrace the views of the other.

But only one of our speech will be publicly shaped by this for the immediate time.


So why don't I blog my sermons before I preach?

Mainly because I like the sting in the tail, I like the surprise, the twist, the anticipation. I like to challenge people to think differently, to be gripped, to be excited by the word of God. Which itself, is not a bad thing.

But two things implicitly come from this as well:

1. the first is that I fear that if someone knows what is going to be said, they won't engage. That they'll be like, "yeah this is the bit when he says that the triumphal entry is a disgrace, yadda yadda yadda."

But surely there is a lesson to learn from theatre here (@nedlunn ?). When you go to see the production of a play at the theatre, in many cases you know how it ends. And not only that, in many cases, you know the precise words that will be used to get you to the ending.

But you are still excited. I remember seeing a theatre adaption of Orwell's 1984, it was a touring production and an adaption. I knew what was going to happen in the end (as ultimately we do with sermons - in the bigger story at least - Jesus? Restoration? Forgiveness?).

But actually, in the case of 1984, how the playwright got us to that point, the words used, the choreography of actions and words. That was all unexpected.

But even in a play that you may know word for word, like, Romeo and Juliet, the theatre director and ensemble still have the power to shock, and surprise you, they can still draw you into the story.


2. the second is that if a visitor to church comes to church on an off-chance and hears the sermon (they probably wouldn't read the blog or even know about it), but I speak to them from a position of relative power: not that I am a powerful preacher. But because I have had time to pray, read commentaries, lectio divina, live the passage, ask questions about it. And distill into the allotted time a reflection on this.

Now the hearer could check the lectionary/sermon series and research the passage and so be informed of the passage. But they wouldn't get chance to see my reflections on it - like being told the resulting data of a scientific survey, but without being told the conclusions and actions that come from it.

But in the case of the spiritual seeker who may have stumbled across the church, what I am doing is modelling a way to engage in discussion from a point of power. I am refusing to actually engage fully in their legitimate questions, and instead I am very definitely avoiding deep conversation and their research and genuine queries, in the hope of a simple, uncomplicated, conversion where I don't give them opportunities to ask the real questions on their heart.

So what about the toothless walrus? Well, perhaps I am scared of being the toothless walrus, stood in the pulpit, with everyone knowing what I'm going to say next (not that many folk read this blog!)
Perhaps I am scared that folk won't engage properly. Perhaps, I am scared that my already-read-once-words would appear flabby and without real conviction. That the "power" would have gone from them. That I can't just breeze people in to believing something without chance to either reflect on the words, or talk about them.

And that's where I am the real toothless walrus, and deserve to be named as one. When I am too afraid of discussion, in case I might be shaped and my views challenged.

Long live the toothless walrus.

Wildfire Prayer

A Twitter conversation with Matt Carso @yvesraven from Sanctus1 in Manchester has prompted me to drop a quick blog post about something I've been thinking about for a little while.

One of the delights about social media is the possibility of engaging people in immediate prayer needs and immediate intercessory prayer requests.

While this has been made possible by mass communication and the chain-letter style text message. Facebook events and Twitter have facilitated a viral way of seeking prayer for immediate need.

This is what I'd like to call Wildfire Prayer, I am sure there are a plethora of other names, but the principle is that once a prayer need is raised, that need can be made known to friends/followers, who make it known, etc, and before you know it, countless numbers might be praying.

A few times I have organised prayer "events" on Facebook for folk, and what has been interesting has been the number of people who I (the creator of the prayer event) know, the number of people who the "subject" of the prayer event know, and the number of people neither the "subject" or I know!

Long may God use social media in this way.

Naturally, this Wildfire Prayer requires pastoral sensitivity and an awareness of boundaries / data protection.

Bad examples of Wildfire Prayer might include:

"Pray for my friend Jez, who is suffering from terrible piles."
"Pray for my friend Jen Whatever, who has lost her mastercard on the number 47a heading for Lincoln bus terminal"
"Pray for my friend Jay, whose not getting on with his mum and hates her"

Silly examples I know, but as we send out these Wildfire Prayers lets make sure its okay to do it.

big church meets big mission

In the past four years I have become fascinated by mission. It is the theological discipline that excites me most.
And in the beginning of those years I had to come to understand that mission is bigger than evangelism. I have realised that every strain of church approaches this differently and that as a result, each church has strengths and weaknesses.
Over these four years I have drifted away from the big church, attractional model into something different. But even here I am aware of weaknesses of other forms of church.

Part of my enthusiasm for missiology has been developed by reading some seriously exciting missiological writing. And in May this year, it feels like two huge threads of my life will be meeting up. The big church model of New Wine charismatic church and the smaller mission community.

Alan Hirsch will be speaking at the New Wine Leaders Conference (no Bill Johnson this year).
And by my reckoning this could be a huge turning point for the big church to see another way and the smaller mission ommunities to re-connect with the big church.
Let's pray for fruit!

becoming a human becoming

I paint.
At times.
And I write.
Poetry.
Prayers.
And I study.
And I read.
Books of poetry.
Books about art and spirituality.
Books of fiction.
Particularly American.
But others as well.

I do other things too.
I watch films.
European documentaries.
About bees.
Or nuclear waste.

I like to travel.
And I like lasagne
And coffee.
And funicular railways.

Some of these things I do because I love them.
Some of these tings I do because I am interested in them.
Some of these things I don't so much do because anything.
Some of them I do because they are me.
Puke if you need to.
That is allowed.

Often I pick things up for a while and then put them down again.
Maybe for years.
Maybe just for a few weeks.
But slowly.
I am coming to realise.
As if by an epiphany being printed slowly on a BBC micro computer.
At primary school.
Revealed line by line.
On the paper with the perforated punch holes..
Slowly.
Slowly but surely.
It is being revealed to me.
Who I am.

Before I went to university in 1998 I wanted to articulate something.
To say something.
But my sister was the artist.
So I didn't paint.
And I couldn't write poetry.
The poetry I had encountered never really spoke to me.
So I tried writing heavy metal songs.
But they were garbled and meaningless.
So instead I read.
I didn't say anything.
I read what others had said.
Camus.
Orwell.
And I related to their words.

At university I studied cultural studies.
So I encountered philosophy.
Literature.
Politics.
Psychology.
Religious studies.
Theatre.
Foucault.
Rousseau.
Miliband.
Baudrillard.
De Beauvoir.
Jung.
Hegel.
Mannheim.
Bataille.
Gramsci.
McLuhan.
Derrida.
Lacan.
Etc.
Etc.
Etc.

And while at university I became very good friends with a poet.
And we talked for hours about Pink Floyd.
Tom Waits.
Christ.
And I learnt to write what I wanted to write.
And I wrote.
And in 2000 I read poetry at my first poetry festival.
And those poems were the 5 out of 200 or so I'd written that really said what I wanted to say.
(Recently I shreaded the other 195 or so because they weren't really my poems. Just things I had written).
And I kept writing.
I was, for a time separated from a loved one and I spilled my heart in letters and verses.
And then we were reunited and the need to articulate those feelings was gone.
But I kept writing.
And I read at another poetry festival.
And I submitted poems left right and centre.

And then when I started work, I started to use pastels.
The poetry notebooks went away and the pastels and shades appeared.
Greys of five different kinds.
Smudged and scratched.
Blues, light and blues deep.
And I picked up my guitar again.
And I then I got a new job.

And occasionally I would write poetry for that job.
Or even a liturgy.
Or paint something.
I even studied some short courses.
Very occasionally.
It was in a church.
A wonderful community church.
Where the busyness of life and debt took over.
And I stopped writing and painting.
Except for the odd occasion.
But I kept reading.
And I kept yearning to say something.
And I kept scribbling notes.
And ideas.
And thoughts I would like to develop.

And then I went away.
To a place with so much need.
That meeting the needs were so important.
That other things got put down.
But even there crayons and colours had their place.
So I used them.

And then I went to college.
And over time.
I picked things back up.
The paints.
The pen.
The visits to galleries.
Expanded.
Grew.
And I realised that these things.
Alongside some others.
These things were me.
These things were who I am.
And actually.
Who I have always been.
But I just forgot.
Or never knew.

I began to paint again.
I began to create.
To consider things I had never had the voice to share.
I studied again.
I visited galleries again.
And I wrote again.
And I felt like me.

When I worked with the community church.
The Image of God was paramount.
It focused my every action.
It was central to my motivations.
That others might recognise who God had made them to be.
How God had made them to be.
I wanted to enable others to see themselves as God sees them.

Perhaps now, I am beginning.
Beginning too understand.

To understand what that means for me.
For who God has made me to be.
For what loves and hopes and dreams and desires and aspects of myself are central to my existence.
And maybe I feel.
Maybe I feel that for the first time in so long a time.
Or maybe for the first time, I am becoming a human becoming.
Seeing who I am.
And what I cannot be without.
And this birth is painful.
And it hurts.
And I struggle.
And I don't know what it all means.
And that is a constant shadow.
But then again, even that shadow.
Perhaps that also is who I am.

Who I have been made to be.
So I paint.
And I write.
And I study.
And I long to travel.
And I long to visit exhibitions.

And I look at lost years.
And realise that they weren't lost.
They were the steps towards becoming.
They were the people of Israel on a walk that should last a few weeks.
But that lasts for forty years.
Only for me it wasn't forty years.
Perhaps it was only 32.

1 Samuel 3:1-10 - A 7 minute sermon for a 9:30 service on Sunday.

Hannah was unable to become pregnant. And she was troubled by this, she carried a deep hurt in her heart, like a scar. In one of her dark moments Hannah visited the temple of the Lord and in her bitterness of soul, she prayed to God, “Lord, hear my sadness, feel my pain, remember me, be merciful to me. Give me a son and I will give him back to you.”

As she prayed, she prayed silently and her lips moved. A priest called Eli wandered past her and said, “stop your drinking”, thinking she was drunk. And Hannah explained that she wasn’t drunk and she shared her story.

The priest, Eli, blessed Hannah and Hannah left.

In due time she conceived and gave birth to a boy, whom she called Samuel, because Samuel sounds like “heard of God”.

When Samuel had grown up a few years she took him to the temple and saw Eli. And she said, “Remember me, here’s the son that God has given me, and so I’m giving him back to God.”

And Hannah prayed a beautiful prayer about God’s faithfulness. And she left Samuel in Eli’s care. And Samuel learnt to minister before the Lord under Eli’s guidance.

Samuel grew up, and Eli grew older and older until he was very old and going blind.

And so we reach our reading.

In a situation where the word of God was rare, where there were few visions.

Where the people of God had got into a rut, and were not expecting God to speak.

Or perhaps.

Perhaps, rather than not expecting God to speak,

Perhaps, they just weren’t giving God any room to speak.

We have Eli, who has become a living, embodiment, a metaphor for the people’s relationship with God.

People weren’t paying much attention to the word of God.

And Eli was going blind, so he couldn’t read it.

And so there is this perpetual situation of trying to learn how to live when God’s word seems rare.

And one evening Eli is lying down resting, with the temple’s light source, the symbolic, lamp of God slowly burning down. Sometime in the night, the light would go out, and a new lamp would be prepared to be lit the next day.

And again, symbolism is powerful here, as the lamp starts to fade physically, it becomes a metaphor for the light of God. God’s public presence in the world.

The light is fading in the temple and soon it will be left in darkness.

And THEN.

Then, into this context, this background of shadows and a growing sense of rising darkness, God speaks.

But God doesn’t move a mountain, or send a firestorm or a flood.

God speaks, and to Samuel’s young ears, it sounds just like Eli.

This amazing sign from God, and it sounds like a voice in the night.

And it sounds like the voice of Eli.

Or maybe it doesn’t, maybe it does sound like God, a real “God” sounding voice, but Samuel is just too humble to imagine that God would speak to him.

Samuel, who sleeps in the temple of the Lord, near the Ark of God.

The voice, calls Samuel by name. “Samuel”.

And Samuel responds, he speaks into the silence and stillness, with the light flickering down.

“Here I am”

And Samuel goes to see Eli, who says, “it wasn’t me.”

And the same thing happens again. And again. But the third time.

When Samuel speaks to Eli and says to him, “Here I am; you called me.” Something changes for Eli.

It’s like scales falling off his nearly blind eyes.

It’s like the booming voice of God in the near silence of the temple.

Eli remembers, he remembers that he used to know what it was like to hear God talk to him. To read God’s word.

To actually experience God as a reality for himself.

But not just to hear God’s voice, but to be called, as if by name.

And Eli tells this to Samuel. It’s the Lord speaking to you.

Eli, the priest of countless years, tells this young man Samuel, who we are told in verse 7, doesn’t even know God yet. And did not understand the word of God.

And Eli, knowing Samuel, and knowing how innocent and humble Samuel is to all that God might be saying to him. Tells him what to do.

And I wonder whether as Eli was giving this advice to Samuel, whether he was thinking that perhaps he should take some of his own medicine.

And so Samuel, the humble, the diligent, the quiet, goes back to his blankets and lies down.

And the Lord came and stood next to him and said, “Samuel! Samuel!”

The Lord made himself known to Samuel in a profound way. Are we prepared to get that close to God, or rather, to let God get that close to us?

The Lord came and stood next to Samuel.

And Samuel answered, “Speak, for your servant is listening.”

Could we say that?

“Speak Lord, I am listening.”

Or even before this, could we even say that we are listening in expectation of hearing God’s voice.

Bishop Stephen Cottrell, asks the same questions in a wonderful little book called, Do Nothing To Change Your Life. And I want to recommend it to you.

But I also don’t want to recommend any other voices, or inputs to add to the collection that clog up our lives already.

TV, telephones, newspapers, Twitter, the BBC website, long distance phone calls, BBM’s, iPods, iPlayer, Sky TV, or maybe even UCB Christian radio.

I used to have an amazing spiritual breakfast every morning, four chapters of the Bible, and a time of prayer.

And then we had a baby! And that pattern has continued in times and seasons, but the daily spiritual diet has become more sporadic, piece meal, no more morning Bible binges, but snacks of scripture throughout the day.

And in the busy-ness of life, whether you have children or not, the pressures on our time and on our senses mount up.

And the only answer, is to actively, deliberately make space.

And that is hard.

To find silence.

And so as I finish jabbering at you, we are going to pause for a minute.

Before we sing a marvellous hymn, all about listening for that still small voice.

And in this silence, I want to encourage you to offer yourselves to God once more, as Hannah offered Samuel.

and silently say the words that Samuel said, “Here I am.”

And then listen.

ONE MINUTE PAUSE

Father God, be to us the still small voice that whispers in the dark. Be to us the loud crash of cymbals that drown out the noise of the world. Be to us, the physical presence that draws close and calls us each by name. AMEN.