The art of reading nothing: or how I learned to still keep worrying about my current lack of reading

Today, I have squeezed a few jobs, pushed a few around, moved mountains, destroyed fortresses(!) and now find myself in a place where I have a few hours "spare" to do some reading. The hours are not really spare, though they should be.

As I sit down at my desk instead of reading, I start typing a blog post, using these most precious gifts: time, energy and inclination.

Time to read.

Energy to read.

Inclination to read.

But I'm not reading. And I'm not reading for a few reasons:

The first is because I am writing this.

The second is because I know that actually, while I have found time to read, I have a million and one jobs to do, and people waiting for those jobs to be done. Once again we come to the great question of time management, of what is essential and urgent, and essential and non-urgent, and etc etc etc.

But in the end, it all still amounts to too much sand in an already full sandbox.

So, I lay these things down, I accept this is the case, and I persist, no, I will still read.

Which brings me to the third reason I am not reading.

What do I read?

What can I read?

Because, before me are a number of books, all with validity and reasons to read.

I have the Diocesan bookgroup's book, Moberley's, The Theology of The Book of Genesis - which is fantastic. And which I need to read more of for a book group meeting in December.

But I also have John Inge's fabulous, Theology of Place which I need to dip into to complete the next part of my Diocesan IME assignment.

But at the same time, I really want to invest a bit more time in Michael Moynagh's Church For Every Context as I think through and prepare the new service to begin in January.

Yet, I'm also aware that I need to read some more devotional reading, and so Tozer stares at me.

I'd really like to take the advice of the Dean of Liverpool who on my ordination retreat before priesting encouraged folk to have a commentary on the go, being read parallel to the Bible, devotionally. So a commentary on Luke bought for that purpose, smiles down on me from the packed bookcase.

Then there's the three or four books in my, "started and love but must sort out the baptism and will pick this up some time" books, who sit, in a corner, a bookmark in each. Comparing notes. "He only read 20 pages of me" - "you're lucky, he only read my introduction".

Then there's the Bible. SHOCK HORROR. Sat, hopefully not collecting dust, but tempted.

And finally, there's the book I've been wanting to read, receipt tucked inside the cover. Glossy, shiny cover that it is. But this book worries me, will it too just find its way to the "started but not finished pile".

So I feel rather impotent about what I might read. I have a book of short stories on the go, and a magazine, but I don't want to read those things: I've managed to put aside 120 minutes to read deep and profound theological material.

It's timetabled in place. Scraped and shaped, into a busy week, but its a block of time.
120 minutes.

Well actually, now it's 119 minutes, and by the time I've made that cup of Earl Grey it will be closer to 110.

SynoT

the news filters through, synod says no, synot.

Through it all we still have to keep striving to embody love.

And to recognise that the need for women bishops isn't to pander to the societal expectations, but rather, to Jesus'.

My Family And I, We

My family and I, we
Meet together,
Whatever the weather.

My family and I, we
Greet each other,
We hold each sister and brother.

My family and I, we
Sing songs together,
And long forever, for a better time to come.

My family and I, we
Cry, we pour out tears together,
We share tears as treasures.

My family and I, we
Read together and we learn and know together,
We grow together.

My family and I, we
Walk together,
Towards the horizon of the highway together.

My family and I, we
Shout out together,
Against injustice and we will until the never never.

My family and I, we
Dance together, sway this way and that way,
As one endeavour.

My family and I, we
Ring bells together,
Calling out to forever.

My family and I, we
Carry bags and baggage as a single group,
Together.

My family and I, we
Protest together, for those with less than nothing,
And we will on and on into the ever ever.

My family and I, we
Pray together,
We say the grace together.

My family and I, we
Face the cross together, we turn to the cost together,
Now and forever.

My family and I, we
Eat together, with Father, Spirit, Son,
As one together.

My family and I, we
Live faith together,
We desecrate barriers between race and hate together.

My family and I, we
Strive to stay together, as one,
As long as forever.

My family and I, we
Wait for the Son as a single one together,
We turn from "I" to "us" together,
Now and forever.
AMEN.

Broken We Gather

Some words to a hymn without much of a tune or rhythm (except the currently one in my head).

Broken we gather,

Aware of our faults,

Shattered and bothered,

And wrecked with our doubts,

But the light of the saviour,

Shines through into the dark,

His Spirit, it guides us,

Beyond all our fears.

The wonder of nations,

The catcher of tears,

No place is too far away,

From his outstretched arms,

The embrace of the saviour Son,

Reaches down into despair,

Where the tyrants of hate

And sadness reside,

His grace is enough for all,

His peace will reside,

No woe is beyond him,

No sinner-saint apart from his love,

The outreaching, all loving,

God who calls us home,

Draw near to his scars,

And hold aloft your own.

A top five of practical things for a deacon

I'm writing this short blog post as it's been on my mind for a while, and 
it was confirmed that I should write it, when a photo of a "pastor's toolkit" appeared on a deacon's timeline.

The five things I have to offer are not necessarily five things that are the most theologically pertinent or indeed powerful, but simply five things that I have used that have been helpful in the last year.

Naturally things like a BIBLE, COMMON WORSHIP, a HOME COMMUNION set are handy too!

1. Holding crosses: these little holding crosses are shaped to fit in the palm of your hand, they become a symbol of Christ's presence in situations where it is not possible for people to pray. When it feels like God is absent.

I buy these things in bulk, and I give them out in almost that bulk. They are available from charities that work with olive wood within Palestinian communities near Bethlehem. They are perfect for hospital visits. I give them to folk who are in difficult situations. This year I have given about forty of them out. And not just to Christians. Two instances are striking. One lady received one before going on a long-haul flight of which she was petrified. One lady received one when she was in intensive care. Next time I visited she was unconscious but the cross was firmly wedged in her hand. CHRIST IS PRESENT. The holding cross doesn't make him present, but it serves as a timely reminder.

2. A portable projector which has no need for a PC but accepts SD cards and USB flash pens: A multi- media PICO PROJECTOR might sound like a bit of an extravagance (and it is), but I have used this thing endlessly.

As a new deacon I was invited to give talks and to go to house groups and give more talks and to the Methodists and give more talks. Meetings in churches, in lounges, in halls. Bringing your own technology to illustrate your words.

Also, alternative worship sessions. Contemplative prayer evenings. Have Holy Trinity icons on repeat. Watch beautiful movies in an informal cafe church setting. Log on to VIMEO and go crazy.

3. A fold up table: A small one, about a foot square table surface is enough. I do home communions and communions in residential homes. Rather than making a mess and in the case of dementia care homes (from my experience) potentially causing distress, bring your own table. Mine resides permanently in my boot.

4. "Sorry I missed you" cards: Postcards with a picture of the church on one side and a simple message saying something like, 'I called to visit' and your name and address and email and phone number. Leave some space where you can write messages. Get them printed professionally, challenge the culture of shoddy black and white church photocopying. Carry them and a pen with you.

5. A visits bag: I have a bag which I use for visits. The reason I have A bag for visits, rather than a number of bags, is that it allows me to keep things in there permanently that I will often use on a visit. Things like, some pens, some Sorry i missed you cards, some holding crosses, a New English Hymnal, a New Testament with Psalms (given at deaconing), a Common Worship Pastoral services book. A fold up umbrella. Five pounds petty cash in change.

They are just suggestions...... but they've worked for me.

My Inheritance

My Inheritance

Glistening and glimmering,

Too bold to just hide away,

In darkened, dreary, shades of grey,

And too old,

To well-worn and ripped to disappear into the ether,

This volume,

Hangs no matter how limply,

It belongs besides me,

And there it sits,

On its wooden shelf of a grave,

No longer driving me,

Its slave,

I’m suddenly bolder,

A little older,

But to be truthful,

I’m a little less me,

A little messy me,

Sometimes out of sorts,

And too often in cahoots,

With false schemes and lowly plans,

I’ve dropped too far in this grace race,

This race of hyper stasis,

The power of those phrases,

Once contagious,

Now just a faded memory,

Of the way that life used to be,

Before I rediscovered the honey tree of life’s elixirs,

Strife’s fixers and hope’s better fixers,

Because that prized possession,

Yesteryears obsession,

Is now a recipe for remasters,

Refocused,

Realigned,

Into something streamlined,

But actually,

Less sublime,

More of the time,

But less inclined,

To bless,

To bless the broken and instead,

To offer simple platitudes and token attitudes,

All in the hope of a glimmer of gratitude,

And all told,

It’s all sold,

My inheritance,

Exchanged for fools gold,

Soup too lukewarm to scold,

This redefined existence,

Without the need for persistence,

It brought a comfort cold,

But pleasant,

A remission from the inherent,

Trials of keeping going,

On a one way road, when the traffic’s slowing,

My inheritance,

Much maligned,

Put out to pasture,

Yesterday’s classy clothes,

Bagged up with so much charity shop junk,

But even now,

Still,

Silent and still,

But speaking,

Even in this moment,

When my inheritance stands between some Bolshevik,

And some mini atlas,

Even in that place,

It makes claims,

Stakes a claim,

Calls out my name,

Won’t desert me,

Won’t forget me,

Nags at me,

Calls to me,

Whispers to me,

Not as sin,

But succour,

Full to the brim with hope and questions,

Answers and incessant praise,

To fill fresh days,

To blow away cold shakes,

And tired headaches,

My inheritance,

Quietly screaming,

Calling out to be called out,

Calling out to fit between my hands,

Pages turning,

Words yearning,

To be read aloud,

My inheritance,

This pile of crusted words,

This bound bureau of divine light,

Click goes the desk lamp,

Let’s begin again.

I Saw You - a poem

I Saw You

I saw you walk in and it was clear from your demeanour and your slow and hesitant steps that you were scared out of your wits, cut down, half dead by the worry,

Anxiety bubbling away in your tired head,

Locked down with weary tears,

Too afraid to dare to believe.

But in you stepped, stooped,

Your strong frame bowed low and weak,

Clamped shut by emotions too hurried and harried,

Your steps were heavy, burdened with a dread,

And denial,

An acceptance and a revelation,

You were once,

But not now, hopeful and built for hard work,

Capable, reliable and formidable in physical ways,

But the lens of coloured glass, reflects a different side today,

Mottled by colours in a different way,

Hewn in daubs of red and yellow,

Casting a shadow,

In this unfamiliar scene,

Of some of life’s grand events,

Those memories spent and wrenched, from a cold heart,

Made colder,

Not from madness and alcohol,

But an impassable wall of wailing,

That shapes, this encounter,

In this supposed sanctuary of anointing and redemption.

Your gruff voice, barely a mutter, was a redacted gesture,

Reduced to a flutter of air,

Passing through lips, too tense,

To breathe deeply of the joys and pleasures to be found.

Resolute,

And majestic,

Your grit determination to make your once a year pilgrimage,

To cast your heavily held stone,

And to lay that burden down momentarily,

Or more accurately,

Let speak in your inner being those words you never wanted to hear,

Those syllables that have shaped existence and life in ways, never before imagined,

Words that can never be spoken, and must never be spoken,

And should never be spoken, and should never have been spoken.

Condemn to the history books the oral passing of every dialogue on the matter,

Every muttering by another white coat.

Every wasted breath trying to articulate through nothing more than intellectual grunts and groans,

Some absurdist reality, a Dadaist deception, that cuts to the heart.

And channels within, a wall of shadows, too high to climb,

Too strong to fell,

Too impenetrable to pass through.

And like history’s rusted pages you move.

A spectre filled with air, but not life.

Your steps echoed down that wide corridor,

And I saw you.

You were seen.

Maybe not all of you.

But enough.

To begin.