And yet...

I had a very mixed day today.

I felt twitchy and scattered and all the things that keep me grounded, keep me connected to some sense of God in the world, seemed like things that aren't very Good Friday-ish. After all, we mustn't rush to Sunday.

I question the puritanism, the masochism, of spending Good Friday wallowing in our misery -- and especially of implying that those who take a gentler route are not taking things seriously enough.

Yes, mourning is important. Yes, remembering where we have been is important. Yes, knowledge of our own sinfulness, our own utter dependence on God, is important. We have a liturgical calendar for a reason and there is value in dark times, quiet times, solemn times, in confronting the hard truths of our lives. I don't deny that this time is harrowing for some, and that is right and of God. I don't deny that there are people who would rather take shortcuts, would rather skip the hard bits, and that we all need to be aware of a tendency to minimise, in our own minds, the suffering of Christ on the Cross.

But I spent years feeling bereft and bewildered and I am not ready to let go of resurrection hope just because the church's calendar says this is a time of remembering bereft bewilderment. I'm not clinging to hope because I want to skip the hard bits. I'm clinging to hope because if I cling to anything else I deny God in favour of my own pride. I keep reminding myself of the light not because I don't recognise the power of darkness, but because it is the only way for me to avoid succumbing to that darkness. That is true on a daily basis in my life -- hope in Christ keeps me turning toward God. Withdraw the hope and I turn away, into myself. If that means my faith is somehow small or weak, lame or shrivelled, well, too bad. It is what it is.

It took most of a day of near-paralysis, not really knowing what to do with myself, to get to the point where I gave up on thinking I "should" or "shouldn't" do things. I stopped fighting myself and went outside and did some gardening. It was that or head back to church, and the garden was closer. There is no unholy ground, only ground we refuse to recognise as holy.

Only after I came inside did I realise that burying seed in the ground is a pretty Good Friday-ish thing to do. I never sow seed and know for sure that it will grow, but the hope is always there.

non-Biblical witness

Yesterday in the park an Enthusiastic Evangelist approached me and started to chat.

He was moderately polite, but took great pains to explain to me at some length that if I believe that God's love is unconditional, I believe in a made-up-in-my-head God, contrived based on my own desire for comfort. He quoted the Bible at me to try to prove that Jesus believed in hell and judgment, that anyone who fails is eternally damned.

I tried to explain something I've tried to explain before: that if Christ will draw all people to himself, then any hell that exists cannot be eternal, and hope must prevail. He wasn't having any of it.

We went our separate ways. I didn't get into discussions about scriptural literalism, and I didn't get drawn into prooftexting, and the whole thing bothered me a lot less than it might have three or four years ago.

I've been thinking about it, though, about how my beliefs and convictions differ from those of this young man so doggedly determined to save, to convert, by discussion and reference to scripture.

Maybe that works for some people.

My understanding of Christianity is certainly informed by scripture -- it would be difficult for it not to be given my background and upbringing -- but I do not believe in God's love for all humanity because the Bible declares it, or because people preach it. I do not believe in God's love for us because I have been told it exists.

I believe in God's love for us because I have been shown, in a hundred thousand little ways. I believe Christ died on the cross and rose again because a hundred thousand actions have pointed to that.

I have seen Christ crucified and risen in the mother worrying over her sick child.

I have seen Christ crucified and risen in the teacher who risks missing her train home in order to spend another five minutes reassuring a nervous student.

I have seen Christ crucified and risen in the counselor who responds promptly to a last-ditch-effort e-mail from a girl suffering from depression and supports her through the years of upheaval that follow.

I have seen Christ crucified and risen in the woman whose greatest concern on holiday seems to be that she can't keep in touch with friends who need her prayers and support.

I have seen Christ crucified and risen in the churches who operate a Floating Shelter because local council provision for the homeless obviously isn't enough.

I have seen Christ crucified and risen in a vicar who says "God loves us to bits" and means it, in a woman who cares for her ailing husband without complaint despite the toll on her own fragile health, in an online community where all are welcome, in the very oak leaves that fall dancing from the tree and go on to form soil.

It is not only the grain that, in order to live, must fall to the earth and perish. Sometimes I am the leaf, sometimes I am the tree, sometimes I am the grass growing in the soil of the sacrifice of others. And always, Emmanuel -- God-with-us. I don't believe this because I have read it. I don't need to read what I have lived.

That doesn't mean I don't have any use for canon, for scripture, for the Bible. But I don't believe the things I believe because they are written down in words somewhere. I believe them because they are inscribed on the hearts of the faithful and acted out day after day after day.

And these same things are inscribed on the hearts of those whose faith is known to God alone, those who acknowledge no higher power, those for whom talk of a personal God is nonsense but who work tirelessly to heal the sick, comfort those who mourn, help and encourage one another in what is good, bring justice to the poor.

Theism is not a dealbreaker.

Philosophy is not a dealbreaker. Political affiliation is not a dealbreaker. Sexual orientation is not a dealbreaker. Race is not a dealbreaker. Achievement is not a dealbreaker. Competence is not a dealbreaker. Income is not a dealbreaker. Social class is not a dealbreaker. Health is not a dealbreaker.

Sin is not a dealbreaker.

There are no dealbreakers in the Kingdom of Heaven. Thanks be to God! There is nothing that cannot be forgiven by a God of infinite love.

May my thoughts and words and actions reveal this as truth.

Fit for purpose?

Morning Prayer -- 5 days out of 5 this week. No, it isn't about the numbers... but setting a time, having a structure, seems to be helpful. Structured prayer doesn't confine my prayer to the limits of the structure but it does ensure that some prayer happens.

In addition to the thinking I've been doing about vocation or purpose, I'm struggling a little with a general mental malaise or low mood. I don't think it's a reaction to the things I've been thinking about or coming to recognise, though of course it could be; it doesn't feel like that kind of emotional response. I think it's much simpler. I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder and some years it's worse than others. I'm using my lightbox, and that's helping, but I still feel low.

As anyone who's had a major mental illness would be, I'm rather frightened that this mild low patch will develop into full-blown, whimpering-under-the-duvet depression.

I know that I have much better external support now than I did last time.

I know that I have much better mental tools now than I did last time.

I know that over three years of therapy did help heal a lot of the things that made my previous experience so debilitating.

I know that I don't react badly to some of the dried frog pills and that medication, though inconvenient, is an option.

I know that I'm aware of this and in a much better position to do something about it than I once was.

And I know that there is a chance that even if I do all I can, I will still get very ill.

And that's scary, because even the work I'm doing now -- which I love -- will fall apart if I get too sick to do it.

So I find my prayer this week sliding from "Please tell me what You want me to do" to "Please let me remain well enough to do it..."

I keep using the lightbox, I keep practising, I try not to sweat the small mistakes while allowing myself to focus on the small pleasures. I ask friends, loved ones, for help and company, I try to pace myself in terms of what I take on, and I reframe, reframe, reframe every all-or-nothing, black-and-white condemnation of myself or the world that my maladapted lizard brain tries to throw at me, trying always to turn toward what is good, turn toward what is God, the ground of all being, wanting to believe that love is stronger than this greyness.

Turn us again, O God of hosts; •
show the light of your countenance, and we shall be saved.
from Psalm 80

Growing into love

Chatting briefly with a friend about an impromptu children's passion play earlier today, I was struck by how the children seemed to understand, on some wonderful and very basic level, that God loves them.

I hear similar tales from this friend fairly frequently and it always warms my heart.

Tonight I found myself wishing I'd had something similar, growing up. Oh, I went to Sunday School or Youth Group or whatever else was available at whichever church we were at, providing it didn't conflict with musical activities. But always I was playing a role, being the minister's daughter, having the right answers. I was never really allowed, let alone encouraged, to ask the questions. Or maybe I was just too scared.

So I grew up in the church and somehow just didn't get that the whole point is that God loves us. I don't quite understand, now, how I missed it. Was it the disconnect between what we professed on Sunday mornings and what happened in our lives the rest of the time? That disconnect is present in most of us, I think. No matter how good I hope to be, I am imperfect. That doesn't mean I shouldn't state the hope. But perhaps not addressing the contrast was part of the problem.

Was the theology at fault? It's hard to say. My stepdad preaches well; I have accepted this. I can't remember ever finding much fault in his sermons, which were logically coherent and, from what I recall, doctrinally sound. But I don't remember, now, any of the content. Half-snippets of phrases, perhaps. Yet some of the preaching I have heard (or in some cases, read) since I started attending church again has stayed with me. Maybe that's because now I'm listening differently...but the sermons that have bothered me stick, too.

This goes along with my complete inability to remember any of the content of my confirmation classes, other than having to learn by heart the order of the books in the Bible (long since forgotten) and the Lord's Prayer (which I had already committed to memory), though I do remember the more general content of many other lessons.

But I do remember some of the Sunday School classes. Either the message that God loves us didn't get remembered, or it was lost among all the cutting and sticking... someone forgot to say, because they were more concerned about having run out of glue sticks.

And the liturgy? I don't have any service sheets ("bulletins") so I can't be sure. But we definitely had the Apostles' Creed, we definitely had the United Church of Canada Creed. We definitely had at least two readings per service. There were some antiphonal responsive things that I now think may have been psalms but I don't really remember. How is it that despite all this I did not make the connection?

There were the hymns. Some of those did make an impact, I think, but one I'm only really becoming aware of now, gradually, in fits and starts. Hymnody wasn't enough to keep me in church. It's more something that I'm discovering is still there now that I'm coming back.

I remember the pain of it, the searching that led me first to reject Christianity and then to walk away, too, from Judaism... and I see what is happening with my friend and the children she works with, and I think, "I wish I'd had that." I wish I had had such an environment. I wish I had been able to understand such amazing belovedness.

Oh, I don't always understand it now... but how is it that I knew, beyond any doubt, that God exists, and yet grew up in a church that tries to proclaim God's love and I didn't have an inkling of it? What would it be like to grow up knowing you are loved, unconditionally and beyond your wildest imagination, by Someone completely reliable, all-powerful?

But now I am veering off into the "what-if?" game. What if I'd been born somewhere else, what if my parents hadn't split up, what if my mum hadn't married my stepdad, what if, what if, what if? It all boils down to what if I'd been someone else.

As much as I wish things could have been different... I also have to take into account that if this love which I am somehow becoming aware of, somehow growing into... if this love is real, then I am loved for who and what I am, and that includes my painful experiences and my reactions to them. That does not mean I should not work to alleviate others' suffering -- far from it -- but it does mean that the yearning, the loneliness, the pain of feeling utterly unloved, which have shaped me and formed me, were not for naught. They are part of who I am, and who I am is a beloved child of God, even if that sometimes seems impossible to grasp.

As much as I wish things could have been different when I was a child, I don't think that I'd go back and change them if I could. The last few years have been such a journey, such a discovery. If one little thing had changed, perhaps I wouldn't have moved to England. Perhaps I wouldn't have met Sweetie. Perhaps I wouldn't have a household with him and with Intrepid Anthropologist...while our domestic situation is trying at times it is by far the most rewarding I have ever lived in. Perhaps if my path were different I would not have encountered Ambassador for Compassion, who convinced me by actions rather than words that some people really do walk the walk. Perhaps I would not have started blogging here and found you lot, for that matter. I still have so much to learn, so much to discern, but of late it seems that God shouts, not whispers, to get the message across. Christ on the cross (with his arms out to embrace the world) isn't just waiting patiently for me to get there. Instead I have this sense that he's running to meet me, and somehow already with me when I stumble.

I don't imagine that the times of feeling forlorn are over. It only takes a bad night's sleep, a missed meal or a particularly uncomfortable joint pain day to put me right back into self-pity mode, and I'll be surprised if those are the most difficult things I have to face. But for tonight I rejoice in the children who are growing up being told they are loved by God, and I wonder at my own growing into such love, and I give thanks for all those who have helped me on the way.

One year blogiversary

I'm probably writing this so late that everyone else has said it already. I've been trying to write it for the better part of a week, and I keep tripping over the words.

I read the Archbishop of Canterbury's address to General Synod on Tuesday. I read it, and my soul hurt.

I share some of his vision, I think. I agree that some of the language around so many debates within the Church is so adversarial, so us-and-them, that it seems people are saying "yes, we want you, but only on our terms", and I wonder whether this is really constructive.

++Rowan Williams speaks of a vision of Church where we all consider how our behaviour affects everyone else before acting. That is commendable. I share such a dream; so do many, many others, I think. How many times have I written about the ultimate interconnectedness of things, about the fact that none of our actions, however small, are in isolation from the rest of the world? What I eat for breakfast does actually affect you who are reading this, in some very small and immeasurable but definite way. What you do can show me, in small ways and large, how I might act for good in the world.

I love the Archbishop's vision of mutual care and learning. But I do not think it can be enforced; I do not think it can come about by people following "guidelines" to fit into one "structure" or another. I think freedom is something we already have, not something we can grant or withhold from one another. He speaks of restraint, as if the imposition of restraint (or not granting certain freedoms) will make people think of others before themselves... I think obedience without freedom is meaningless. He speaks of an Anglican Covenant as something which will encourage people to judge their own actions with more care, but he forgets that many people will go along with it for fear of being found unworthy by human judges.

I think that ++Rowan Williams has confused causation and correlation. He says:

To be free is to be free for relation; free to contribute what is given to us into the life of the neighbour, for the sake of their formation in Christ’s likeness, with the Holy Spirit carrying that gift from heart to heart and life to life. Fullness of freedom for each of us is in contributing to the sanctification of the neighbour. It is never simply a matter of balancing liberties, but of going to another level of thinking about liberty.

but he does not explore the possibility that those he calls to exhibit "restraint" have followed their own very valid discernment processes; he does not acknowledge that the gifts of the Holy Spirit may be exhibited differently in different people, different places, different contexts. He does not seem to see that just because diligent, caring consideration of the whole Body of Christ sometimes leads to restraint, does not mean that it always will. He does not seem to see that imposing restraint externally, rather than leading to open hearts filled with the Holy Spirit, is likely to close them.

The whole thing puts me in mind of a parent trying to sort out a squabble between siblings, not acknowledging why either did the things they did and telling one and then the other to say they are sorry. The result is surly, forced apologies, and lots of resentment for the next round of squabbles.

I know as well as anyone that it is possible to find freedom in structure. I am someone who needs a lot of structure in my life, in order to do my work effectively. Thinking about every action I take and the full range of consequences of that action would wear me out in about half a day: there are infinite possibilities, and infinite repercussions of every thing that I do, and my awareness of that is overwhelming. I need rules to systematize that, and I follow what could, I suppose, be called a Rule; I have consciously-chosen routines for different times of the day and for the most part I follow them. And on a day-to-day basis my reasoning has to be "structure says it's time to do the washing-up, so I'm going to do the washing-up now". Contrary to making me feel trapped, this structure is, for me, very freeing. I have chosen the rules as a useful strategy for getting through each day and they free me, at least partly, from the endless cascade of "what if...?" that I would get stuck in without them, or from the disengagement of just allowing routines to happen as a reaction to everything else, an unconscious set of habits. Rules for me are a strategic adaptation to the fact that every second of every day I must decide what to do next and I must often do so with insufficient information.

But a structure or set of rules that works for someone else wouldn't work for me, and what works for me might be disastrous for someone else. There are things about my structure that are useful for others, and things others do that would be useful for me. And every so often I find that I've failed to take account of something, that my strategic rules aren't working so well any more, and I have to stop and evaluate and make some changes. This is all considered quite normal, and as an adult it is recognised both that choosing my habits and structures and rules is my responsibility, and that I will sometimes mess up or need to make changes. People might have opinions on my actions, they might want to give me advice or indeed I might want to ask their advice, but ultimately I am the one who has to make the decisions. Every second of every day, I am choosing... even if what I'm choosing is to follow the rules I've chosen for myself.

Organisations, too, choose structures and rules, laws even, to navigate the intricacies of daily life in an uncertain world. Different communities in different contexts will arrive at some different conclusions as to the best way forward. So why does the Archbishop of Canterbury think that it's appropriate to chastise and scold those who re-evaluate some of their rules? Why does he think that imposing a structure externally will bring about the lovingkindness and awareness he so desires?

Lovingkindness isn't something that can be legislated, something that can be enforced. Compassion isn't something we learn by being told explicitly how to behave in a given situation; it's something we pick up by observation and example, something we might catch, like 'flu but longer in duration.

One reason I've struggled to write this post is because in my reaction to this is so full of questioning others and thinking I know some of the way. That isn't a particularly loving response. Love does not say "you are wrong" but "what can I do that would be constructive?".

I'm not sure about the answer to that. I think it does mean continuing to stay involved with local communities, continuing to do the work I do and to find out what other work there is that I could do. I think it means continuing to blog, not from a perspective of saying what I think is right but from a perspective of reflecting, of exploring. And I think it means hanging onto hope, letting go of fear, reminding myself that love is stronger than death.

Today is my one year blogiversary. I was surprised by the warm welcome I got last year; I continue to be surprised by the friends I've met and the things I've learned. Thank you all for making it such a wonderful year in so many ways.

Reconfiguration

I'm thinking about Luke 3:7-18. A friend mentioned a brood of vipers and I went to look it up, early yesterday morning, and it's been rattling around in my skull since.

It's not an easy text, you see. I don't have to preach on it this Sunday -- and I don't think I'm really made for the pulpit anyway. But difficult texts like this make me itch, and I scratch away at them.

It's a bit of a hellfire sandwich, this passage. The middle bit is alright, really.

And the crowds asked him [John the Baptist], ‘What then should we do?’ In reply he said to them, ‘Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.’

That's not so bad, really. I don't measure up to that (I have at least three coats) but I can see the principle behind it, I can accept that I should act that way. I think maybe I do a little better with the food. John's response to the tax-collectors and the soldiers is similar: act justly. That seems pretty plain to me, even if it isn't always easy to do faithfully.

But look at what comes before: those parts of the tree that do not bear good fruit will be cut off, thrown into the fire. Look at what comes later: a baptism of fire, the chaff being burnt with unquenchable fire. Scary stuff.

So, with many other exhortations, he proclaimed the good news to the people.

This is good news? Getting burned in unquenchable fire? Being cut off from the tree?

So I read back a bit. Just before this passage we have some information that gives time context, and then this:

He went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, as it is written in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah,
‘The voice of one crying out in the wilderness:
“Prepare the way of the Lord,
make his paths straight.
Every valley shall be filled,
and every mountain and hill shall be made low,
and the crooked shall be made straight,
and the rough ways made smooth;
and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.” ’

It's that last bit I'm interested in. Isaiah says all flesh shall see the salvation of God. Not just the people who manage to be good. Not just the people who manage to follow the commandments. Not just the people who believe in Jesus Christ as Messiah, the Son of God, God's incarnation on earth... all flesh.

That doesn't seem very consistent, does it?

But if Isaiah can be a poet, surely John the Baptist can, too. Maybe these texts aren't as contradictory as they seem. Maybe the tree which will be cut and tossed into the fire is not one of flesh, but one of actions. Maybe the winnowing of the grain, the chaff which will be consumed doesn't refer to people who miss the mark, but to their thoughts and deeds.

What happens to a piece of paper if you put it into a fire? It gives off some light and some heat, goes up in smoke and dissipates. Is this imagery about the erasure of our mistakes? The generosity of God in overlooking our sins, in taking all that we think and say and do and saying the screw-ups don't count? A selection process, a purification process, pruning all that which is not good in the eyes of God and leaving only love?

Perhaps. But then where do the "bad bits" go? Eternal, unquenchable fire? Is this what salvation looks like?

Modern science tells us that if you burn a piece of paper it doesn't cease to exist, not really. It doesn't exist in a form we'd identify as paper, any more, but each atom still has to go somewhere. They still exist, they've just been re-configured, re-arranged, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle taken apart and scattered on a table.

Maybe this baptism of unquenchable fire is not a process of erasure or purification but one of transformation. Even our mistakes, through God's grace, can be transformed into good. Our thoughts, words, deeds; our relationships, our projects, our dreams; our bodies, scarred and hurting or hale (whole!) and healthy: all will be changed, all will be forged into God's loving purpose, all will be made anew. We are not cut off. We are not rejected. We are transformed. That's how strong God's love is.

And all flesh shall see his salvation.

Running, but not really catching up

My computer is back, with a shiny new hard drive. It'll take me a while to finish getting the software I need onto it, but it's very good to have my own machine to work on again, at least.

I've not had much time or energy for else but work, online. I could make my excuses but you'll have heard it all before -- lots of work to do, performances, joint problems making me tired, students requiring extra care and attention at the moment. I started this blog in the last half of the last year of an intensive performance-based degree. I've only ever blogged when I don't really have time!

I'm still thinking of you lot. I'm still playing, praying, singing. Still throwing myself into hymnody, still getting a drip feed of psalmody from the Daily Office, still taking Communion.

Morning Prayer (or is it Evening?) has had lots of the book of Revelation in it recently. I have to say, I know it isn't meant to be literal, and there's all sorts of rich and beautiful symbolism, but this lampstand thing is a bit weird. I kindof like it, even as I think to myself, "Well, you might remove my lampstand from its place if I don't repent, but if I don't repent then surely the only reaction I'd have to a mis-placed lampstand is to put it back again or go to IKEA and get another one... I wonder if the instructions for assembling flat-pack lampstands are as convoluted as all their other ones?" and so on.

I'm loving bits of the daily prayers for between All Saints' Day and Advent. "In the darkness of this age that is passing away may the light of your presence which the saints enjoy surround our steps as we journey on." Only it just sounds wordy when I write it out like that... but when I'm praying it's all about the light.

A dearly beloved friend wants some music lessons, and naturally I volunteered my services. She asked about my rates; I hadn't intended on charging her anything, not a single penny. She isn't comfortable with that, so we'll work something out... but in thinking about how to approach it I've figured out a little more of how I relate to money. See, she said it "wouldn't be fair" not to compensate me for my time and expertise. As a musician, my work doesn't work that way. My life doesn't work that way. If I were to get up every morning and thinking "I'm only going to do any work if I know I'll get fair compensation for it", I would do no work at all. Being a freelance worker means that I have to accept that much of my work is not going to bring me any obvious or direct financial reward; being a musician means I have to accept that the work is worth doing anyway. So I do the work, and see any money anyone gives me as a concession to the fact that I cannot live on air, rather than anything approaching fair compensation.

I'm looking forward to teaching this friend. I've heard some of what she can do... but she gave up participating in music almost entirely a very long time ago and has only just recently started to engage with it again, to practise and even perform a little. She notices the problems, the rusty skills, the uncertainty, and the years of silence weigh heavily on her. I see and hear a musician waiting to grow into who she is, and needing a little help and encouragement -- not a lot -- to get there.

I found an orchid, in a big glass pot. Someone had left it by the rubbish bins. I brought it home, cut back the spent flowering stalks, gave it some water and a nice windowsill, and we'll see if it blooms again.

Hope! saith the holly.

Communi(cati)on

I had a rather lovely chat with Gentle Vicar today.

I explained some of my background -- the difficult, semi-nomadic childhood, the spiritual barrenness of my first experiences with Christianity, the venture into Judaism, some of the factors that made me re-examine Christianity.

We spoke of the changes at Nearest Church over the last little while. Six years ago it was a Forward in Faith parish, complete with flying bishops and no females allowed in the sanctuary. Now it is far more inclusive.

We spoke of many things -- of serving the community, of Creeds, of scriptural authority. It's clear that Gentle Vicar is my kind of heretic! I especially respect that he was willing to come out and say "I don't always know what I believe about X" instead of skirting around the issue with a more general "many people struggle with X". It takes a certain courage to be honest and vulnerable when faced with someone who will in all likelihood pick apart any discrepancies in what you say.

And he said, "What about the Eucharist?" and so I explained pretty much all of my last post on the subject. And I said I was willing to change my mind, but from my current perspective I don't want to take Communion until a) I am allowed according to what the Church says and b) I am in a situation where it is offered unconditionally. We spoke of what "member in good standing of a Trinitarian church" actually means (answer: nearly anything if you want to be technical) and why I'm not willing to fudge on that. We spoke of what is printed in the service sheet compared to what actually happens. We spoke of the messages it sends to others if I take communion or if I don't.

Gentle Vicar doesn't turn anyone away, whether they are baptised or not, confirmed or not, or have three heads, and doesn't give a fig what canon law says about it.

He noted that I had just said, earlier in our conversation, that within the C of E confirmation is not required. Baptised children are allowed communion; I would not be fudging, by my own standards of what the church thinks it allows. I'd be an edge case in many congregants' minds, but not in canon law.

So I'm at a point where my only quibble is that the offer of welcome is not made more explicit. Given the history at Nearest Church (and I've had some hints about this from others I've spoken to, as well) I think I trust Gentle Vicar to know when to take a softly, softly approach and when to do something rash like changing the wording of the notice in the service booklet.

Being an edge case in the mind of most congregants, but not in canon law, means if I don't take Communion I appear to support the status quo, and if I do take it I appear to push the boundaries... I am in a position that is the opposite of where I thought I was. Of course, this isn't actually about what anyone else thinks, and 99% of them absolutely will not be paying attention to whether I receive a blessing or something to eat. But I value integrity and consistency of thought and deed; the messages I send and concern for what others think of me are not quite the same thing.

If I want to send the message that Communion is available to anyone who wants it, I should partake if I feel drawn to do so. Anything else is holding myself hostage from God until the Church does what I want, in much the same way as some parts of the Church attempt to hold God hostage. I can sit on my thumbs thinking up a thousand reasons why I'm not worthy, or throw myself on the Divine mercy and grace without which life would be hopeless.

...but only say the word and I shall be healed.

Green Grow'th the Holly

Green grow'th the holly,
So doth the ivy;
Though winter blasts blow ne'er so high,
Green grow'th the holly.

Gay are the flowers,
Hedgerows and ploughlands;
The days grow longer in the sun,
Soft fall the showers.

Full gold the harvest,
Grain for thy labour;
With God must work for daily bread
Else, man, thou starvest.

Fast fall the shed leaves,
Russet and yellow;
But resting buds are snug and safe
Where swung the dead leaves.

Green grow'th the holly,
So doth the ivy;
The God of life can never die,
Hope! saith the holly.

The words are attributed to Henry VIII. I don't know how true that is, I mean, would you argue if he said "We wrote that, We did," when actually you'd written the words?

I'm singing this with Petite Violinist and Shiny Soprano. I couldn't find it on YouTube etc, so I guess we'll have to record it sometime. I wanted to post it here because it illustrates so beautifully the way I see the world. I was going to write "the natural world" but that implies that any of it isn't natural, that the things humans make aren't included.

The God of life can never die.

Do I need to believe more than that?

Right now, I don't think so.