A Memory of the Future

Our eyes are never satisfied with sight,
The heart always desires something more,
New schemes are birthed on graves that now do store
a thousand hopes that faded in the night.
Is life an endless effort to rewrite
the story that we know and can't ignore,
Like millionaires in mansions who are poor,
No way to satisfy our appetite.

But woven from a single loom we share
a memory of the future like a dream.
Beyond the shoreline of our minds we dare
to think of things that now are still unseen.
The tassels of eternity are where
we find ourselves here living in between.

So when I recently discovered that bristlecone pines grow in Colorado, which are some of the oldest living organisms on earth, I knew I wanted to see them for myself.

Living for thousands of years at high elevation, they endure centuries of storms and harsh weather. To the west in California, some even date back 5,000 years.

To think that some of these trees were standing when Christ was born is quite remarkable. And that since then the great Roman, Byzantine, Mongol, Qing and Ottoman empires have all come and gone and there they still stand, on their hill.

Looking at them and running my hand along their twisted exteriors was a very helpful exercise in perspective if nothing else. The tyrants of today war and rage and yet these trees have seen it all before, they operate on a completely different timescale.

I’ve managed to visit two sites so far, a third awaits me, and feeling inspired by these wonders of nature I began the year by writing a sonnet in their honour.

Bristlecones

As still as stones they stand, these brittle bones,
Cracked by the weight of time and scoured by storms.
They have no blossomed beauty bursting forth,
Long passed their best, these ancient bristlecones.
Bent double, hear them creak and hear them groan,
Stone-rooted in the ground from where they’re born,
Up high from all the madness they’ve withdrawn,
Deadwood, they would just rather be alone.

Yet, from these bark-stripped scars do virtues flow,
Time-tested temperance learned by standing still.
That only things of worth are those that grow
slowly, patiently, with steadfast of will.
As tyrants rage then disappear like snow,
These guardians of old stand on their hill.

O Lord my foes surround my every side,
Their mockery of you sounds like a roar.
Upward they swell just like a rising tide,
That sweeps around and pulls me from the shore.

But you, my God, will shield me all around,
You’ll anchor me and lift my head up high.
Breathlessly I struggle to make a sound,
Yet through the storm you always hear my cry.

And so I close my eyes and lay to rest,
To sleep and be at peace with what may come.
With you I’m even safe from certain death,
I won’t give in to fear or turn and run,

Arise O Lord, take up my cause anew,
I know that my salvation comes from you.

You are my God, the shepherd of my soul.
I shall not want, I have all that I need.
By peaceful streams you come and make me whole,
You lay me down to rest in meadows green.

You’re with me as I walk the darkest path,
I will not fear because you’re by my side.
You lead me safely with your rod and staff,
I choose to follow you, Lord, as my guide,

And even when my enemies are close,
You sit me at a banquet you have laid.
I am revived and soothed by you my host,
There is no need for me to be afraid.

I know that love and mercy will pursue
Me all the way to being home with you.

Setting off from Denver, we drove up through Colorado, across Wyoming and into Idaho for four nights next to Grand Teton National Park.

Then off again and up to northern Montana for a week by Flathead Lake and Glacier National Park. In total around 1,000 miles and 16 hours of driving.

Sat here now it’s funny thinking back to living in the UK, when just a three hour journey would feel like quite an undertaking. And we still need to drive the 1,000 miles back.

From dissecting the vast expanses of wilderness in our car, to the beauty of all the landscapes we’ve seen, it’s been a stirring experience.

Just this morning as I sat by the lake to watch the sun come up, a bald eagle soured into view and landed in a tree next to me. It began to fly loops out across the lake, swooping down to skim the water for fish before returning to the same spot.

Next an osprey appeared and in an act of avian hubris, successfully showed the eagle how it was done and flew off with breakfast in its talons.

Maybe this is the norm in Montana, but it’s certainly not for me.

“Ultimate wonder is not the same as curiosity. Curiosity is the state of a mind in search of knowledge, while ultimate wonder is the state of knowledge in search of a mind; it is the thought of God in search of a soul.”

Abraham Joshua Heschel

Thunder in the Soul

Our days they slip away before our eyes,
The years appear then dissipate from view.
With heads drooped low and listless hearts we slide,
Sightless by the miracles that accrue.

God fill our eyes with sight so we might see,
Come sate our minds with you so we would know,
Like lightning let your presence strike our sleep,
Illuminate our darkness here below.

And then we’ll see the bush burns unconsumed,
What is life unless we ask for wonder. 
As earthen pots with you we’ve been suffused,
Let our souls reverberate with thunder.

Awaken us! We stand at heaven’s gate,
I know that God is near and in this place.

I know what you’re thinking, this sounds like strange advice. And given the fact not many of us own typewriters or even radios anymore, it probably is.

But the context is important as it actually comes from a letter that C. S. Lewis wrote to a schoolgirl in 1959, after she had asked for his advice on writing. Here is what he said:

1. Turn off the radio.

2. Read all the good books you can, and avoid nearly all magazines.

3. Always write (and read) with the ear, not the eye. You should hear every sentence you write as if it was being read aloud or spoken. If it does not sound nice, try again.

4. Write about what really interests you, whether it is real things or imaginary things, and nothing else. (Notice this means that if you are interested only in writing you will never be a writer, because you will have nothing to write about…).

5. Take great pains to be clear. Remember that though you start by knowing what you mean, the reader doesn’t, and a single ill-chosen word may lead him to a total misunderstanding. In a story it is terribly easy just to forget that you have not told the reader something that he wants to know—the whole picture is so clear in your own mind that you forget that it isn’t the same in his.

6. When you give up a bit of work don’t (unless it is hopelessly bad) throw it away. Put it in a drawer. It may come in useful later. Much of my best work, or what I think my best, is the re-writing of things begun and abandoned years later.

7. Don’t use a typewriter. The noise will destroy your sense of rhythm, which still needs years of training.

8. Be sure you know the meaning (or meanings) of every word you use.

I found it fascinating to see his insights into how to write well and began to adapt it to the year 2025 - Turn off Spotify, know the meaning of words and don’t rely on AI to write for you, if possible close your MacBook and write with a pen, save ideas in your phone’s notes folder (your digital drawer).

So, encouraged by Lewis and his wisdom I have returned to my project of writing a sonnet for each Psalm in the Bible. Who knows how long it will take, but hopefully turning off the radio will help.

Psalm 13

How long, O Lord, how long will you forget
To think of me, it's like I've been ignored.
My body's wracked with sorrow and regret,
God are you even giving me a thought?

How long will I be mocked and so despised?
I've turned into a laughing stock of late.
I'm desperate God, I hope you've heard my cry,
I'm losing hope, surrendered to my fate.

But I will trust in who you say you are,
Your steadfast love that leads me all the way.
I'll fall into your ever open arms,
And sing again, in worship and in praise.

Yes this I know, the Lord is good to me,
With him I will rejoice and be at peace.

Psalm 16

I'm crying out for help Lord, keep me safe.
No good apart from you is mine to claim.
Your company of saints sustains my faith,
I know that we will not be put to shame.

You are my choice God, you and you alone.
All that I am and all I have is yours.
There's beauty all around that you have sown,
In you I am an heir, I am secure.

With all I am I bless your holy name,
Each day and night you counsel me anew.
My heart and soul rejoice and will proclaim,
That all your ways are wonderful and true.

God lead me down life's path, what joy it is
To be with you, it's such a perfect fit.

I wish you all a very happy Easter.

Morning Dew
When you find yourself in desolation,
Weighed down by grief and hollowed out by fear,
Do not doubt that spoke in consolation,
It's still true now and surely he's still near.

Yes, pain and sorrow certainly will come,
His presence like a memory of old.
When once you felt his warmth, you feel so numb,
The embers of your heart grow ever cold.

But this we call to mind and hope once more,
The steadfast love of God will never cease.
His mercy and his faithfulness endures,
They're new each day, like morning dew on leaves.

We wait for you, the one who fills our souls,
God you, and you alone will make us whole.

Abide With Me
Abide with me fast falls the eventide,
The darkness deepens and the light does fade.
When friends have failed and hope seems crucified, 
Hope of the helpless stay with me I pray.

Since early days on me you cast your smile,
And though rebellion was the path I chose,
You have not left me even for a while,
Ever present all through the highs and lows.

I need your presence every passing hour, 
You are my stay, an everlasting guide.
What but your grace can foil the darkest power,
Under your wing I shelter and I hide.

Where is death's sting, grave where's your victory?
In life and death Lord, come abide with me.

Psalm 1

So blessed are they who walk not with the foul,
Nor stand around with sinners in their way,
Who do not mock, or sneer, or scoff, or scowl,
But on the Word they meditate each day.

Just like a tree that's planted by a stream,
That bears its fruit in season and on time,
Their leaves won't brown but will be evergreen,
A life in harmony with the divine.

Yet each can choose to go along their way,
To turn their backs on who they're made to be.
And they will be like chaff that's blown away,
A rooted life is only truly free.

Then on these trees the Lord will keep his eye,
He'll tend to them, so they will never die.

The busyness of autumn never let up as we processed into winter, which left me a little bereft of time or energy to write, partly due to the fact we are buying a new building for our church here in Colorado.

But there’s nothing quite like the story of Christmas to make you stop, the wonder of the incarnation, of God coming to live among us.

Last year I shared a stirring poem by G K Chesterton, called The House of Christmas, where he conjures in our minds the wonderful idea of the manger being both the place where God became homeless and also the very place where we come home.

In fact his gift for festive poems doesn’t end there as another one I love is called The Wise Men, which has this fantastic final verse:

Hark! Laughter like a lion wakes
To roar to the resounding plain.
And the whole heaven shouts and shakes,
For God Himself is born again,
And we are little children walking
Through the snow and rain.

And so as we come to December 25th, to think upon the Word becoming flesh, I sat down to try and write a poem in the style of Chesterton which I hope you enjoy.

Merry Christmas.

A Manger on the Floor

We come this night to Bethlehem

To see the one whom they have said

Has come to earth and did descend

From heaven into the straw.

-

A hush breaks out as up we creep

To see the babe who is asleep

Who left his place at heaven’s seat

For a manger on the floor.

-

What madness all this seems to us

That this is where we meet true love

That he who is and is to come

Could become so weak and poor

-

But in our darkness here we find

The purest light that ever shined

And with us God will now abide

Here on earth forevermore.

PS I’m pleased to say a song I helped co-write was released on KXC’s new album, you can listen here

These are the words of a young Winston Churchill, written after a visit he made to New York in 1895, and as I read them recently in a biography about him they made me pause for a moment.

Today we mark one year since we moved to the US, arriving in Denver, Colorado, and like Mr Churchill that too has been our experience of the wonderful people we have met. Welcomed wholeheartedly by so many, we could not be more grateful for the people God has brought into our lives.

However as I sit here 12 months after we arrived, the anniversary has certainly brought up a range of emotions in me. There is so much we are grateful for and we know deep down in our hearts that this is the place we are meant to be. But at the same time the cost of what we had to leave behind, the cultural shock we have experienced, the strain of leading in a church, all have weighed heavy on my mind this week.

We could never have predicted so much of the last year, good or bad, and so often that is the way. We give God our yes, but with little idea of what that will actually look like. I am certainly guilty of building up a picture in my mind, only for reality to prove quite different.

This week I was reading some poems by Charles Causley (who I previously featured here) and in particular his poem Eden Rock. In it he vividly and movingly describes being beckoned from life into death by a vision of his deceased parents, pictured like they would have been when they were young.

It ends with the most poignant of lines - “I had not thought it would be like this” - which though I’ve read it so many times seemed to carry a new resonance as I thought back over the last year here.

So I wrote that line down at the top of my notepad, making it the first line of a new poem, and tried my best to go from there.

I had not thought that it would be like this,

The twists and turns of life that take you down

a winding path that roams and climbs and dips,

The highs and lows, the boring and profound.

-

As I reflect on what has come before,

And all the things we’ve seen along the way,

Oh rarely do we know what is in store,

The cost of taking up our cross each day.

-

Is God still good and true in all his ways

is what I hear my heart ask in the night,

And when the brook runs dry will I still praise

To truly walk by faith and not by sight.

-

Let this and this alone just be my vow

Lord I believe, come meet me in my doubt

I’m not sure there is. Maybe the cello too.

And yet it is without doubt one of the most beautiful instruments to listen to when played by a talented musician. All the skill, nuance and feel that has come from a lifetime of dedication and practice.

Earlier this year I read a wonderful book called “The Sound of Life’s Unspeakable Beauty” by master violin maker Martin Schleske, and it spoke deeply to me as he extrapolated a vision of us in God’s hands as he spoke about the violins he has made in his.

From choosing the right wood, to crafting its shape, to the destructive nature of perfectionism, there were so many things he writes about that I could mention. But it was his analogy of us as the instrument and God as the master musician that particularly spoke to me.

So often we can view our lives as merely problems that need solving, broken objects to be repaired. And despite the broken parts of us needing to be mended by God, I wonder if a more helpful overall analogy would be to view ourselves as beauty that is being formed. That only in the hands of God our creator, can the beauty of our lives come forth.

Martin says this: “God does not replace our presence with his. Rather, he seeks our presence to bring it to fruition in the same way a musician sounds an instrument….As the instrument and musician join together, so God joins himself with the fragility of our love. His gentleness is reflected in the respect with which he meets us, his presence in our attentiveness, his righteousness in our relationships, his truth in our conduct, his mercy in our unwillingness to hold a grudge, in learning to forgive each other.”

As the instrument and musician join together.

That feels like a wonderful analogy of spiritual formation to me, or as Psalm 16 says “I have set the Lord always before me.” Placing our lives into God’s hands, setting him before us in all situations, is the only way to find out who we truly are.

“When the musician finds his sound in the violin, the musician and the violin are not each half there but both are wholly present. The musician does not become a violin, and yet he becomes completely united with it. A singled, unified sound emerges that cannot be divided…..the instrument gives itself completely into the hands of the musician, and the musician is fully immersed in the instrument’s sound.”

It’s in that process of creation, that all the promised possibilities of who we are can unfold. The sound of life’s unspeakable beauty.

P.S. The year the Vineyard in the USA has celebrated it’s 50th anniversary and a number of months ago I was sat in our garden, smoking my pipe, when I decided to have a go at writing a poem to mark this milestone. Well this ended up becoming a video played at the national conference and I thought I’d share it with you here

Taken from the story at the end of Mark 4, Jesus and his disciples get into a boat as evening comes and start to make their way across the lake when a great storm arises and water begins to fill the boat.

Panic quickly takes hold, it seems they are on the brink of death. And if that wasn’t enough they turn to look at Jesus to see him sleeping soundly at the back of the boat.

Rembrandt does an incredible job of capturing this moment - the intensity of the storm, the contrast of dark and light, the huge waves, the struggle to stay alive. It’s so good in fact it’s easy to imagine yourself in the scene, which is exactly what he did (the man in blue looking back at you).

The terror of the disciples is entirely contradicted by the tranquility of Jesus.

So they wake Jesus and shout “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”, to which he stirs and rebukes the wind and sea saying “Peace! Be still!”.

And as it calms he turns to them and asks “Why are you so afraid? Have you still no faith?”.

Now in such a moment of desperation they did manage to muster up just enough faith to believe Jesus might be able to do something, if they hadn’t then waking him would have been pointless.

So why then does Jesus respond by calling their faith into question? Surely believing he could rescue them was in fact a sign of their faith?

Well maybe the difference was that while they had faith he could calm the storm, he had faith enough whether the storm was calmed or not.

They trusted him to stop them from sinking but he trusted God whether they sank or not. And so he could sleep.

As a good charismatic I orientate my life around praying prayers that carry an expectancy that God will move, that he will calm the storm. But what happens when he doesn’t?

Maybe the invitation for me is to more fully believe those famous words at the end of Roman 8, that nothing can separate me from the love of God.

For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Peace, be still.

On Wednesday of last week I had a retreat day to take and so I decided the time had come to have my first go at snowshoeing. A friend had recently given me some on a permanent loan, so it felt like my moment had come.

I was up early and drove an hour to the trailhead, the snowshoes went on, and off I went.

I was in the Indian Peaks Wilderness area of Colorado and I was heading for Lake Isabelle, which sits at just under 11,000ft. It was a beautiful day, blue skies, no wind, and not a human in sight.

The picture above was taken in the middle of the lake, which was buried under a copious amount of snow, and I sat on that rock and took in the beautiful view.

After a while I set off back to the car, the hike was 11 miles in total and so it was at this point that I started to question why I had decided to hike quite so far.

Still no one in sight, no wind, just the bird song to accompany me.

But then as I stopped for a drink of water, I suddenly heard the sound of little footsteps behind me and as I turned there was a beautiful fox looking right at me.

As I stood and watched it walked around in a circle a few times and then came straight up to me, just a few feet away, and sat down. I too then sat down and together we enjoyed each other’s company for at least 15 minutes.

This felt very much like a spiritual moment.

I’d spent most of the hike talking to God, I wanted to make the most of my retreat day and so was hoping he would speak to me in some way, I was hoping for an encounter.

And yet it wasn’t a voice in my head, a scripture that sprang out, or even the stunning mountain views that spoke to me, it was looking into the eyes of this wonderful animal that I heard the Lord simply say “I am with you”.

The rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel said “While not denying the charm and beauty of the world, the pious man realises that life takes place under wide horizons, horizons that range beyond the span of an individual life or even the life of a nation, of a generation, or even of an era. His sight perceives something indicative of the divine. In the small things he senses the significant; in the common and the simple he senses the ultimate; in the rush of the passing he feels the stillness of the eternal.”

In the small things he senses the significant.

In the simple he senses the ultimate.

In the rush he feels the stillness of the eternal.

So to end here is a sonnet I wrote after the hike, which was attempt to capture that invitation we all have to encounter God in all the things around us.

A Fox in the Snow

The drudgery of life can feel so deep
Unending jobs and chores that we must do
How can we find the holy in the sheets
The mound of things to clean and to get through

We know you’re there in moments of great joy
And times of desperation and of pain
But what about the humdrum and the toil
When days and weeks just start to feel the same

Lord lift our eyes to see that you are near
The wide horizon that we live beneath
Then burning bushes surely will appear
Just if we learn to seek you and to see

And like a fox in snow that comes and sits
We suddenly find you are in our midst

“He is not here, he has risen.”

That’s why we place our faith in Jesus, that’s why he stands alone in all of time and history, that’s why he holds the keys to death and Hades.

He is not here, he has risen.

It’s a foolish thing to believe that someone rose from the dead, even more so that the person who rose from the dead was God in human form. Then again, as Paul said, “the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is wiser than men”.

If the foolishness of God is resurrection into new life, give me the foolishness of God any day.

As John Newton so wonderfully wrote:

There is a fountain fill’d with blood,

Drawn from Emmanuel’s veins;

And sinners, plunged beneath that flood,

Lose all their guilty stains.

The dying thief rejoiced to see

That fountain in his day;

And there have I, as vile as he,

Washed all my sins away.

So I wish you all a happy Easter, receive the glorious news of the empty tomb afresh.

We have all been resurrected into new life, as Dallas Willard put it, we are all unceasing spiritual beings with an eternal destiny in God's great universe. Eternity has already begun.

And so to end I wanted to share this glorious poem by G K Chesterton, which has two of the best closing lines to any poem.

All these things are less than dust to me, because my name is Tom and I live.

The Convert - G K Chesterton

After one moment when I bowed my head
And the whole world turned over and came upright,
And I came out where the old road shone white.
I walked the ways and heard what all men said,
Forests of tongues, like autumn leaves unshed,
Being not unlovable but strange and light;
Old riddles and new creeds, not in despite
But softly, as men smile about the dead

The sages have a hundred maps to give
That trace their crawling cosmos like a tree,
They rattle reason out through many a sieve
That stores the sand and lets the gold go free:
And all these things are less than dust to me
Because my name is Lazarus and I live.

It’s a bit annoying then that the Bible tells us to do just that, again and again.

“Wait for the Lord.”

“The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him.”

“Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him.”

In a culture of life hacks and next day delivery there isn’t much space for waiting.

And so I was drawn to think about the day after the crucifixion but the day before the resurrection. The forgotten day of Holy Week, Easter Saturday.

I can’t even imagine the feeling of devastation Jesus’ followers must have felt, he’d spent so long explaining to them what was going to happen but they still didn’t understand. Many had left, Peter had denied him, evil had triumphed and they were left questioning everything.

After a night of no sleep, minutes must have felt like hours, hours like days, the day itself like a week.

And isn’t that so often the same for us, moments of crisis, our dark night of the soul, the diagnosis we receive, the crushing loss of a loved one, the unanswerable questions of why. They leave us questioning everything.

We look at the empty cross and ask “are you really coming back?”.

Well yesterday the invitation was to be present to our sin, so today the invitation is to be present to our doubts. Don’t bury them, don’t deny them, engage them and let them bubble up to the surface. As Wendell Berry beautifully writes in one of this Sabbath poems: “Then what I am afraid of comes. I live for a while in its sight. What I fear in it leaves it, and the fear of it leaves me. It sings, and I hear its song.”

So on a day of waiting and doubting, I hope this liturgy brings hope to any situations in your life that feel hopeless.

The tide may be out, but it always returns.

Easter Saturday - Tom White

Here we wait, here we wonder

Waiting in the pain

Waiting as we weep

Waiting to see if what He said would happen really will

“My God, my God why have you forsaken me” rings in our ears

Hope hangs by a thread

We cling to it for dear life

If Good Friday is for the sinner

Easter Saturday is for the doubter

The questioner

The sceptic

The uncertain

For those times when we cannot see, but we know the path we must tread

For those times when trusting God is the hardest thing to do, but we know it is the thing we must do

The tide may be out, but it always returns

A lapping builds to a gushing

A gushing builds to a surging

A surging builds to a roaring

The roaring of the tide, the glory of the morning, the joy of the resurrection

We wait for the Lord and in His word we place our hope

A few weeks ago we had a big snowstorm here in Denver and so early the next day I went out for a hike, thankfully the roads had been ploughed and so I parked up and set about ploughing my own path through the deep snow.

When that amount of snow has fallen it has a deadening effect on the landscape, everything feels still, the usual echoes and reverberations stop.

As I stopped to catch my breath from the exertion of breaking trail, it felt like time itself had slowed down.

And so as we reach Good Friday and the crucifixion of Jesus, if ever there was a moment where time really did slow down I imagine this would be it.

Jesus breathing his last, the skies darkened, the Creator slaughtered by the created.

In his beautiful set of poems that follow the Stations of the Cross, Malcolm Guite captures this sense of quiet horror in a way that draws me right into that moment:

Jesus’ Body is Taken Down From the Cross - Malcolm Guite

His spirit and his life he breathes in all
Now on this cross his body breathes no more
Here at the centre everything is still
Spent, and emptied, opened to the core.
A quiet taking down, a prising loose
A cross-beam lowered like a weighing scale
Unmaking of each thing that had its use
A long withdrawing of each bloodied nail,
This is ground zero, emptiness and space
With nothing left to say or think or do
But look unflinching on the sacred face
That cannot move or change or look at you.
Yet in that prising loose and letting be
He has unfastened you and set you free.

Here at the centre of all of history, everything is still. Spent, emptied, opened to the core.

We all look forward to Easter Sunday for good reason, but let’s not rush through this day. As painful as it is, the invitation is to stop and consider our own sin that put Jesus on the cross, to consider Jesus and his passion.

In this moment we consider Jesus - Tom White

We consider that he was tempted, oppressed, despised and rejected

We consider that he was betrayed, condemned, reviled and mocked.

We consider that he was wounded, bruised, forsaken and crucified

In this moment we consider Jesus

We consider that he is merciful, faithful, holy and perfect

We consider that he is undefiled, divine, glorious and mighty

We consider that he is justified, exalted and the risen son of God

In this moment we consider Jesus

The Bible opens with these words, “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” Simple, yet powerful.

One of the worship choruses that moves me the most simply says “And my heart burns for you”. Just five words, but they stir something deep inside of me.

And so as we begin to look ahead to Easter, I wanted to share a wonderful poem that on the face of it seems very simple. It’s called Ballad of the Bread Man and was written by an English poet called Charles Causley. He was a teacher as well as a poet and his great gift was producing simple but profound work.

For example I was reading my collection of his poems this week and I came across a beautiful little verse called “I Am the Song”. It only has eight lines, each word is just one syllable, and at first it doesn’t seem to make much sense. The song that sings a bird? The tide that moves the moon? The earth that lights the sun?

But in such simple words he has drawn us into thinking about the one that did sing the birds and all things into being, the one that does light even the sun, the Word behind all words, the great I Am who met Moses at the burning bush.

And so to this ballad that I wanted to share. It spans the whole of Christ’s life, from birth to death, with some humorous images along the way.

But at the same time it also carries great pathos, particularly the last verse that shows how even after Jesus’ resurrection people were, and are, just not interested - “Through the town he went walking, he showed them the holes in his head, now do you want any loaves he cried, ‘not today’ they said.”

But the line that always hits me, the line that succinctly sums up the accusations that came against Jesus from the religious elite, simply says this - “he was charged with bringing the living to life”.

What a line. He went about bringing the living to life (and a few dead people too). It sounds to me like a great mission statement for a church, maybe I’ll use it when we plant here in Denver…

So to close, maybe take a moment to ask yourself this question - I know I am living, but am I alive?

One day Christ will come again and when he does he will raise to eternal life all of those who have put their faith in him. But until that day comes (and assuming it doesn’t happen before March 31st this year), as we approach Easter let us once again receive the life of Christ in our mortal bodies through the same Spirit that raised him to life.

“But if Christ is in you, although the body is dead because of sin, the Spirit is life because of righteousness. If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through his Spirit who dwells in you.” Romans 8:10-11

PS I plan to share a newsletter on Good Friday, Good Saturday and Easter Sunday. Can you have too much of a good thing?

Ballad of the Bread Man - Charles Causley

Mary stood in the kitchen
Baking a loaf of bread.
An angel flew in the window
‘We’ve a job for you,’ he said.

‘God in his big gold heaven
Sitting in his big blue chair,
Wanted a mother for his little son.
Suddenly saw you there.’

Mary shook and trembled,
‘It isn’t true what you say.’
‘Don’t say that,’ said the angel.
‘The baby’s on its way.’

Joseph was in the workshop
Planing a piece of wood.
‘The old man’s past it,’ the neighbours said.
‘That girls been up to no good.’

‘And who was that elegant fellow,’
They said. ‘in the shiny gear?’
The things they said about Gabriel
Were hardly fit to hear.

Mary never answered,
Mary never replied.
She kept the information,
Like the baby, safe inside.

It was the election winter.
They went to vote in the town.
When Mary found her time had come
The hotels let her down.

The baby was born in an annexe
Next to the local pub.
At midnight, a delegation
Turned up from the Farmers’ club.

They talked about an explosion
That made a hole on the sky,
Said they’d been sent to the Lamb and Flag
To see God come down from on high.

A few days later a bishop
And a five-star general were seen
With the head of an African country
In a bullet-proof limousine.

‘We’ve come,’ they said ‘with tokens
For the little boy to choose.’
Told the tale about war and peace
In the television news.

After them came the soldiers
With rifle and bombs and gun,
Looking for enemies of the state.
The family had packed up and gone.

When they got back to the village
The neighbours said, to a man,
‘That boy will never be one of us,
Though he does what he blessed well can.’

He went round to all the people
A paper crown on his head.
Here is some bread from my father.
Take, eat, he said.

Nobody seemed very hungry.
Nobody seemed to care.
Nobody saw the God in himself
Quietly standing there.

He finished up in the papers.
He came to a very bad end.
He was charged with bringing the living to life.
No man was that prisoner’s friend.

There’s only one kind of punishment
To fit that kind of crime.
They rigged a trial and shot him dead.
They were only just in time.

They lifted the young man by the leg,
Thy lifted him by the arm,
They locked him in a cathedral
In case he came to harm.

They stored him safe as water
Under seven rocks.
One Sunday morning he burst out
Like a jack-in-the-box.

Through the town he went walking.
He showed them the holes in his head.
Now do you want any loaves? He cried.
‘Not today’ they said.

Bad hair, wrinkles, the signs of stress….I don’t need to go on.

But what about when we look into the reflection of our heart? Do we like the things we see? Do we even allow ourselves to look?

Well Proverbs 27:19 tells us that even if we are doing our best to not look into the dark places inside of us, our life will eventually catch up and it will overflow whether we like it or not.

It says “As water reflects the face, so one’s life reflects the heart.”

Just as water or a mirror reflects back to us our face, our lives will also do the same with our character.

Catholic priest and author Jacques Philippe puts it like this in his book Interior Freedom:

“What often blocks the action of God’s grace in our lives is less our sins or failings, than it is our failure to accept our own weakness….We refuse to admit that we have this defect, that weak point, were marked by this event, fell into that sin. And so we block the Holy Spirit’s action, since he can only affect our reality to the extent we accept it ourselves. The Holy Spirit never acts unless we freely cooperate. We must accept ourselves just as we are, if the Holy Spirit is to change us for the better.”

The Holy Spirit can only affect our reality to the extent that we accept that reality ourselves.

It’s strange how simply accepting reality can sometimes be the hardest thing to do.

He goes on to say this: “….we can only transform reality fruitfully if we accept it first. This also means having the humility to recognize that we cannot change ourselves by our own efforts, but that all progress in the spiritual life, every victory over ourselves, is a gift of God’s grace. We will not receive the grace to change unless we desire to; but to receive the grace that will transform us, we must “receive” ourselves—to accept ourselves as we really are.”

To receive ourselves we must be courageous enough to look into our own reflection and ask the Holy Spirit to show us the bits looking back at us that need to be transformed.

The shame Adam and Eve felt in Eden after they had disobeyed God led them to hide from him, to try and escape from his gaze. And the devil has ever continued to sow that same lie, that when we become aware of our failings and shadow we must cover it up and hide it away.

But the glorious reality of the gospel is that “in Him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of his grace, which he lavished upon us”. (Eph 1:7-8)

Or as Father Philippe put it: “Only under the gaze of God can we fully and truly accept ourselves.”

So to close here is a prayer of mine based on that verse in Proverbs we read at the start, a prayer that leads us into a place of looking at our own reflection.

Lord I choose to come to you just as I am, I leave behind the many masks I hide behind.

Let the idealised self I present to others fall away, may I no longer fall for the lure of the social media con job.

Let us walk together, just you and I, in the cool of the day.

Show me your ways, teach me your heart, reveal to me my true design.

Give me the courage to look into my own reflection, to see how my life reflects my heart.

And send me from here in the knowledge that you are the potter and I am the clay and you love nothing more than to mould and shape me into something beautiful.