Pastoral Letters Archives ⋆ Slaugham Scribbles

Harvest

On the wall across the room from my desk is a lithograph by John Nash. It depicts the corn harvest and dates from the 1940s, when a series of pictures called “The School Prints” was commissioned. I’m familiar with many of the series – they still hang in my parents’ house.

“Harvesters” shows a cornfield mid-harvest. A horse-drawn auto-scythe with its characteristic big paddlewheel is working its way around the shrinking stand of wheat in the centre of the field, leaving a trail of sheaves behind. Men are collecting the sheaves and stooking them up. Others are chasing rabbits flushed from the standing corn, as are several dogs. One has a shotgun, and is shooting at a fleeing rabbit. Altogether eight men are gathered to bring in the harvest from one small field.

This scene is much what I saw in my early childhood, though tractors were just starting to replace horses. My memories are of whole families gathered to collect and stook the sheaves, returning after a few days to stack the sheaves on a trailer using pitchforks to throw them up to the boys working atop the growing pile of corn. Long summer school holidays originated from the need for whole families to work together at harvest time. The school year started when harvest was complete. It still does.

Nowadays we see much bigger fields harvested by a single person with a huge combine harvester. Far fewer people are needed to work the land. Whole families no longer gather together for harvest.

For the Christian, the harvest that is a focus of the Gospels is still a labour-intensive business. Whole families are involved, but it isn’t a once-a-year concern, filling the summer holiday; it’s a life-long all-year-round interaction with our communities. It’s a concern for people, an involvement in the life of others. It’s loving your neighbour, not just at harvest time, but all year round.

Bless you

Jon

Memories

I sat on the train watching a familiar, long-forgotten landscape slip by: the tall chimney of Capper Pass at Brough, which had closed the airport. I remembered the Blackburn Beverley aircraft that were made there – squat fuselage and twin tailplanes, unlike any other plane I’d seen. Then sliding up alongside the Humber. Great banks of mud at low tide, or a broad expanse of clear water when the tide was in. Past the Bridge. I recall the building of that bridge, the longest single span suspension bridge in the world when it was built. I also remembered the ferry from Hull to New Holland – old-fashioned paddle steamers – which the bridge replaced.

As we drew into the city I saw familiar places like the allotment gardens tucked in between factories and warehouses – gardens which had been there the first time I made this journey as a small boy; I saw new retail parks occupying what had been docks beside the waters of the Humber. The city centre had become very different from my boyhood memories – the docks in Hull came right into the centre of the city, which had born the brunt of wartime bombing raids. The rebuilding had been slow, and continued after I left Hull in my late teens. There was much I just didn’t recognise at all.

The sadness of the lost memories filled me, reminding me that many of my memories of Hull included the father who was no longer there. So many good things, all gone.

But you know, we can wallow in nostalgia. “It ain’t what it used to be!” I remembered a poignant Beatles song from my youth – “In my life”.

There are places I’ll remember all my life, though some have changed. Some for ever, not for better; some have gone and some remain. All these places had their moments with lovers and friends I still can recall – some are dead and some are living. In my life, I’ve loved them all.

But we live in the moment, in the ‘Now’. The reality of things past was never as rosy as the pictures we paint in our memories. The Fifties and Sixties might seem like bright memories, but they were filled with poverty for many, with horrible injustices and inequalities, with poorer health and shorter life expectancy.

We live in the ‘Now’, and there is much to be thankful for, even if we view the future with a jaundiced eye, even though we worry about our country’s political and economic future, even though we worry about our world’s ecological future. Not that we shouldn’t be concerned about those things, but we should see the half-full glass we hold, and consider how we might help to fill it a little – being active in our support of the things we consider important, but valuing and enjoying the present. Living in the ‘Now’.

Encouragement

St Paul, in his missionary journeys around the Mediterranean in the First Century, usually had an assistant. Barnabus was one of these, and later Timothy took his place.

I have often wondered about this double-act. Paul comes across as an intense, driven man. I’m not sure he would have been easy to live with, and he rarely stayed in one place longer than a couple of years. Barnabus was called the “son of encouragement”. I like to think of him as a jolly, rather portly man, a good listener with an infectious chuckle. Paul shared the great truths of the Christian faith, Barnabus modelled their human face, showed the attractiveness of Christianity. I have met a number of Christians over the years who have prompted me to think “I wish I had what they have!”

That’s what Barnabus had. And it makes me consider the importance of encouragement in our lives. When we come up against problems, against opposition, we are often discouraged and down-hearted. We consider giving up the struggle, we wonder if we’re actually capable of doing whatever it is we’re attempting.

But encouragement comes like a refreshing drink – it restores our enthusiasm, it lifts our hearts. Remember the old advertisement – “Refreshes the parts other beers can’t reach”. That’s what encouragement does. It’s vital for our well-being, and we are drawn to those whose natural gift lies in encouragement – they are the glue in our fractured lives.

And maybe just occasionally, we stop and think “I wonder just what it is they’ve got, this thing I’d like to have. And for some of them, like Barnabus, it is the love and presence of Christ.

Bless you all

Jon

Where is our value?

August is here. Time to unwind from the stresses of work and spend time with the family. Time to recharge our batteries and remember that there’s more to life than work or school.

Work often gives us a purpose in life – “What do you do?” is always asking us about our work. Work is where we take our self-worth, where we find our identity. Losing your job creates a crisis of self-confidence, of identity, as well as the financial pressures it may bring. Even a well-planned retirement can result in real problems – we aren’t who we were – we have to reinvent ourselves.

We also value the esteem others hold for us – so we spend our lives trying to impress other people, instead of trying to do the right thing. It may be our family, or our peers – school friends or work colleagues – or any passing stranger! Whether we want smarter clothes or a better car, the chances are we are thinking of how they will impress other people.

Even our ambitions are seated in the desire to impress. I pursued an academic career to please my parents – I wanted to feel my own value in their approval. Even now I can feel the sense of failure that I didn’t get a better degree, study for a doctorate, become an academic, because these are things I know my parents value.

But this is not how it should be!

When these things are stripped away – when we retire, or lose our employment, when we lose a position of influence, then we are thrown back upon ourselves. Who am I? What am I worth?

For the Christian, these questions should be answered within the context of our faith – God made me the way that I am, he looks upon me just as I look upon my children, and he loves me. Only when I think about how much I love my children do I realise how God cares about me.

This gives me a value that no job can, that no smart suit or posh car can – I matter to God, and I don’t have to work at it. And when I fail, as inevitably I do, He urges me to get up and start again, with forgiveness and no condemnation.

And so, it is time to take a break, to remember that work is not everything.

Have a great holiday!

Jon Rotheray

Grief

It is six months now since my father died. His death was not unexpected, and in many ways was a considerable relief, but death is always a shock. The combination of the finality of death and the reminder of our own mortality shakes us up.

If you read about grieving there is often a suggestion that it’s a process we go through; there are stages of grief and descriptions of how we might expect to feel. We experience denial, isolation, anger, depression, acceptance. Or maybe it’s numbness, pining, disorganisation and despair, and finally recovery. It all depends which book you read.

It’s almost as though grief, like everything else nowadays, has a sell-by date, after which we return to normal. Except that we don’t. Grief isn’t well-behaved, it doesn’t follow the prescribed stages in any sort of order, or sometimes at all, and normality will not be resumed. You’ll never be the same again. You will live with the loss, you will adjust. But you won’t “get over” it.

All sorts of aspects of grief have troubled me – a sense of lethargy, an inability to make even simple decisions, an exaggeration of my normal tendency to put off decisions until the last minute, or not make them at all if possible; a lack of motivation to do anything new; a reluctance to resume ongoing projects that somehow got shelved after Dad’s death; strange very lucid dreams of all sorts, but especially involving those closest to me – I find myself putting off going to bed. Grief even contributes to our physical condition, and simple physical problems (like arthritic knees and stomach pains) cause more problems than before.

Grief will rear its head at unexpected moments, plunging you back into anger, despair, depression or lethargy. Tears will flow at quite unpredictable stimuli. Your patience may suddenly run out and you’ll lash out at people, often those you love the most. You can flip from depression to euphoria without any discernible reason, or sometimes simply feel numb, as though your emotions had been neatly cut away from you in some fiendish surgery.

It’s as if you suddenly don’t know who you are. You look in the mirror and realise you ’re living with a stranger who is unreliable and temperamental. And you have to cope with this stranger alone, because the chances are you won’t let anyone else in emotionally. You might just be adding a dollop of guilt on top of all this, because all your nearest and dearest are having to cope with this stranger too.

Logically it seems my faith should sustain me. I know I have a loving heavenly Father and a Saviour who will never let me go, but there is an emotional disconnection. This knowledge seems to have been withheld from the stranger that is grieving, leaving me more alone than ever.

There are loads of books and articles about grieving – there’s a whole industry based on bereavement, but much of the literature is full of quick, glib fixes. Life doesn’t work like that. Grief is messy, chaotic, and unpredictable. And grief may well continue to disrupt your life for far longer than people imagine.

But if you are grieving, remember that many others will understand the nature of life under these circumstances, they have been there, maybe they are still there. Unlike Queen Victoria, we don’t necessarily wear our grief on our sleeves, so we don’t always recognise those affected. Loss is part of life. We survive, but we are changed forever.

JR 15/6/2018

Dementia

There has been much talk over the election period of care for the elderly, and especially for those suffering from dementia. Most of the discussion has centred around the cost, discussing how we might fund our parent’s or partner’s care – but I think the true cost of dementia lies in the realm of relationships and quality of life, not money.

Over the last few months I have often been up to Hull to visit my parents. My father is 95 and suffers from dementia. He is paranoid too, and has spent the last two months in a secure psychiatric unit. The staff are caring – I find it hard to believe that anyone would choose this vocation, and fulfil it so cheerfully. There they are, day after day, always a smile, never discouraged. But all my Dad sees is a prison, a gulag with victims and warders. His paranoia prevents him from having any hope at all, and he is desperately unhappy. My Mum, bless her, has set her heart on bringing him home and caring for him herself. She is frail, 94 and nearly blind, so it seems very unlikely that she could manage this, even with my brother dropping in two or three times a day. Although any attempt will be fraught with problems, and will seriously reduce her quality of life, I think she might never forgive herself if she didn’t try. So what if she tries then realises it just isn’t possible? What then? Dad will be in the gulag again, and she will feel she has failed the man who has given her over 70 years of his love and life. There are no winners. Every outcome is heartbreak.

When my sister Esther was dying of cancer, some aspects of her personality were exaggerated, others were repressed, but she was always recognisably, and very clearly herself. I could see the disease, but it didn’t stop me seeing and loving Esther. But with dementia, the disease obscures the person; we wind up dealing with someone whom we don’t recognise, who doesn’t recognise us – the disease has taken over, and we feel as though the person we love has already died. Yet we cannot mourn – they are still there before our very eyes, but in body only. Some quirks of behaviour persist, and their character and personality shine through on odd rare occasions, as if to remind us of what we have already lost, and then are gone again, leaving us the stranger who hurts us unknowingly, as they never had before.

Yet I must believe that God can see through the disease, can see past it to recognise the soul that was ever there. If God sees our heart and knows us, then he must still see the tortured soul that is my father, behind the mask of disease, and love him. And this is love that hurts, love that grieves, love that perseveres though all seems lost. And how hard I find it to match that love, when I am always watchful for the next cruel word, the next bout of anger, or even the next expression of indifference. But that is the love we are all called to have, the love we should exercise each and every day. At the same time, that same love that God has for the father I struggle with, that love fills me with hope and encouragement. It shines like a beacon in a dark world.

Jon

Advent

Advent is already upon us. This is the beginning of the Church year, a season to share the longing for the promised Messiah, a season to look forward to his second coming.

It starts on the Sunday nearest to St Andrew’s Day, always leaving 4 Sundays before Christmas. The Sunday before Advent was often known as “Stir up” Sunday, because the collect in the Book of Common Prayer for that Sunday started with the words “Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people;” It was often jocularly associated with stirring up the mincemeat ready for Christmas.

The marking of Advent dates back to the 5^th Century, maybe even earlier, when it was a period of fasting, usually for 3 days a week. Fast periods were usually a season of penitence, coming before a special celebration such as Easter or Christmas.

Have you started your Advent Calendar? This is a modern invention – well modern compared to the 5^th Century, being introduced in Germany in the 19^th Century. The days of Advent were marked off, sometimes using a chalk-mark on the door, and a candle was lit each day. In the early 1900s printed calendars became available, with a little door covering a picture or Bible verse for each day. Chocolate was a very recent addition!

In churches an Advent Wreath is prominently displayed., with four or five candles. One candle is lit each Sunday in Advent. On the first Sunday – Hope Sunday – the first candle is lit, and the readings are taken from the Old Testament, from the Isaiah or Jeremiah, telling of God’s promises to redeem his people after their suffering.

The second Sunday is called Bethlehem Sunday, and again the readings are drawn from the Old testament, prophesies from Isaiah or Malachi of the Saviour who will be the fulfilment of God’s promises.

The third Sunday is Rose or Gaudete Sunday, and the candle on the wreath is red or pink instead of white. Gaudete means “Rejoice!”, and this Sunday marks a pause in the fast – a celebration. The readings now concentrate on John the Baptist announcing the start of Christ’s ministry.

On the fourth Sunday, Annunciation or Angel Sunday, we read about the angel appearing to Mary, announcing the miraculous conception and birth of Chris the Saviour.

The last candle, in the centre of the wreath, is usually lit at the Christmas Eve service, and is called the Christ candle – the light of the world. The reading, of course, marks what Advent is all about. The birth of Christ, God on earth. Hope.

I wish you all a very merry Christmas, full of joy and hope.

Jon

Our Churches and Services

Whenever I talk to Readers from other churches, they are always surprised at the variety of worship in Slaugham and Staplefield. There is a calendar of services in this magazine each month, but unless you are familiar with the jargon, you may not know just what to expect. So I thought I’d provide a short guide…

St Mark’s, Staplefield is a Victorian church with organ, pews and wonderful frescos. There is a service each Sunday at 9am, always including a 5-10 minute sermon, and lasting about 45 minutes to an hour.

Holy Communion 1662 is a traditional Book of Common Prayer service (thee and thou, Our Father, which art in heaven) without hymns;

Morning Prayer is in modern language with organ and hymns;

Common Worship Holy Communion is in modern language, with hymns and organ;

Choral Matins is a traditional service with organ, choir and hymns.

All Saints, Handcross is a Victorian mission hall church with chairs rather than pews. There is no organ, so hymns are accompanied on the piano. There are steep steps to negotiate, although wheelchair access can be arranged – please contact Carl (400221) in advance. Plans are in hand to improve access and facilities here.

Spotlight Service is a short, less formal service with hymns, prayer, and a short talk, followed by tea and biscuits. Very popular with the more mature!

St Mary’s, Slaugham

St Mary’s is a wonderful building with parts dating back to the 12^th and 13^th Centuries, with restorations in the 19^th and 21^st Centuries. It has a beautiful stone floor with underfloor heating, stained glass, comfortable chairs, organ, audio loop for the hard of hearing, with bell-ringing before and tea, coffee and squash after the services. Children are most welcome, and special provision is made for them in all 10:30 services, which last about an hour and a quarter, with a sermon of around 20 minutes.

All Age – a less formal service where families can stay together. Worship songs led by a small band (maybe keyboard, guitar, clarinet), often with actions for children and less inhibited adults!

10:30 Holy Communion is in modern language, and has hymns accompanied by the organ with worship songs from the band as well. Provision for children is made in small groups in the vestry, covert room and The Forge. About an hour and a quarter long.

Café Church – truly café-style, sitting in groups of 8 or so around each table, with tea, coffee and a selection of patisserie! Arrive early and settle in; grab a refill whenever you need. Children’s provision is made for part of the service, the remainder is intended to be child-friendly.

Morning Worship is a slightly more formal service, in modern language with hymns accompanied by the organ and worship songs from the band. Children have a separate programme in the same building.

If you are a church-goer, or would like to be, I hope you find some services that you will enjoy, and where you can meet the living God amongst friendly folk and beautiful surroundings.

Yours in Christ

Jon

Starting Over

I have recently spent a week working in a college in London that offers residential education for women, especially disadvantaged women. It was a real eye-opener, a small institution that placed great value on the whole experience of the people it served, devising tailored programmes for each individual, and cherishing the sense of community it engendered. It has the potential to change lives in ways that can’t be measured by league tables and inspections.

The sense of community reminded me of my early days of teaching at the Grammar School in Haywards Heath, where I reckon I had taught and knew every pupil by name before they reached the sixth form. Later the school became a sixth-form college, where students stayed only a year or two, and I taught only a few of the many local youngsters who attended. There was a palpable feeling that the sense of a community had been lost. A place with a real sense of belonging became more of a processing plant where youngsters were prepared for examinations and university.

But for some of those youngsters the college offered a new start – they could throw off the reputation they’d acquired at school. For some, especially free-spirited boys, this was a real chance to start again with teachers who had no preconceptions about them, how they might behave, how able they were. They started again with teachers who accepted them as grown, young men and women, with no memory of them as children. They were accepted for what they now were. And they thrived on it.

And this thought reminds me of one of my favourite stories in the Bible. Moses had finished his mountain-top experience with God, and descended the mountainside with the Ten Commandments inscribed by the finger of God on two stone tablets. He was confronted not by God’s faithful people eagerly waiting for God’s words, but by the sight of riotous celebration and revelry around the golden calf. Moses was so angry he threw the tablets to the ground and they smashed into smithereens, gone for ever.

Moses pleaded with God to be lenient with his people, and God agreed – he forgave and offered a new start. And God said to Moses – “Make two more stone tablets, and we’ll start again”. I can just imagine God as a gentle father, his anger melting away, sitting down and quietly saying “Let’s start again”.

And I’m reminded that life as a Christian gives us this opportunity, not just once but every time we stray from the strait and narrow. We can start again with a clean slate, no recriminations. Just the chance to make the best of what we are. Like the college in London, God values each one of us as an individual and is prepared to sit down with us and say “Let’s start again”.

Jonathan Rotheray