I am presently avoiding writing a sermon; my mind doesn’t have enough energy to engage the issues – might have to be a ‘get-up-early-and-rely-on-the-adrenaline’ sort of sermon.

Had a lovely afternoon with a family from the parish that we are friendly with. One of those occasions when the question is ‘is this work?’ Of course, the answer is: clergy don’t ‘work’. We simply are.

Lots of blog posts rumbling around in the back of my mind, but haven’t had a chance to put anything up substantial:
– picking up on Neil’s comment about Sola Scriptura, and secularisation;
– a review of Daniel Quinn’s ‘Story of B’, which was very interesting, but seriously flawed in its understanding of faith (the mistakes are instructive);
– a bit more on ‘let us be human’;
– a sequence of posts called ‘Wrestling with George Herbert’ about clergy roles (expanding my throw away remark above);
– Why I love Wittgenstein;
– why I disapprove of the feast of Corpus Christi;
and one or two less well defined others.

And I thought I’d share this picture taken today. Apparently I look just like my dad.

I love this place.
I love this job.
I love my family.
I am a lucky man.

Thanks be to God.

Swing courtesy of Sam’s mum; assembled by Mrs Sam.

Preaching Peace: GW’s Theological Politics: “As Kierkegaard might remind us, There is an expression of Christianity that is not Christian. What does any of this new ideology have to do with Jesus? How can Jesus be exegeted out of the gospels as a capitalist, believer in a vengeful God, upholder of the status quo, all around good ol boy? Is this an authentic expression of the Jesus who is Lord of and in the church? Or, perhaps might we want to consider that Johannine metaphor ‘antichrist?'”

I went to Liverpool Street yesterday evening, to meet up with some friends. Haven’t been into London for a while, and you forget quite how strange it is to see all these people looking so stressed.

It reminded me of something from Pirsig’s ZMM:

After a while Sylvia sits down on the wooden picnic bench and straightens out her legs, lifting one at a time slowly without looking up. Long silences mean gloom for her, and I comment on it. She looks up and then looks down again.

“It was all those people in the cars coming the other way,” she says. “The first one looked so sad. And then the next one looked exactly the same way, and then the next one and the next one, they were all the same.”

“They were just commuting to work.”

She perceives well but there was nothing unnatural about it. “Well, you know, work,” I repeat. “Monday morning. Half asleep. Who goes to work Monday morning with a grin?”

“It’s just that they looked so lost,” she says. “Like they were all dead. Like a funeral procession.” Then she puts both feet down and leaves them there.

This is where I say Morning and Evening Prayer most days.
I had my friend with me this morning.