Monday, 19 July 2010

Drum

I had the privilege of being taken too for my birthday by my son to see/hear Evelyn Glennie the percussionist. Both my son and I at times attack the stretched skins. The event was at Lichfield cathedral the space I was ordained deacon. As an introduction to one of the pieces of music she told us how passionate she was of her snare drum, the one thing she would have on a desert island. Then she played. Striking the skin with the finely balanced sticks the sound came. I cannot hum the tune, la la the melody and it was not Evensong but it deeply moved my spirit. Somewhere between the erect hairs on the back of my neck, that inner tingle deep I my bowels and the silence in Moring Prayer. I am reminded my God is a shade more colourful, a tad more expressive, a little bit larger to fit in the box I keep him in at times.

Care in the community it is there

Care in the community it is there
2 recent incidents that have sharply reminded me that as sceptical as I can be there is care in the community. I was taking coffee in one my coffee shops were I go to think and read. It is small and old fashioned place with only about 4 small tables. On this occasion there was across from me an elderly lady I mean proper elderly, bent over, shopping trolley with wheels, a slight vagueness about her existence and possibly a slight whiff of urine. We both had the same off the menu soup and a roll, she did not finish her roll I had another, crusty brown and seeds. She was obviously a more frequent visitor than I as the assistant know her name, she did not know mine name. the luxury of company and a cooked meal drew to a close and it was time to pay. The assistant asked did she want the usual? There was the usual possessive response and into a clean crisp white paper bag was placed a single crusty role. No husband. In an entirely reckless manner the lone elderly lady handed her purse to the assistant. In a caring manner the assistant received the purse deducted the cost of the dinner the role but not the care. The elderly lady left with her trolley carrying the lone crispy cob, her correct change, cared for.
I hope there is some there for me when I need it

Romeo and Jesus

Romeo and Jesus

I had the privilege of attending church recently. The service was very informal and long. During the service the was shown a clip of the film Romeo and Juliet.

After I had returned home I was struck by what had stuck with me from the service.
During the service there were many words used probably far too many. But at one point in there service I felt the hair stand on the back of my kneck. It was the words for Shakespeare the had given me a a sense of excitement.
Feet on the pavement
Driving down the road the other day out of the corner of my eye I see a small child. She was about 2 or 3 years old. She had taken a firm position on the pavement. She squatted down low, nappy almost touching the slabs her chin firmly pressed against her chest her arms held up in the air. It was a protest. I could not hear the dialogue but her position told me enough to make some judgments. Two steps in front of the child is an adult, female. I presume her to be the mother of the protest. The child is asking for something, saying no to something unwilling to cooperate. The mother resists the demands, negotiates with the protestor, summons all her short years of wisdom as mother for this encounter. There will be many to come. Before me I feel is a deeply spiritual event. How often am I the child even with all my years? Feet firmly anchored to the pavement unwilling to move until my demands are listened too or meet? I can’t get down that low without much pain and struggle. But I am challenged to ask myself how much of my life do I spend in useless protest, demanding and negotiation?