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MARY’S DRESS

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BANK HOLIDAY weekend affords a happy extension to “left brain time.” There are always more books I want to read, more paintings I want to paint, more photographs I want to make, more writing to be done, more poems to unfold, more prayer to be celebrated, more people to share some time and stories with, more songs to be sung, more colours to be marvelled at, more silence to be revelled in – than time ordinarily allows. And that very fact is cause for thanksgiving! Life is indeed a rich tapestry. The signs of the reign, the joy of God, are all around me. And I’m immensely thankful for the connections that blogging makes possible with people all around the world.

Today’s artwork is inspired, in Eastertide, by Mary Magdalene, beloved apostle of Jesus, first witness to new life in the Resurrection, loyal provider of intimate and loving support and sustenance, someone generous, open-hearted and giving, someone who just “knew” instinctively, what Jesus’ mission on earth was about, someone released, by God’s goodness, from the kind of prison every one of us finds ourselves in from time to time.

All human persons are “bedevilled” by “Legion” the perpetually underlying and taunting belief that somehow we’re failing to make the grade, we’re unlovable, bigger and better “failures” than anyone else, destined to be “alone”, faithless, heartbroken, misunderstood, wretched. All human persons yearn for the kind of release that Jesus’ love and acceptance brought about in Mary’s life; for the kind of release that she brought about in his.

Mary Magdalene: someone cruelly maligned and abused by religious patriarchy and misogyny across the centuries, but all the while someone I’ve admired and looked to as an icon of life’s richness and fullness, of life’s goodness and generosity, of life’s being – under the vivifying reign of God – a beautifully, colourfully, gorgeously dressed dance with our Creator.

Sydney Carter described Jesus as The Lord of the Dance. In my heart I think of Mary of Magdala as Jesus’ dance-partner and she is clothed, dressed, like the environment all around and about her, in colour and glory. And theirs is a partnership, theirs is a dance that, far from being exclusive and excluding, invites you and I to join. “Shall we dance?”, Mary asks. “And shall we sing?”, asks the Lord of the Dance. And sometimes the colours blur a little in the swirling. And sometimes they’re blended by our tears …

Have you seen the wonder of it? Have you seen Mary’s dress?

OF COURSE I’LL TELL YOU

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WELL OF COURSE I’ll tell you what I’ve been reading all day on this grey, drizzly, English Bank Holiday Easter Monday. Be glad to. You know that! It’s just that, hang on a minute, what was I saying, oh, yeah, reading. Of course I’d like to tell you. It’s just that, for the life of me, I can’t remember.

WITH A LITTLE HELP …

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PAUL DEAKIN (vested, left) preached an encouraging and challenging sermon this morning, attired for a few brief moments in a too short preaching scarf – because it’s more ordinarily employed at Stockport County FC!  It’s great having Paul home on leave from his studies at Mirfield. “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” – Nathaniel asked of Philip. Well, of course, someone could and did! And Paul Deakin’s one of the many good things to “come out of” Bramhall.

DAVID TAYLOR (robed, right) served the dual offices of assistant verger and altar server, at short notice, in the midst of one of those whirlwind sort of mornings that Sundays at St Michael’s often look like. With consecutive celebrations of the Eucharist at 8, 9 and 10.45am there’s a lot to be done behind the scenes to make sure there’s a smooth flow. With David and other willing souls like him we’re able to sing: “we get by with a little help from our friends …”

AND ANDY BROWN put imagination into gear and was quick to snap the moments when some of my wonderful young friends here got stuck into “the priesthood of all believers” liturgically. Literally “active angels”, we encouraged each other to pray according to the style and practice of ancient tradition, standing, and with arms raised in a posture of praise, thanksgiving and receptivity. And we all shared in times of silence and stillness too. It all made for a holy communion. Eucharistic. Something accomplished. Religio - a binding together. And I recall that the great son of man who came out of Nazareth once said: I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends – John 15.15-17

ALMOST SPELLING ‘HOLY’

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WRITING ABOUT stained glass fragments “blown apart in wars” and haphazardly reassembled later, the priest poet David Scott, in the second stanza of his A Window in Ely Cathedral, tells of

A leering bit of face with twisted lips,
a bit of beard, and letters almost spelling ‘holy’,
a sheaf of corn, a leaf, and then the sun dips,
lighting Mary in her simple glory.

Piecing Together
 A Window in Ely Cathedral,
stanza 2 of 3, page 29

In the economy of God there’s something afoot. I can feel it in my bones. The downtrodden, the dispossessed, the shattered, the fragmented and the forgotten, wherever they are in the world, are raising their voices. They cry for the reconciliation, resurrection and restoration of a humane humanity – for people of every race and nation, and of every creed (or lack thereof), or “class”, or colour. Too much has been blown apart by wars and for too long. But days wear on, the sun dips in her course, illuminating that which speaks of life’s real glory, and is thereby truly holy.

This is exciting. This is the stuff of the reign of the Source of all of our lives, to whom we have prayed, and with whom we have yearned, in every time and place, in every political and religious tradition, for so very long. Whether we’re speaking of ordinary Libyans standing up to be counted, intent on “occupying” their own entitlement to a bit of their own space as human beings; whether we’re speaking of Occupy New York, or Occupy London, or occupy-a-space-in-the-queue for fresh air, or clean water, or a bowl of rice, something is most assuredly afoot. The sun dips, lighting Mary in her simple glory, and because at evensong we’re rather quieter than usual we may hear her softly say and pray

he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He hath put down the mighty from their seat: and hath exalted the humble and meek

Come Christ-Mass this year the stable and the tent will not be featured only in hand-picked and glossy Christmas cards. Tents and stables are being raised up alongside cathedrals and churches. Tents and stables are being raised up in our dreams and in our slowly-awakening hearts. Here are opportunities to catch real glimpses for the possibilities of life’s glory, opportunities that are thereby truly holy. Some amongst us, nonetheless, will not look any more kindly upon such fragmented opportunities than they would ever have looked upon the teenage mother in the stable of Bethlehem.

But something of and from the divine is afoot. The leering bit of face with twisted lips, a bit of beard, and letters almost spelling ‘holy’, must give way to the sun’s dipping

lighting Mary in her simple glory.

HOSPITALITY’S COMMUNION

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I’M VERY MUCH TOUCHED tonight. Earlier today I baptised one of Stephen & Joanna’s lovely daughters. It was a joyful occasion, the second such family baptism I’d celebrated with them in recent years. The little candidate had a lovely time. Gorgeous, in a most beautiful white dress, she toddled about the church, sometimes appearing to be deep in prayer as she knelt at the communion rail. Sometimes looking intent, like one of our housekeepers. And all this set in the context of the Eucharist. Baptism and Eucharist, the two great sacraments of belonging. These make for celebration indeed. A holy communion between souls and the Heart – the Life – of God.

And then they headed off to “wet the baby’s head” in that other most important and time-honoured tradition. I wasn’t able to join them for that bit. But if hospitality’s communion had been celebrated in the church in the morning so, too, is hospitality’s communion to be celebrated here in the vicarage in the evening because, bless their hearts, a knock on the door mid-afternoon signalled the sharing of a marvellous and extraordinary gift – the wherewithal for a simply sumptuous 3 course supper, lovingly prepared and shared, and including Joanna’s fabulous home-baked cakes pictured above. This is holy communion indeed. The Lord Jesus, I believe, would smile and smile again upon such a sight and such a gift. Holy communion. In the morning and in the evening. I can almost here him asking “d’ya get it?” … Stephen and Joanna do.

Many, many, many thanks :)

MAXIMILIAN’S BAPTISM

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THE FULL HOUSE for the joy-filled Baptism of Maximilian this morning gives me (another) opportunity to head up this post with my very favourite account, by a simply wonderful narrator, of Jesus’ Baptism! But more than that, it’s always such a joy when our House for the Church is full of people come to celebrate the goodness of God and the richness of the gifts we revel in. And there’s no greater gift to a family than that of an infant. Nor, perhaps, any greater responsibility laid upon older shoulders. Bringing infants to Baptism in and into the House of the Lord provides glorious opportunity for all of us to reflect upon the giftedness and gratuitousness of our lives, upon our hopes and our aspirations, what – in co-creating with, and in, and surrounded by God – we want to make of our world, our humanity, our society, our church – for Maximilian, for ourselves, and for God.

“I baptise with water”, said John the Baptist. One who will come after me will baptise with Holy Spirit. And so it came to pass. Today and every day humankind is baptised “new every morning” by the Spirit of Divine Grace and Love. Perhaps that’s why Maximilian and his wonderful parents were smiling so much in our sacramental celebration of the fact this morning. Perhaps that’s why people had travelled from far and wide to celebrate the gift and the treasure. Yes! – wherever and whenever humankind is “baptised” in the Spirit of God we can rest assured that the Source of our Life continues to turn the world upside down. “Whoever has seen (this human) me has seen the Father” said the anointed Jesus to Philip. And this morning he might have said “whoever has seen Maximilian has seen the Father”. What a joy, what a commission, what a responsibility – this living of the Life and Love of God in and through each one of us, dear created people.

DIVINE PARENT,
Mother and Father, Sister and Brother of us all,
in company with Jesus,
in the power of your Spirit,
with prophets, priests and royal leaders,
and with every woman, man and child
upon the face of the earth,
we bless you for the gift of life and of abundance.
And as we bless you we also ask
your blessing for ourselves that we may be
inspired, strengthened and encouraged daily
to share that life and that abundance
throughout the world.

MAGDALENA

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CYNTHIA BOURGEAULT’S The Meaning of Mary Magdalene has been such a gift to me this year; and so, more recently, has Jan Richardson, and her In the Sanctuary of Women, both of which books I’ve been revelling in, and recommending widely.

I’ve often spoken of my undying gratitude for something the late and great Archbishop Michael Ramsey said – I believe quite frequently – and once to me and a small group of doting ‘disciples’ gathered around him in my small rooms in Salisbury 30+ years ago: (Gleefully and with a slight stammer) “We’re the early Christians!”

How glad I’ve been to recall the truth and the depth of the archbishop’s wisdom! How glad to be a disciple alive today – 2000 years (only!) after Jesus and Mary Magdalene and their friends graced and anointed human encounters – glad to be alive in a wide world and in wide faith communities that are still being blessed, and still being graced, with new and ever deeper understandings of what it means to be fully human; to be anointed, to be loved, and graced, and held (even “after the Cross”) and sustained, and still learning.

And tonight I fell upon this achingly beautiful video produced and gifted to the world (thanks be to God) by Jan Richardson and her own “sweetheart” Garrison Doles. May it bless a wider and more humane humankind, and awaken new riches in all of us. May we know, and feel, and be thankful for, and above all understand, passiontide - Christ’s and all peoples’ passiontide – in new and personal ways. May we delight in the Love of the God who sees the deepest and truest beauty in us. May we know the fullness of the blessing of Life. May we hear Life say “Today: today you will be with me in paradise”.

FERRY ACROSS THE MERSEY

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Mersey Ferry 3

LUNCH WITH A COLLEAGUE the other day led to happy conversation about our origins. He hailed from Devizes in Wiltshire, a county very dear to my own heart. And I from Claughton, Birkenhead (named after the birch forest on the headland – once a favourite hunting ground of English kings) on the Wirral Peninsula. I don’t have opportunity to go back there much these days but it’s always good to reminisce.

I remember cherry blossom and the scent of apple orchards in and around my childhood home. My parents’ house backed on to the apple orchard of the Northern Baptist Bible College (just down the road from St Aidan’s Anglican Theological College) and on summer nights I drifted off to sleep to the echoes of mighty preachers holding forth in the Missionary Convention Tent set up annually on the college lawns. The great hymn Will your anchor hold in the storms of life? was etched early upon a small boy’s memory and imagination. I wasn’t altogether sure mine would.

And St Andrew’s Road was home to no fewer than six clergy houses, of various denominations. It was an easy walk to any one of a dozen or more churches and I was an enthusiastic and eclectically interested regular visitor to most. The dear priest at St Werbergh’s, Grange Road, was one Fr John Lennon. “Lovely to see you here: but don’t forget now to go to your own Church as well, will ye?” School, too, was nearby and I’m still in touch with one or two who were my closest allies (one in Winchester, another in Plymouth), and grateful for what I think of as one of the finest Church (of England) Youth Fellowship Groups anyone could wish for. Though my Dad was one of the local policemen, and I was frequently asked whether I intended to “follow in his footsteps”, it was always the case, from the age of 8, that I yearned and hoped for the day to dawn when I’d be ordained a priest. Christian ministry of one kind or another was almost bound to be one of the options to be considered given the decidedly ecclesiastical surroundings in which I spent carefree boyhood days.

Perhaps when time allows, some day, I’ll write more of Wirral days. It’s only necessary for me to close my eyes to hear the doleful sound of fog horns in what was then the still very busy River Mersey. And I can smell the scent of strong coffee and cigarette smoke wafting about the decks of the Mersey Ferries. A tuppeny return North Circle bus ride got me and my pals down to Woodside Ferry Terminal from where, in our heads and hearts the ferries would transport us to India, China, the Americas, and the Isle of Man (!) – though, in unimaginative truth, they actually only went as far as New Brighton sands, or Liverpool!

Then, miraculously quickly given that we’d just sailed by Mersey ferry from Calcutta, home for sausages from Charles Dashley’s, and chips and beans. And my mother’s rhubarb pie. Rob McLaren and I must have lunch again soon. I’d be fascinated to know whether our time together set him thinking any more about similarly happy days in Devizes …

Related Posts: Mothered in the Faith, 2009; World Class Soup, 2010

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