Harold Wilson, who was the UK's Prime Minister in the 60s and 70s, is reported as saying, "A week is a long time in politics." Whether Wilson or not, and whatever the original context, it's an aphorism that underlines just how much can happen or a situation develop during a relatively short time. In all our lives there are times when things are moving really fast; at such times we may snatch a breath and ask, 'How did I get here ... from there?'.
I recently found myself in just such a situation while reading a book whose plot moved so swiftly that I had to go back and read a couple of chapters again to see just how that happened. In real life, it might well be in the development of a new relationship, for example, but real life doesn't offer a replay, and we can only engage memory ... which could bring its own complications!
Right now, when we are in lock-down because of the spread of the coronavirus, time can be very heavy and the opportunity for reflection can cause us to look back. We might, for example review decades of happy family life, looking over the shoulder, as it were, of a loving spouse to the barren time before you met, and wonder, 'How did I get here ... from there?'. If you're retired, you might look back at your career and reflect how one job led to the next, or perhaps why you found yourself jumping from one situation to another so different. Maybe a great privilege you enjoyed contrasts to a very humble beginning and you think with some amazement, 'How did I get there ... from there?'
In Biblical times, one of the lowest ranking jobs in society was that of a shepherd. Their life tended to be nomadic, there for a few weeks and then gone without trace. To many, that made them unreliable. Then there was the job itself: out in all weathers, dealing with animals, the smell, the grime, deprived even of the meagre facilities that those primitive societies could offer. A shepherd was far from the town-dweller's first choice of social acquaintance!
And yet, many shepherds would perhaps be surprised to find themselves, thousands of years later, immortalised in the reading material of religious communities. 'How did they get here ... from there?' The prophet Amos, for example, was 'one of the shepherds of Tekoa' (Amos 1:1). He wasn't the son of a priest or prophet, hadn't had a scholastic upbringing; he was just a common shepherd. He lived in the time after Israel had split into two kingdoms and was sent by God to the 'other' kingdom (as if a schoolgirl were to be plucked from her Swedish home to address the United Nations!) with a message of condemnation and judgement that is still relevant today.
About three centuries earlier, David was sought out by the prophet Samuel who had been sent to anoint him. He wasn't even considered by his father important enough to be with the rest of the family to greet the prophet (1 Sam. 16:11). He was out looking after the sheep. And yet he is regarded as the greatest King of Israel. I wonder if he ever looked back to those boyhood days and asked 'How did I get here ... from there?'
And don't let's forget those shepherds 'looking after their flocks by night' who were the first to be told of the birth of the greatest Shepherd of all!
Last week would normally have been one of the busiest of the year in church circles but this year it has come, for many of us, in the midst of a time of extreme inactivity. If you're tempted - as I have been on many occasions - to look back over your life and wonder 'How did I get there?', spare a moment to consider what the human Jesus might have been thinking in the garden before his arrest (Luke 22:39-45). Then think of the Jesus who greeted Mary through her tears on that first Easter morning (John 20:15-16).
Somehow, however great the achievements or transitions of our lives, they pale into insignificance against the story our Saviour could tell!
Wednesday 15 April 2020
Wednesday 1 April 2020
Mothers' Day and Beyond
How did you mark Mothers' Day this year? Almost certainly, your celebrations would have been different from normal. The corona-virus has meant that many people will have had to revise their plans, whether they were whatever had been the accepted norm for many years or arrangements made for something special this year. Much had to be changed or totally abandoned almost at the last minute.
My intentions differed little from any other Sunday, and have remained that way since my mother died sixteen years ago. But they, too, changed this year because there was no church service to attend. Instead, thanks to technology - and in common with many other congregations across the country - we were able to participate in a service that was live-streamed on the internet. I remember an occasion a few years before she died, when I collected my mother from her home and took her to church with me for the morning service.
That's a memory that leads me to remark about what the day is called. 'Mothers' Day' is a modern term that has undermined its original name, 'Mothering Sunday'. It seems to have had its origins in early-modern times when services would be held on the fourth Sunday of Lent (sometimes known as 'Refreshment' Sunday) for which people would return to the church where they were baptised, or perhaps attend a special service in the cathedral or 'mother church' of a diocese. This idea of the church caring like a mother for her members is wonderfully prefigured by Jesus in the days leading up to his arrest (Luke 13:34).
More recently, e.g. in the Victorian age, Mothering Sunday became an occasion when young adults who were 'in service' (i.e. household servants) were given a day off to visit their mother church. This custom was thus perhaps the only time of the year when whole families could gather together, unimpeded by the conflicting demands of work. As these elder children - some scarcely into teenage - walked through country lanes to their home villages (there was no other means of transport!), they would pick wild flowers to present to their mothers on arrival. So the practice grew up of giving flowers or other gifts on that day. What had started as a spiritual celebration of the mothering role of the church became re-focused on the earthly mother of the human family.
I have found it difficult in this last week or two to accept that the combination of my age and a long-standing medical condition requires me to relinquish my lifelong role of doing things, whether for myself or for other people. In its place comes a role of inactivity, bringing with it, as it does, the prospect of having to rely on others to do things for me.
As I see it, motherhood is a gradual transition of a similar kind, one that some mothers find difficult, others less so. It is interesting to notice from the gospels how the roles and relationship between Mary and Jesus changed over his lifetime: Luke 2:7 (baby); Luke 2:43-51 (teenager); Luke 8:20 (teacher) and John 19:26-27 (provider). It's good to be reminded in this topical way that Jesus has experienced all stages of our lives and therefore can understand all of our needs as we bring them to Him in our prayers.
My intentions differed little from any other Sunday, and have remained that way since my mother died sixteen years ago. But they, too, changed this year because there was no church service to attend. Instead, thanks to technology - and in common with many other congregations across the country - we were able to participate in a service that was live-streamed on the internet. I remember an occasion a few years before she died, when I collected my mother from her home and took her to church with me for the morning service.
That's a memory that leads me to remark about what the day is called. 'Mothers' Day' is a modern term that has undermined its original name, 'Mothering Sunday'. It seems to have had its origins in early-modern times when services would be held on the fourth Sunday of Lent (sometimes known as 'Refreshment' Sunday) for which people would return to the church where they were baptised, or perhaps attend a special service in the cathedral or 'mother church' of a diocese. This idea of the church caring like a mother for her members is wonderfully prefigured by Jesus in the days leading up to his arrest (Luke 13:34).
More recently, e.g. in the Victorian age, Mothering Sunday became an occasion when young adults who were 'in service' (i.e. household servants) were given a day off to visit their mother church. This custom was thus perhaps the only time of the year when whole families could gather together, unimpeded by the conflicting demands of work. As these elder children - some scarcely into teenage - walked through country lanes to their home villages (there was no other means of transport!), they would pick wild flowers to present to their mothers on arrival. So the practice grew up of giving flowers or other gifts on that day. What had started as a spiritual celebration of the mothering role of the church became re-focused on the earthly mother of the human family.
I have found it difficult in this last week or two to accept that the combination of my age and a long-standing medical condition requires me to relinquish my lifelong role of doing things, whether for myself or for other people. In its place comes a role of inactivity, bringing with it, as it does, the prospect of having to rely on others to do things for me.
As I see it, motherhood is a gradual transition of a similar kind, one that some mothers find difficult, others less so. It is interesting to notice from the gospels how the roles and relationship between Mary and Jesus changed over his lifetime: Luke 2:7 (baby); Luke 2:43-51 (teenager); Luke 8:20 (teacher) and John 19:26-27 (provider). It's good to be reminded in this topical way that Jesus has experienced all stages of our lives and therefore can understand all of our needs as we bring them to Him in our prayers.
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