Archive for 2001
If yesterday was all theory—all message and no meeting—today is the humble reality of practice. Out on the edge of things, between the gate and the grave, two crowds collide. One follows Jesus and another follows in the footsteps of death. And here it is like a lens clicking into focus: a dead man, the only son of his mother, and her, familiar with grief, a widow. Now she has nothing, no livelihood, even if she is surrounded by her whole town. And Jesus saw her.
What happens next is almost hidden in the English. “He felt sorry for her”, says the Jerusalem Bible. “Had compassion”, says the King James. The Revised English Bible gets the closest: “his heart went out to her”. In the Greek, the word literally means his bowels churned. Something about what Jesus saw affected him so physically that it hit him in his guts. The rest is almost anticlimax. Two abrupt commands: “stop crying” to the widow and “rise” to the young man. Luke makes the punch line almost comic—the corpse sat up and began talking. But the important thing is that the mother gets her child back, her life back.
The crowds are in awe. But what would you have felt? Are we willing to meet a Jesus who is that passionate? Someone who is sickened to the stomach by the sadness of the world? Are we willing to walk in his company? Be a friend of this man? Are we willing to let our own intestines cramp in the face of loss? Are we willing to follow where our bowels lead?
September 2nd, 2001
“So I shall say to myself, ‘Self, you have so many good things stored up for so many years, so rest, eat, drink, be merry!’” Famous last words—but not my favourite ones!
My favourite, famous last words come from General John Sedgwick during the Civil War: “They couldn’t hit an elephant at this dist…”
There’s something that fascinates us about last gasp, dying breath, final testaments. Wouldn’t you like to go out in a blaze of wit? Oscar Wilde: “Either this wallpaper goes or I do.” Or even St. Laurence, martyred on the grill “Turn me over—I’m done on this side.”
I like the innocent last words better though, the uncalculated revelations of what is important. Anna Pavlova, the ballerina, asking for her Swan costume, or Tallulah Bankhead calling out, “Codeine … Bourbon…”
Our readings today are playing with the notion of inheritance, of legacy, what you leave behind and who gets their filthy paws on it. For death is a funny thing—in one sense the most private of all life’s passages, the one you make alone and send back no messages, the final accounting that can only be made by you. But on the other hand it is where you are most public—handed over into memory, into legacy, inheritance …things.
What do you want to be remembered for? … What about Orville Wright: “No flying machine will ever make it across the Atlantic.” Or the Warner Brother, “Who the heck wants to hear actors talk?” Or the unnamed executive at Decca Records, “We don’t like their sound, and, anyway, guitar music is on the way out.” The Beatles!
I like it that Jesus was only willing to answer the disgruntled brother in the gospel with a rebuke and with a joke. Because even though Luke calls it a parable it is really more of a joke. But what’s the punch line?
Imagine this you are rich—well pretty well-off anyway—and then you go and win the lottery and you have suddenly more money than you know what to do with. What do you do? Well, what do you do? The guy in the story doesn’t have a bad idea—he plans: “well my checking account won’t do—need to make that money work—dodge the taxes—buy a neat house, a few gadgets—never need to work again. And as we hear it the voice from heaven seems mean-spirited. There goes God ruining everything again. We know death is coming to us all sometime—but why now? Why take away all the innocent pleasure this guy was going to get?
Well maybe that’s the way we might hear it being so used to deciding for ourselves, to having a surplus, however small, in the bank. We hear the story as if it were about famous last words: foolish pride or something.
But back then was another world. And the rich guy’s problem wasn’t so much his pride as his selfishness. Listen to him: What shall I do? I shall… I, I, I. I shall say to myself, Self… Two things are going on. He is treating the windfall as his own property and he is treating himself as his own property. He acts as if the wealth belongs to himself. And he acts as if he belongs to himself. And both would have been a scandal to Jesus’ hearers. They saw both those things as belonging to the village and ultimately as belonging to God. We are used to idea of profit, the lie that one person can gain without depriving others, that wealth trickles down. But to the Palestinian peasant life was a zero-sum game. If I get rich I do it off your back. Probably by your labour. What I have you lack. And when God gives a bumper harvest it isn’t mine to store away—it belongs in part to everyone. … And who am I anyway? Am I a separate self who can forget family and community and all those who hold me in life? In a way, our own lives are based on that lie. You leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone. Here in the states we call it freedom. Only in church do we regularly remember the truth of our lives. We are not alone, we are handed our selves by others, by community. We are most our own selves, not when we are alone and free to do what we want, but when we are relying on each other in worship, in faith, in justice.
That’s the punch line. Look at this dummy—he thinks he belongs to himself. He thinks he can go it alone. He thinks he knows what’s in his own interest. Dummy!
What do we want to be remembered for? As if we could decide that on our own! Dummies! It is always someone else who does the remembering.
Oh, legacy, leaving, memory … we English don’t do goodbyes very well. The stiff upper-lip gets in the way. But God has been insistent that I don’t let this one get away. My prayer 5 years ago, when you all sent me off to be ordained, was that I, as priest, not get in your way, in the way of your work of being the body of Christ. I hope I haven’t. But if I haven’t, I have you all to thank for not letting me get in your way. … It has been tempting this week, with all the farewells and good wishes and embarrassing praise, to think about my impact, my gifts, my legacy—as though this were my bumper harvest and I have to store it all up for myself. But what I have learned here—what you have taught me—is that this—this community, this worship, this really bumper harvest of the spirit—is your work, your joy, your gift to each other, oh and to me. We are each, each other’s work, each other’s joy. If I arrive in England a better priest, a better Christian, a better person, then that is your work … and my joy. I can’t imagine any better place to begin ministry than here with you.
And I’m going to miss this place so much. Miss all your faces. Miss the support you’ve given me, miss your ongoing stories. But where I have been expecting to feel loss and sadness in these last weeks I’ve only found a bumper harvest of surprising joy and tender celebration. And I don’t have to store it up at all. Neither do you …In my prayer in these recent days I find God is immensely proud, proud of what you all do here. Is that a good enough legacy?
August 5th, 2001
Once upon a time—that’s just to let you know that this is one of those homilies—once upon a time, Jesus was sitting there praying, looking out from closed eyes over the sun-scorched hills of his homeland. The guys who followed him from place to place were all there watching him, impatiently, maybe wistfully. They could see the look that came upon his face. They could see … something in his aching body. And they looked at each other and they wanted what he had.
“I wish I could pray,” said Martha.
“I wish I could pray like that,” said her sister.
Peter, ever aware of being in charge, spoke up, “You know, I’ve read all the right books on prayer but I still don’t feel I know how to pray.”
“Not just books either,” added John, “I’ve sat at the feet of some of the best teachers but I still don’t know how to pray the way I’d like.”
“Well, don’t feel bad,” Matthew put in, “books and gurus are fine but even with the best workshops—and I’ve been to them—I still can’t pray properly.”
By now, Jesus was getting distracted by their wrangling so he got up from his prayer to face them. “What is it now?” he asked. Peter spoke up immediately, “Teach us to pray!” “Yes!” “Yes!” the others all echoed his words, “Teach us how to pray!”
“Oh, is that all? Good. Just say this … ‘Look God … these are the things we need … food, forgiveness, and a father … or a mother,” he added, catching a look from Martha.
Well, there was silence. There was embarrassment. They could hear themselves breathe. Until, finally Peter said, “Well, Lord, we already know about prayer of petition, of intercession—and I can see that’s important … but what about real prayer?”
“Yes,” John jumped in, “what comes after the kiddy stuff? Teach us that!”
And Matthew, trying to be helpful, prompted Jesus, “You know, Rabbi … meditation, contemplation, using scripture, centring … Teach us how to really pray?”
“Oh,” said Jesus understanding them at last, “you want the advanced prayer methods. Well that’s quite a lot harder to explain.”
Well, their eyes lit up at that. They licked their lips in anticipation. “But are you sure you are ready?”
“Yes, Lord, Yes!”
“OK! Where to begin … Well in 30 years of careful prayer and study I’ve developed the perfect technique. It can be learned if you have enough discipline and stamina—though, I have to warn you, not everyone has the necessary mental clarity and emotional purity to completely master my methodology. Do you still want to try?”
At last!
“OK, well sit down and make yourself comfortable. Ready?”
Much nodding.
“Close your eyes. Breathe deeply, breathe easily. Be aware. Now say, ‘Look God … these are the things we need … food, forgiveness, and a father.’”
And Jesus turned and went back to his own prayer.
July 29th, 2001
This is a divisive little episode for we who hear it. Who are you rooting for? Let’s have a show of hands on that… Who’s to blame? Who’s the bad guy? Mary who’s sitting there like a lump neglecting her sister … or Martha who’s so full of her hospitality that she can’t be hospitable?
Now the preacher has this deep temptation to smooth things over, to balance out the blame, or find a way for them all to come out looking good, Jesus included with all his snippy rebukes. Look how the gospel brings out the urge to tidy up. It make Martha’s of us all. All the while it is urging that we get out of the kitchen and sit still but we end up trying to make it all fit and getting angry and irritated that Jesus doesn’t make it easy.
I may have lost one of my best friends this week. I said the wrong thing, or didn’t say the right thing when I should but then said it when I shouldn’t. Like Martha I set aside silence, I let out my feelings of irritation at being overlooked and did it just when it would be most annoying and hardest to handle. And the urge in me to go back and unsay “the said” is enormous and seductive, to seek silence now even at the cost of integrity, to tidy up the mess. But I can’t. Unsaying is an art beyond any of us. And the passion for tidiness has always eluded me. But how I want this tidied up, smoothed over, made neat!
The meeting between Abraham and his three strange guests seems very neat. A tale of hospitality. A tale of reward. For all that kneading of flour, slaughtering of steers, milking of goats Sarah will have a child. What we don’t hear today is what comes next. And it’s a serious omission. Sarah laughed. She was listening in and she laughed out loud—“What!? When I’m dried up and he’s past it”—and the mysterious visitors take offense.
The story is about more than entertaining angels unawares. Abraham has been full of his divine promise—remember it: flocks and riches and descendants as many as the stars and a name to be a blessing for all nations—but Sarah has heard none of it. Abraham has kept it to himself—as though it belonged to him—but today we ought to hear the surprise in Sarah’s voice that she too is part of God’s plan. Abraham has been doing whatever he can to get a son and heir for himself, stooping to adultery to win his prize, passing Sarah off as his sister when he thought he could use her body to bargain with kings and landowners along the way, and all the time—even this morning—she’s been hidden away out of sight, like a piece of property too valuable to put on show. It’s no wonder she laughs, blurts out her shock. She names her surprise with her body: “am I going to have some pleasure out of my dead stick of a husband?” Only when she is overheard laughing does she tidy up that thought and more piously wonder about children. But they all tell her not to laugh. She is forbidden to laugh. She is denied her emotions even while the men are discussing what they will do with her body. And here today she is forbidden again—the story we hear is trimmed neatly so we don’t hear her laugh—as though Abraham’s story is the important one and Sarah’s is not. We don’t get to hear her laugh. But her laugh is important. It breaks the silence. It just bursts out. It won’t let Sarah be ignored.
Meanwhile back in Bethany both sisters are being uppity in their own way. Both of them are pushing it, having a single man in their house. In contrast to Sarah, they are all too visible, somehow they have escaped being owned by men, and are owners of their own property so that Martha can offer her own house to Jesus. It is a much less conventional scene than it first appears. Martha is busy with kitchen things but Luke chooses to describe it as ministry—diakonia—deacon-work. And Mary is not just the silent and adoring listener but takes the place, forbidden to a woman, of a disciple sitting at the feet of a teacher asking to be taught.
But then there’s the outburst. And the very clear rebuke of the text: “Martha, Martha, you are worried and anxious about many things but only one thing is necessary and Mary has chosen it.” So there! And no matter how much you want to agree don’t you feel it’s a bit sharp? Don’t you want to know what’s going on? Don’t you want to smooth those rough edges a bit, tidy them up, make Jesus look less of a bully? I, anyway, found myself getting all busy and anxious trying to make it all alright.
But then it hit me. Look how Jesus shuts Martha up! Sarah mustn’t laugh and Martha must silence her anger. And I got annoyed.
Why does Luke want to shut us up? Isn’t there room for the outburst that tells the truth? And why is only one thing necessary? Why can’t there be two or three or more noble things? Why do the silenced voices never get a hearing?
Sarah’s laugh is important. Martha’s anger is important. Without them the stories we hear are too neat, too tidy, and too comfortable, especially to the ears of men. And even thousands of years of history, countless readings and re-tellings of the stories haven’t erased those awkward outbursts. And if we listened, if we resisted the urge to tidy them up … well God knows what we might learn to do.
July 22nd, 2001
“I saw satan falling from the sky like lightning.” That shadowy figure from the Book of Job and from millenia of myth. The prosecuting attorney, the accuser, the adversary. My spellchecker has been insisting all week that “satan” has a capital “S” while the whole point of Jesus’ strange, ecstatic outburst in the gospel seems to be that satan doesn’t deserve one. Doesn’t deserve a capital S. Doesn’t even deserve a personal pronoun. It—satan—the accuser—has fallen from heaven—fallen like lightning from the sky—and that really matters.
The voice of the accuser is one we all know—here in our heads, in our hearts—keeping us in our place, keeping us under a spell, keeping us out of the battle—and that voice speaks with such quiet authority we never doubt the capital letter—we have been bamboozled to believe satan speaks for God, accuses us in the name of truth and goodness and beauty but, whatever the pretence it might make, the voice of the accuser speaks for no one but itself.
And pretend it does. The world is full of accusing voices, voices that would have us afraid, or bent, or broken—deny our dignity, denigrate our merit, undermine our significance. Voices that claim to know our dirty secrets. And I use “our” broadly—yours and mine, here today, just ordinary Christians just going about our daily labour for daily bread, but, more inclusively, all the ones living as lambs among wolves, and all the ones who have lost the battle with lies—the poor, the sick, the hurt, the oppressed, the despised—every scapegoat of our society.
Every voice that speaks with accusation, every whisper, every insinuation, every final verdict, every sexist jibe, every gay joke, every unequal paycheck, every ad holding up an unattainable ideal, every bully, every accusing voice—don’t they all make the same, silent claim to be holy writ, to divine authority? The satan’s only power is that it puts on a good show of speaking with authority, of being unquestionable, beyond debate. But satan has fallen from the sky and, though the glitter and clamour of the fall might be like lightning to hold our eyes and make us cringe in fear, Jesus himself stands witness—the accuser has been thrown out of heaven and all the pushing and bullying and fear-mongering is only bluster. Whatever satan might have said, might still say, our names are written in heaven, but its is not. There is nothing heavenly, nothing divine, nothing holy about the voice of accusation. Jesus has unmasked it.
And that is what the kingdom is about—unmasking—that is what discipleship and following Jesus is about. Not about the power to go head-to-head with satan, treading spirits underfoot, nor about any kind of comparison, but about unmasking the lie, the lies, that have been told from time immemorial. Lies simple; lies political; subtle lies; holy lies.
Here’s one lie long told: how do you get on in a dog-eat-dog world? Not just live—not just get by—but get on—do what needs to be done? In today’s gospel that question is in its sharpest form—how do you build a church? Who does Jesus entrust the kingdom to?
And the answer seems so frail and yet so demanding. When Jesus sends out the 72 to go before him, to prepare the way for him, he gives them stupid instructions. You or I would know better. Clearly the way to do this is to plan and prepare. To estimate your needs, calculate your expenses, plan a route, book some advance accommodation. Maybe do a seminar on public speaking, the habits of highly effective people, or how to sell. Perhaps plant an ad in the local paper or phone some contacts. Above all I guess you have to know the message you are to spread, make it snappy, cogent, clear.
Jesus has different rules. Rules for lambs among wolves. Don’t travel alone but travel light: no purse, no backpack, no shoes for your feet. Don’t stand and chatter along the way. And when you get there eat what is set before you, offer peace, cure the sick and say simply, “the kingdom of God is here.”
There’s a logic to all that which both attracts and repels me. I can see it. I can see why, if you have to be wolf-bait it makes sense to not have too much meat on your bones. I can see how the way you travel can undermine the message—like the shiny suits and elaborate hairpieces of televangelists—I mean, who hears you when you rise from your comfortable bed to instruct the starving, or who hears you when walk in safety among those struggling to survive.
But it seems such a hard way, that simple way. Such a challenge to my fear. I have listened too well to years of accusation. I do not know how to be simple any more. I do not have the trust. How can I just eat what is set before me when two thirds of the world have little enough on their tables to offer to me?
And even if I braved the journey what peace do I have to give, what healing is in my hands, and where O where is the kingdom of God?!
Satan is very convincing. Better to doubt, to protect, to stay at home. Better that life be complicated and safe than simple and just. Better that I survive than others live. Better not build a church at all than let it change me. I couldn’t possibly … I don’t know how to … I’m not … I don’t deserve …
But satan has lost its capital “S”—never had one. Satan has fallen from the sky and its lies speak for no one but itself.
I could … I do know how … I am … Maybe if we gave Jesus as much inner air-time as we have given the accuser we might be astonished, might be changed, set free, set loose. And the world with us.
July 8th, 2001
Let’s start with children’s stories. Long before there was Harry Potter, there was Sparrowhawk, Archmage of the land of Earthsea. Ursula LeGuin’s four beautiful books are about the magic of names. Her wizards work their wonders by knowing and speaking the names of things—their true names—the names they have in the old tongue, the language dragons speak, the language of the Making by which all things were made.
To know the true name of something is to have power over it. Power and responsibility. Change the name and you change the thing. The art of LeGuin’s wizards is not in knowing magic spells, or having the right equipment, but knowing the true name of a thing. Not just broadly but in detail: not just Tree but oak, not just oak but oak in early summer, oak on this hillside. Not just Ocean but every cove and inlet and beach and wave.
In Earthsea people don’t go by their true name—they dare not. The true name is guarded and kept secret and only given to another—with your whole being—in love or death. But to speak your true name in love is to defeat magic and reveal the essence of who you were made to be.
I’m told my name would have been Pamela Jane if I had been a girl. No deep reasons there … just that my mother liked the sound of them. But, instead, I’m Robert Richard—named after my two grandfathers. There are Richards on my father’s side as far back as we can remember. Though, as a kid, my granddad Marsh always insisted his real name was Aloysius and I never did know whether he was having me on or being serious. The name “Robert” claims my kinship with my maternal grandfather though I only met him a couple of times. It was a controversial choice since my mother’s mother and he were separated. There’s a story there too, but too long for now.
As reasons for names go, all that grandfather stuff is convincing enough but there are other reasons that don’t get spoken—it can be just as important to know what your name is not. You see, I should have had an older brother. My mother gave birth to a little boy some years before me. And there was no doubt about the what and why of his name. “His name is Alan.” Alan was the name of my mother’s older brother. By all accounts he was a perfect brother and, though my mother never talked much about him, I get the impression she idolised him. But Alan died aged around 19 or so from stomach cancer—the story was, medical likelihood aside, that it was the result of a soccer injury.
So my mother had no doubt about the name of her first boy. Alan. But baby Alan’s birth wasn’t easy … there were complications and Alan was born with cerebral palsy and lived only a few days.
I look back and I wonder how my life has been changed by Alan’s own short existence and what it would have been like if he had lived. I was one of those kids that were cared for too much. My parents were determined that I, at least, was going to be safe. So I was stuffed full of vitamins and kept away from germs and plied with cod liver oil and still I caught every childhood disease that was going.
And, instead of being the second child, I grew into all the hang-ups eldest children have—hands up all you eldest children … you know what I mean—well-behaved, over-responsible, achieving. So my name is Robert Richard but there is a silent echo: Alan, Alan. … I wonder what God calls me.
…
You may have seen in the news a sad story from Britain. A decade ago two ten year olds took a little child and tortured him and killed him. His name was Jamie Bolger—their names we don’t know. Their true names were hidden for their protection and their families’. Now ten years later the young men are about to be released on probation rather than being funnelled into the adult penal system. But how do you go free with such a history, with people lining up to take revenge? Deserve it or not—that’s the battle in the press—deserve it or not they are being given new identities, new names, a second chance, a fresh start.
Sometimes—deserve it or not—each of us needs a second chance, a fresh start, a new name. Or needs to learn again the true name God calls us. We might call ourselves “Forgotten,” when God’s name for us is “Hope.” Others might whisper, “Failure,” while God is proud to call us “Friend.”
“His name is John,” says Elizabeth. A new name, not a father or grandfather. John: “God has shown us favour,” it means. John is meant for something new: a new hope, a new dawn, a new salvation. “God has blessed us.” John is not born to the family trade to be a priest like his father. The name God calls him frees him. He grows up a prophet. A fearless, wild voice to confront kings and inspire his kin. Jesus, himself, was lured from hearth and home by this strange, free, wild cousin of his standing waist deep in Jordan’s water. … Where would we be if John had become Zechariah Junior?
We gather all sorts of names along the way yet God never fails to speak our true name to us, our identity in God’s eyes. And that name might make all the difference. Do you know you true name, the one God calls you? Can you hear God whisper it to you now? Listen! “Your name is …”
June 24th, 2001
Borland’s Delphi© makes the construction of Windows applications easier than ever. In particular, the Borland Database Engine (BDE) offers enormous power with great ease. Sometimes, however, the full might of the BDE is overkill. Wouldn’t it be better for your simple projects to use a simple tool, one that could be distributed inside your EXE and didn’t require enormous DLLs to function?
The QDB components for Delphi offer fast, indexed access to a flat-file database of variable-sized items. QDB is quick, easy to use, and comes with full installable help. It’s also free! Caveat! It is some years since these components were developed and they probably won’t function beyond D5 without a lot of tweaking. They are–regrettably–also unsupported. Nevertheless I hope you find them useful in some way.
Also available are the usual demonstration applications written to show the power and ease of QDB. There is a simple address book, a rewrite of Borland’s Animals demo, and a rudimentary knowledge-base system. They each come with full source code.
Writing programs that work at all is difficult enough without having to track down memory leaks and strange problems with overwritten memory. Snoop and Snoop Monitor make it easy to snoop out those bugs — and they’re free. Caveat! It is some years since these components were developed and they won’t function beyond D5. They are–regrettably–also unsupported. Nevertheless I hope you find them useful in some way.
Snoop v2.0 has been completely rewritten and has a bunch of new features. It works correctly with DLL files and with multi-threaded programs and now comes with a Delphi expert to display its memory-leak reports and jump to the offending line in your source code. (more…)
June 18th, 2001
OLE Structured Storage (or Compound Documents or DocFiles … the names change regularly!) provide a clever way to have a whole file-system within a single file with nested ‘directories’ (storages) and ‘files’ (streams). There’s also the ability to do transaction processing: keeping modifications in limbo until ‘committed’ or rolled-back. The only catch has been that the necessary APIs are complex, most un-Delphi-like, and in places self-contradictory. Indeed, the DCU supplied with Delphi 1 is error-ridden. There’s also the matter of the small print and the arcane error codes! With these complexities it’s no wonder that most Delphi developers have avoided Compound Documents.
The CompDocs components available here encapsulate OLE structured storage in a straightforward and Delphi-like way. They protect you from most of the hidden problems with using the API directly and work with all versions of Delphi. As usual these components are available for free. Caveat! It is some years since these components were developed and they probably won’t function beyond D5 without a lot of tweaking. They are–regrettably–also unsupported. Nevertheless I hope you find them useful in some way.
TRootStorage models a physical file on disk while TStorage and TStorageStream model substorages and streams. Storages can be nested and can be opened in transacted mode. Creating temporary storages and streams is made easy. The TStorageStream is fully compatible with other Delphi stream types.
I have provided a simple example program, Viewer, which browses the contents of a compound file, showing the names of storages and streams. You’ll be surprised to discover the complexity of many files. (more…)
June 18th, 2001
Another title-bar button? Yes, but one that works simply and cleanly to provide buttons which mimic the look and feel of Windows’ own frame controls by using Windows’ own drawing technique.
Each Widget contains a single glyph from a truetype font. Windows uses the “Marlett” font for its own glyphs but you can use any and choose a colour and weight too. Widgets have their own Hint property and are even visible at design-time. A component editor is included to make Widgets very easy to use. Caveat! It is some years since these components were developed and they probably won’t function beyond D5 without a lot of tweaking. They are–regrettably–also unsupported. Nevertheless I hope you find them useful in some way.
(more…)
June 18th, 2001
Next Posts
Previous Posts