FROM THE RECTORY - SILENCE In the beginning was the Word. All things were made by him and without him nothing was made[1]. Silent night, Holy night[2]; How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given[3]. Have you ever noticed how much silence is claimed for Christmas; between the angel choirs and sundry other visitors? Jesus’ birth was a momentous occasion, worthy of an angelic choral outpouring and the sounds of creation rejoicing. Meanwhile, hymn writers envisage silence as much as noise. Jesus’ death, or rather the manner of his death, was equally momentous. This time, though, we might have expected, not the sound of rejoicing, but the terrifying, thunderous sounds of divine anger. The evangelists tell us that in the hours leading up to Jesus’ death darkness covered the land for 3 hours and the temple curtain was torn in two[4]; Matthew attributes this to an earthquake[5]. Apart from this there is nothing. I began this piece with an extract from the opening words of Saint John’s gospel; words familiar to us from countless services of lessons and carols. When John tells us that The Word became flesh he is, of course referring to the incarnation; the birth of Jesus. This weekend we mark both the death and resurrection of that flesh. Jesus’ death is accompanied by the usual human babble; from the crowds calling for his execution, to the sound of the executioner’s hammer. His resurrection is accompanied by silence. To the world at large there is nothing untoward; no angelic choirs, no real signs of divine wrath, nothing that speaks of a life and death battle in heavenly places. Perhaps this is why both the cross and the empty tomb pass largely unnoticed. Humans make a noise, God comes and goes in silence. Rev’d Philip Good Friday to Easter [1] Jn 1:1, 3 [2] Carol, Silent Night [3] Carol, O Little town of Bethlehem [4] Lk 23:44 [5] Matt 27: 51
From The Rectory - Ride on, Ride on in Majesty Ride on, ride on in majesty’, it’s Palm Sunday. Crowds are converging on the city for the great Passover Festival. A life’s ambition finally realised or an annual act of penance and renewal; journey’s end would be in sight. For many that journey would have been long, tiring and dangerous but for now they could relax and enjoy themselves. As Jesus rode into Jerusalem, just a few days before the festival, his disciples were expecting something special. The crowd, already in party mood, shouting Hosannah and waving palms, only served to encourage them. Meanwhile, unseen by human eyes, heavenly watchers looked down with sad and wondering eyes, to see the approaching sacrifice. Expectations and reality are about to collide. The story of Holy Week is difficult to read. Jesus’ attack on the money changers and temple traders was bound to provoke swift retribution, whilst the cross, if we read it carefully and truthfully, is an almost unimaginable horror for most of us. The real difficulty, however, lies in our knowledge of the story. We know that the adoring crowds waving palm branches will soon give way to a baying mob; that death awaits Jesus; that Resurrection follows - swiftly. In short, we know the story. The energetic, emotionally charged rollercoaster becomes a flat line, or a gentle stroll; the mountains of joyous anticipation are laid low, the valleys of despair filled in. In short, we read it through the lens of hindsight. Yet if Palm Sunday teaches us one thing, let it be this: things are seldom what they seem, especially with God. The triumph the disciples were looking for didn’t happen; but the disaster they thought they were experiencing was no disaster after all. No cross, no resurrection; this was not disaster, this was a necessary ingredient of success. The simple truth as God declared through the prophet Isaiah (Is 55:8,9) is that ‘my (ie God’s) thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” As we enter again this momentous week, let us pray that God will help us see events through his eyes, not our own. Rev’d Philip Palm Sunday 2024
From the Rectory - LISTEN By the time you read this, Mary and I will be homeward bound after a few days on the coast. Coastal paths are seldom tidy; littered as they are with everything from discarded string, through the rotting remains of old boats and jetties to piles of uprooted and decaying vegetable matter. The land is ever shifting. Tide by tide, the mudbanks and deep channels are constantly moving; demanding the sailor’s attention on every trip. At this time of year the coastal paths are nearly empty and it is easy to walk many miles alone; except you are never completely alone. Tidal creeks, mud flats and shingle spits are all home to a wide variety of creatures. Even when you can’t see them, you know they are there; our coasts team with life. For a few days, this has been our Lenten wilderness. We are often encouraged to see Jesus’ 40 days in the wilderness as a time of deprivation; extremes of hot and cold, hunger and thirst. But he wasn’t there to practice pain; the key to his time in the wilderness is seen in his encounter with the Tempter (eg: Matt. 4: 1-11; Mk 1: 12,13; Lk 4:1-13), a test of his faith and understanding. Before that he had time to pray, to reflect, to connect with his Father. We are bombarded daily with messages of every kind of news and business; much of it divisive. Often we don’t even notice the subtle (and not so subtle) attempts to steer our thoughts and actions: to entice us to support the latest scheme to turn stones into bread, gain publicity for our cause, make the desert more comfortable. Nor do we notice the subtle ways in which we are peeled away from true friends, family, God. On a windy beach; with no mobile signal, we can, if only for a few hours, disconnect from this busyness and view life through a different lens. Unlike so many of those voices competing for our attention, God rarely shouts. Instead, after the fury of the storm, when all falls silent, then speaks a still, small voice. Our part is to find a space in which to listen. Rev’d Philip 17 March, Lent 5
A REFLECTION FOR MOTHERING SUNDAY – FOUR YEARS ON. This child is set for the fall, and rising again, of many in Israel. Lk 2: 34 It had been a strange week. A short break in a favourite haunt, overshadowed by a gloomy uncertainty. We drove home as the world around us shut down – or so it seemed. It is 4 years since I produced the first of what has become a weekly reflection. A Reflection for Mothering Sunday, 22 March 2020, just 2 days after the nation closed; Lockdown. For all the uncertainty in the lead up to Lockdown, we had enjoyed a welcome break on the Norfolk Coast. As we returned home, we could feel the rising anxiety around us. In 2020 I headed my reflection with Simeon’s words to Mary ‘And a sword will pierce your own soul too.’ (Lk 2:35); reflecting on the pain as well as joy of motherhood. In the intervening 4 years we have all witnessed much pain. For weeks on end many found that time passed without really noticing; others (far too many) will carry the scars for life. Today I have chosen the previous verse (Lk 2:34); for Simeon’s words focus on the Christ-child, not his mother. Whatever our aspirations for them, none of us can truly see where life will take our children. Mary’s son was, and remains, a sign to be opposed; as controversial today as 2000 years ago. She would bear the pain of seeing him die, and the joy of his rising again. Several years ago, I was sat, wheelchair bound, unable to approach the altar. I waited for the chaplain to bring me the bread and wine of the Eucharist. As she did so I was struck by this simple but profound realisation: I can’t come to God; God comes to me – and it takes a mother to carry him. In the beginning was the Word, … and the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. And to those who believe in him he gives power to become children of God:….. born of God. (John 1:1, 14, 12, 13). In coming as he did he blessed motherhood. That is the value God places on human motherhood – let us do the same. Rev’d Philip Mothering Sunday 2024