This is a personal reflection arising out of my experience of the Shared Conversations on Scripture, Mission, and Human Sexuality (see the two previous posts).


In the chapel of the Mercers' Hall in London* lies a recumbent figure of Christ crucified, carved in stone with great sensitivity and skill. Dating from around the 15th century, it probably once formed part of an Easter sepulchre. It was targeted for destruction and apparently buried during the Reformation; it was rediscovered during rebuilding works following the Blitz. 

The face of Christ is almost intact. The body, though, is broken. The right arm has been smashed off at the shoulder. The left hand and half of the forearm are missing. There are no longer any feet. Echoing the prayer of St Teresa of Avila: no feet with which to walk to do good; no hands to bless the world.

That image is a powerful one in my mind at present; a warning of what happens when we divide the Body of Christ, and an exhortation to work for unity and wholeness. We experienced some (by no means all) of the diversity of the Church in our Conversations, and at times it brought tension; there was little reflection on what it means to be different and complementary members of the Body of Christ (1 Cor 12), or to bear with one another in love (Eph 4.2, Col 3.13).We are at present the broken Body of Christ of Good Friday or Holy Saturday; only the work of resurrection will re-integrate the brokenness in such a way that death becomes life and wounds become scars - hallmarks of authentic love and the grace of God. How can we become an Easter people?

* Look at the timeline here and select 1953 for further details and a photo.

I am

I am a tongue: O for ten thousand more
In fiery Spirit-flames to praise the One
Whose glorious Word creation calls to be;
Voice echoing Voice with one united tongue.

I am a foot: O for an army great
To journey burning-hearted on the road
Of Resurrection; tramping, beauteous feet
To bear on mountain steep the Gospel-load.

I am an eye: O for a peacock's tail
Of vision, scales discarding, sight restored,
Flaming with colour vivid; angel-like
To watch wild world, to gaze on heavenly Lord.

I Am: take off your shoes, your pride, your will,
For holy ground burns bright beneath the Tree
Where all my members – tongue, foot, eye, and more -
Unite, one body, reconciled in me.

(c) Christopher Wilson 2015

Epiphany isn't a word we use very often outside the calendar of the Church year. It means a revelation, and it's the name of the season after Christmas, starting on January 6. The season begins with the story of the wise men ('Magi') visiting Jesus. Jesus is revealed to strangers - outsiders - representatives of the wider world, who have come to worship him. And they present him with gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

Why gold? 

If we've ever stopped to wonder (and the familiarity of the story may mean we never have), there are some obvious answers. Gold is a gift fit for a king: 'Gold I bring to crown him again', as the carol puts it. Gold reflects the paying of a tribute, or tax, to the Emperor - although in this case, it's voluntary, not forced. It speaks of the giving of worth and of value.

But this offering of gold holds particular meaning in our own age. It announces that gold is less important than the Christ child. Gold is something which should come under his authority, not the other way around. They operate in the same sphere of life and cannot be compartmentalised; spirituality is deeply this-worldly because it's about the choices we make with the life, opportunities and wealth we have. Money is deeply spiritual because it's a means by which we express our priorities and make real our faith. As Jesus said in his adult life, 'You cannot serve God and money.' There's a choice to be made, priorities to be established, and the Magi have discovered the truth.

It's a truth we need to hear afresh. Putting wealth first - in blunt terms, the pursuit of greed - was what led to the banking crisis of 2008. The repercussions have largely impacted on the poorer sections of society, even as, this last week, record levels of bonus were paid out by one of the banks. Putting wealth first through the levying of extortionate rates of interest has, again, been hugely detrimental to the well-being of the poor at times when they are least able to cope financially. And the wealth gap is growing between the rich, with six- and seven-figure incomes, and those on the minimum wage or zero-hours contracts. Yet research around the world correlates happiness and contentment with societies in which the gap between rich and poor is much narrower. It's bad for us all to live in a society divided by wealth and poverty. 

Proclaiming that gold - our wealth - is subservient to Jesus encourages us to use it in a different way: for justice, righteousness, and the relief of need.  That has implications for the way we gain wealth, as well as what we use it for.  It requires a change of heart, a change of values, from the culture which currently prevails. Jesus spoke a great deal about money and possessions, and we do well to heed what he taught.

And perhaps the sharpest challenge of all is for us to have a change of perspective; asking, not 'How much of what is mine shall I give away', but 'How much of what is God's shall I keep for myself?'

On Tuesday evening, I took the opportunity to visit the Tower of London to see the installation of poppies there. Walking the entire circumference of the site means I saw all 888,246  - one for every British and Commonwealth person killed during World War 1.

Two things struck me.

One is the vast number of people concerned. This great red carpet, like a river of blood, stretches on and on; the poppies, individually, seem countless. Somehow, depicting the dead like this brings the statistics of war to life, giving some notion of the overwhelming scale of the fatalities. It's more real than a mere number.

Secondly, this is not just the dead of Britain, but the dead of the Commonwealth. It's timely to be reminded of that when so much of our current public discourse is on the subject of immigration, frequently tinged by racism or at least nationalism. The poppies remind us that people of different races, cultures and faiths shared the struggles, dangers and discomforts of war together; people of different races, cultures and faiths shared the same risk and reality of death. There is no monopoly of respect and honour on the part of British forces; equal respect and honour are due to those from other parts of the world too. That's just as true today, in our very different circumstances, as it was in the war of a century ago. Let's not forget it.

I'm glad I went. It was sobering and thought-provoking, and the image is one I shall always remember.

Fr Christopher

The latest 'Landscape Photographer of the Year' book was published today. Like the previous books in the series, it contains spectacular photos highlighting the incredible beauty of the world around us. We can see with each photographer's eyes their composition, their delight in a particular view, their interpretation of beauty through the lens of a camera. Hidden from us is the technical skill, the patience waiting for just the right level and angle of light, and perhaps the speed of their reaction when a chance opportunity for a picture presents itself.

Landscape photography begins with an appreciation of the world around us and an acute observation of its beauty. Many of us are able to exercise a similar level of attentiveness as we meditate on the wonders of creation - creation, which, we believe, reflects the wisdom of God. As the Psalmist wrote, 'O Lord, how manifold are your works! In wisdom you have made them all!' (Psalm 104)

I spent last week in the urban landscape of inner-city Sheffield, staying at the Wilson Carlile Centre. At first sight, it's an unlikely place to experience natural beauty. But my room looked out onto a tiny park, and at sunrise one morning, I lingered there - paying particular attention to the sycamore leaves heaped up on the ground, their veins picked out by frost.

Even in the most unlikely places, we can find our minds and souls stretched by created beauty. Attentiveness to what is around us is one of the routes by which God enlarges our hearts. And perhaps even more important is to be attentive to the people around us - people created, as we all are, in the image of God; people in whom we are to seek and serve Jesus Christ.

Wisdom: a Meditation

Sunrise on leaves frost-bitter, white veins thread;
Ice-carpet, green where reverent footsteps tread;
Knife-wound within of chill breath's deathly dread:
Heart etched
With winter's glory, bright where night has fled.

Paschal-fresh rays of primrose-morning throng;
Blossom of apple; blackbird-anthem strong;
Fragile exuberance of growth and tongue:
Heart etched
Mind stretched
By life-affirming joy, bright nature's song.

Noonday with ceremonial blooms impressed;
Sentinel-stately trees, soft-shade-caressed;
Dapples on limpid water, peace-possessed:
Heart etched
Mind stretched
Soul sketched
In vivid contours, with bright-burning blessed.

Sunk sun on mellow harvest-field; night clear;
Perigree moon brings star-flecked cosmos near;
Ecstatic, touch; bright heaven, bright earth hold dear:
Heart etched
Mind stretched
Soul sketched;
Love fletched,
Piercing desire with wisdom-wounds sincere.

(c) Christopher Wilson 2014

Souls & Stars is the title of our next Late Worship, on Friday 7 November at 10.30pm in church.

We'll pick up on the November theme of remembrance, focusing on the remembrance of our loved ones who have died, and on God's love for all that he has created.

You can get some idea of the 'feel' of the worship here; calm, meditative, atmospheric, providing a safe space in which to encounter God's love and grace.

I reached out to the nearest buttress, grasped a handful of stone, and showed it to Bishop John.

Then I closed my fingers and squeezed it gently.

It dissolved into sand. The grains trickled through my fingers. Some of them sprinkled onto the bonnet of the Bishop's shiny almost-new car, sounding disproportionately noisy in the quiet of the evening. (OK, it wasn't quite sandblasting, but you get the idea.)

'That's what this building is made of.'

Sand.

The foolish man built his house upon the sand. My Victorian predecessor, the Revd John Craig, would have been familiar with those Gospel words. He'd have known that the wise man built his house upon the rock. Nevertheless, he chose to build the house of God out of sand. All Saints is an ecclesiastical sandcastle - albeit a very impressive one.

Later, I reflected. The entire Church is made of sand. Not just our magnificent building, with its lamentably soft Warwick sandstone construction, but the Church as the People of God. The Church is made up of human beings, all of us flawed, all of us carrying a weak and sinful nature, We're called to be like 'living stones', built by God into a spiritual house (1 Peter 2.5); but the stones of our lives are so often crumbly and unreliable - or, at the opposite end of the spectrum, so hard as to be unworkable. We do things wrong. We get into pointless arguments. We collapse under pressure. We fail to persevere when times are hard - or when they're easy - or when they're merely indifferent.

Yet that isn't the end of the story. Just as scientists recently developed a chocolate teapot which really can be used to make tea, so the Church can live and work and grow despite the poverty of the materials used. Moreover, it has two thousand years' experience of doing so. The whole is far greater, holier, and more effective than the sum of the parts. Together, we can surpass ourselves, and become nothing less than the Body of Christ in the world - broken, certainly, but even (and perhaps only) in our brokenness, able to share the good news of his redeeming love.

There is a caveat, of course. The foundations have to be in place. The Church is built on the foundations of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself being the chief corner-stone (Ephesians 2.20). But when that's secure, even the mediocre building materials of our lives can be shaped into something miraculous: the earthly temple of the eternal God.

When my two children were very young - about 18 months and 3 years - they developed a new game. One of them would share out imaginary strawberries - 'One for me, one for you...'. Each imaginary strawberry received was eaten with imagined enjoyment. But eventually, one of the children would complain that the other had been given a larger imaginary strawberry than their own. An argument would ensue, becomingly increasingly heated and un-imaginary, and it would often end in tears which were all too real.

What we imagine affects us profoundly: our actions and reactions, our relationships, our ambitions, our priorities. It's no exaggeration to say that we live in a world shaped by imagination. Out of imagination arise vision, schemes, plans, strategies, which change the way things are for good or ill. Out of imagination emerge great works of poetry, literature, art, architecture, music. Far from being an escapist activity of children, it's fundamental to the working of human lives. 'Imagination is more important than knowledge', wrote Einstein. 'Everything you can imagine is real', said Picasso.

That's why Jesus called on his hearers to exercise their imagination. He spoke frequently of the (imaginary) Kingdom of God; a kingdom which was still to come into being, which as yet was largely in his imagination. He called others to share the vision and, most importantly, to make it real by living out what they could imagine. And he fed the imagination of others through the telling of stories, parables, often leaving them unexplained in order that his listeners would reflect imaginatively upon them and draw their own conclusions.

Christian faith is about imagining a better way of life - and then working to make it real. It's about imagining how we ourselves can become more Christ-like, and then working towards that aim (however inadequately most of us manage it). And in the case of parents and godparents, a Christening is about imagining for the child how they can be nurtured and nourished in the faith - and then, over the days and years which follow, turning that imagination into reality.