Virtual Methodist

This long, rambling poem/monologue is the product of sleeplessness, reading a fictional account of the death of Jesus and Clive James's self-penned poem about impending death written in 2014, but widely shared last night on social media in the light of his demise. Please don't seek to compare this to his piece -  there is simply no comparison. He was a genius, and I do not use that word lightly. Also I should also say that the characters in this piece are not anyone living, dead or dying, although it is obviously influenced by my experience. I am also, not dying (I think) at least not imminently, so don't worry about me any more than you usually do... Has it come to this? I’ve been in this hospital room many times, Or if not this one, many like it. Ministering to others. Praying prayers that neither the dying Nor their companions could hear Over the din of impending death. Reading words from a book That many of them think Is as dead as they soon w

A short reflection prompted by one of Jesus' Beatitudes, the steps taken by those who seek to make peace, and the toll that sometimes takes on them. Blessed are the peace makers Making up Making amends Making friends Making time for others Making space for possibilities Making cups of tea Making a fool of yourself Making sense Making a stand Making a start Making Not destroying Shalom

The last of my family history blogs focussing on my Mum, this one, unsurprisingly centring on her death in 1991. But the photo at the head of this is one of the happier ones I have of her in her latter days, taken two years previously at my wedding to Sally in front of the Brig o' Doon in Alloway, Ayrshire, with all her men, my Dad and her sons (from left to right) William, Sam, myself and Robert. Not only did my Mum not teach me to cook, I also never did my own washing or ironing when I lived at home before going to university. In my Mum’s mind those were not things that a man did. And when it came to doing the washing this was not a matter of loading an automatic machine. No. My Mum resisted such new fangled devices until her dying day, and every Monday, after her job cleaning at the offices around the corner, instead of going to the VG, she got out her faithful twin tub and set about doing all the laundry for the week, retrieving dirty clothes from the various wash baskets

A "Methodist haiku" inspired by a lady who was buried over this weekend and two friends in ministry and their families going through a heart-breaking journey. For unenlightened non-Methodists the title comes from John Wesley's instructions on hymn-singing, while the first line is from the first line of the 1933 Methodist Hymnbook. Being born in song may I still sing out boldly Under death's shadow Shalom

A short poem that I tweeted earlier, prompted by some words by Neil Hudson at today's Methodist Church in Ireland "All In" Mission Conference, and a sung version of the Lord's Prayer. That Kingdom you taught us to pray for Heaven come to earth It's your Kingdom - not ours Your power - not ours Your glory - not ours Let it be so An overturning of the status quo Shalom

After a bit of a break I am coming towards the end of my memories of my Mum, with this post focussing on food and drink. In latter days most of the photos I have of my Mum are associated with weddings, and this one is clearly of my Mum and Dad heading out to some unspecified wedding in 1979. It seemed appropriate given that two of the anecdotes towards the end of this piece are associated with happenings at wedding receptions.  The grocer’s shop where my Mum worked for most of my school days was , as I said previously, at the crossroads formed by the Holywood Road, Station Road and Circular Road (famous for two former residents, C.S. Lewis, who lived for a time at “Little Lea" and the first Prime Minister of Northern Ireland James Craig who lived across the road). There were a small cluster of shops there, a butcher, bakery, the grocers in which my Mum worked, a pharmacy (which later became a video library) and a newsagent's, known as “Walter's" after the propr

I will return to my Mum's story when I get some more time, but this is just a wee reflection on the drama outside my breakfast window this morning distracting me from pressing work.  The picture isn't of our huntress, couldn't be bothered going out into the cold and damp to capture this drama on camera... I really wouldn't have made the grade as a David Attenborough cameraman... The age old drama Of predator and prey Played out in a suburban garden; Death crouching in the flowerbed, Garlanded with yellow blossoms. Narrowed eyes darting, Watching for flitting quarry. An Egyptian goddess observing The fall of every sparrow, and robin, As assiduously as our heavenly Father. Ears flicking, muscles coiled; Finally unleashed In a blurred flurry of fur, Frustrated by a lack of wings. Regathering her dignity The huntress returns Settling for dried pellets, Rather than fresh feathered flesh, Then settling down  on a human servant'

A few thoughts for All Saints Day... All That great crowd of witnesses Cheering us on to the final whistle From the heavenly bleachers. Not just the sanctified celebrities  But our unremembered, unrecognised Unhaloed predecessors  Who filled pews and cleaned loos Lived their faith unfussily Passing it on by word and deed Not words proclaimed from pulpits But the quiet kind word  In the right place at the right time Not spectacular miraculous deeds But simple acts of grace far from the spotlight's glare. Let's celebrate the uncelebrated. All Not just the long departed Removed from this messy arena Encouraging us to come join them; Not just those gloriously shining  But our fellow feeble strugglers. Those we recognise  As brothers and sisters Because we think and speak With the same theological accent; Because we sing and dance (or not) To the same spiritual tune, But also estranged siblings  Living under diff