Exaltation of the Holy Cross

Twenty-fourth Week

SUNDAY – Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross

Waiting for the family lunch we went to the local church in a suburb of Paris. It was full. The priest was lovely but I had difficulty understanding his accent. Here is one of the most famous sentences in the Gospel:

“Yes, God loved the world so much that He gave His only begotten son. So that everyone who believes in him may not be lost but have eternal life.” (John 3:16)


All the talk, newscasts increasing excitement this week on the Scottish Referendum.

I was struck by today’s reading from St Paul to the Corinthians:

“I hear that when you all come together as a community, there are separate factions among you, and I half believe it – since there must be no doubt be separate groups among you, to distinguish those who are to be twisted.” (Cor 11:17-28)

Nothing changes.


I was talking to some children from Scampton School. They were eleven year olds. I asked them whether they are in favour of maintaining the Union. All the little hands shot up. Strange that the English are so overwhelmingly in favour of the Union, the Scots so divided. Yet they do so much better from it. It shows that sentiment is more important than economics.

“Just as a human body, though it is made up of many parts, is a single unit because all these parts through many make one body.” (Cor 12:12-14)


I went off to Clacton and Frinton, two places I had never been to before. A lovely day, the people very nice. Frinton a throwback to a gentler age: even a vicar walking down the high street in a dog collar. I felt I was in some 1950s novel of retired sea side life. Most people I meet seemed to hold similar views to me.

Today’s reading: “In short, there are three things that last: faith, hope, and love; and the greatest of these is love.” (St Paul 12)

Reminds me always of when we put my father’s ashes in the ground and I read out this passage.


Scottish referendum day. Great excitement. We travel up to Lincolnshire and stay up late, listening to the results. An extraordinary turn out. It just shows that if people are given a real question, a real choice between competing futures, they really are interested in politics. But so much of the choice is diffused. There is too much listening to focus groups, too much dumbing down.


I continued my voyage through the Book of Common Prayer in our village church and read Psalm 29. Afferte Domine. Bring unto the Lord. It is soothing to read the King James Bible – not much remains in the mind, but I’m not sure it’s supposed to. You just let it waft over you.

SATURDAY (20 Sept)

I continued my reading of the psalms, one by one. Psalm 30: Exaltabo te Domine – I will magnify thee, my Lord.

Twenty-third week


I was reading again Thomas Merton’s Elected Silence. This passage struck me:

“This means in practice, there is only one vocation, whether you are all the time in the cloister, or nurse the sick, whether you are a religious or out of it, married or single, no matter who you are or what you are: you are called to the summit of perfection. You are called to interior life, perhaps to mystical prayer, and to pass on the fruits of your contemplation to others.”

This last point seems to me very important.


I flew to Gibraltar for their National Day celebrations. It was strange to walk down such an English High Street in such a hot sun and to come across such a typically Mediterranean Catholic church in such an English city. It was a relief to sit there in the shade.


The residence of the Governor in Gibraltar is called the Convent, and once, a long time ago, it was. We sat in the Dining Room which is rather like a school refectory with the banners of all the British governors since 1704 on the walls.

WEDNESDAY – Gibraltar National Day

Exciting to stand on the stage with three thousand people in front of you. Baloons, speeches. You keep meeting the Chief Minister wherever you go, even on the beach in the afternoon. In the evening he was there again at the Mass in honour of Our Lady of Europe in the bright evening six o’clock sunlight.

When Gibraltar was captured in 1704, her statue was thrown down the cliff and her head fell off but she seems ok now and as the Host was elevated the sun was in my eyes.


I was sitting in Gibraltar airport waiting to fly out – the frontier is about a hundred yards off. There are often long queues as Spanish Guardia Civil take an agonisingly long time to check people. If during the last fifty years they had opened up the frontier, Gibraltar would now be like Monaco, indistinguishable from France, or San Marino, indistinguishable from Italy.

“To the man who slaps you on one cheek, present the other cheek too.”


We were debating international development in the Commons. There were only seven of us who voted against giving 0.7% of our national budget in aid by law. I’m not opposed to aid – quite the opposite – but it seems economic illiteracy to lay down spending requirements by statute.

Sometimes I think we are like something out of today’s parable:

“Can one blind man guide another? Surely both will fall into the pit?” (Luke 6:39-42)


This is the weekend of the Order of Malta pilgrimage to Walsingham which I enjoy but I was off instead to the 80th birthday party of a relative in Paris.

“There is no sound tree that produces rotten fruit.” (Luke 6:43-49)

Twenty-second Week


Jeremiah’s cry today is ours:

“You have seduced me, Lord, and I have let myself be seduced. You have overpowered me; you were the stranger.” (Jeremiah 20:7-9)

I think the language of seduction is right. It is all so irrational. Reason screams: the world is created by the laws of physics. Yet one’s heart is seduced, one’s heart but not yet the head.


“But he slipped through the crowd and walked away.” (Luke 4:16-30)

I always wonder how He slipped through the crowd. Did he vanish or did the enragement of the crowd blind them? Does He slip through our sight, too?


The start of a new school year. Things are resolved. We know where we are going now. There is a debate on three-parent families – mitochondrial research. Is this part of the increasing alienation of the age? That attempt at cures can always be justified. Even if we now have three-parent babies.

St Paul tells today that the Spirit reaches the depths of everything. (First letter of St Paul to the Galatians). But does it? Only of course if we let it.


I do a piece for the Today programme on the Ukraine and I take part in Prime Minister’s Questions. We have been too complacent in Scotland.

I am struck by this passage, however, today:

When daylight came he left the house and made his way to a lonely place. (Luke 4:38-44)

Mark the words: to a lonely place, to be alone, not to be with other people, to be silent. We all have this great need.


“The wisdom of this world is foolishness to God.” (Galatians 3:18-23)

The truth is that we take ourselves and the world far too seriously. We are enveloped by it. We fail to see our own foolishness and minuteness in the light of eternity, whether or not it is inhabited by God.


“The salvation of the Lord comes from the just.” (Ps 36)

I can’t help feeling however that we always foolishly think salvation comes from our efforts, as individuals or in groups, or by country. We very rarely think of something beyond ourselves.


We were at an oblates meeting and our oblate master was giving us good advice to treat things as “gifts” not possessions – everything is a gift: children, home, health, job, abilities. If something is a gift and not a possession you don’t need to grasp it tightly and fearfully in a clenched fist.

He told us also that God is not part of your history, your regrets. He does not say “I was”. He is not part of your fears for the future. He does not say “I will be”. He is for the present. He says “I am”. He says: “I Am Who I Am”.

Sometimes you feel this vastness in the present in the quiet of the night.

On Friday night I stood alone in the abbey church looking at the sanctuary lamp. At times like these, one can feel a special belief.

On Saturday evening I realised it was not just the softness of the candlelight: I was looking through the sanctuary light to the crucifix beyond and to the shadows reflecting into the nave. Thus a deeper less material beauty became apparent.

Our oblate master also reminded us that St Benedict was a layman promoting the role of lay brothers. This I feel sure is a future for our monasteries as vocations decline. But a monastery cannot exist just as prayer groups or schools: it must have more people within the monastery. This means nowadays I am sure more lay people.

Twenty-First Week


I suppose this is the key question:

“Who do you say I am?”

For thirty years I have been trying to answer this and I still have no answer. It falls to a simple uneducated man, Peter, to give a firm answer.

“You are the Christ.” (Matthew 16:13-20)

But perhaps one should not be too ashamed of one’s failings. As Paul reminds us in Romans 11 today, “Who could ever know the mind of God?”

Jesus was a living reality to Peter: He was a man like him, standing, talking, eating with him. For us He is a legend, a symbol. Only the deeply religious – and I am not there yet, maybe never will be – these encounter Him in their mind as a living real person, extant as much now as then.

This then is the crucial, perhaps the only really important, question: Who do you say I am.


St Paul congratulates the people of Thessalonika on the fact that their “faith is growing so wonderfully”. I wish I could say the same, mine goes in fits and starts but it is encouraging that even the Archbishop of Canterbury admits that sometimes he doubts if God exists.


A different meeting and a difficult day but I go to Mass in the Cathedral in the evening. If things go wrong it is trite to say that they can be set right just by praying. Sometimes the prayers seem like tears falling on unforgiving and unknowing rock but at least they can be set in context. Perhaps today’s psalm is of some comfort:

“Let the heavens rejoice and earth be glad.” (Ps 95)

The relief came that evening with driving up and being back in Lincolnshire.


Oh dear. The invocation from Jesus is a bit hard. Does it apply to us?

“Hypocrites! You are like whitewashed tombs that look handsome on the outside, but inside are full of dead men’s bones.” (Matthew 23)

I did a surgery today. How lucky we are, how ungrateful for it, compared to what some people face.


As I read back on today’s gospel, I am thinking as I write of three people I knew well who have died within a week. Jim Dobbin, a Labour MP who fought many a battle with me on the same side. Hugh Stewart, a family friend, and Alistair Steele, the maths and running master at Downside, a very positive and kind and great teacher.

“Stay awake, because you do not know the day when the Master is coming.” (Matthew 24:42)


St Paul could not have put it better today:

“The language of the Cross may be illogical, to those who are not on the way to salvation.” (Corinthians 1:17-25)

As I constantly doubt, no doubt I am not on the way to salvation, but this seems a trifle harsh.


I went to our local church and read Psalm 27, Dominus illuminatio mea – The Lord is my light and salvation.

This may be true to a point but how many times a day – once, twice, three times in twenty-four hours. Hardly very impressive, but the Latin is.

Twentieth Week


We went to the new First World War galleries in the Imperial War Museum. They were packed. Of course it is a fine effort but curiously the atmosphere fails to come through. The present in the shape of us the visitors is too obvious an intrusion into the catastrophe.

Perhaps today’s gospel is appropriate:

“Jesus said to his disciples, ‘I have come to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were blazing already.’” (Luke 12:49-53)

I am not so interested in the debate at a distance as to whether Britain should have entered the First World War as to why the madness of this war started in the first place. To me, all war is wrong except in self-defence. That statesmen would be so casual with peoples’ lives, so intent on ultimatums and their own pride, is staggering. Didn’t they – shouldn’t we? – always want to be peacemakers.


In the Gospel, Jesus today tells us that if he wants to enter Heaven “go and sell what you own and give money to the poor.” (Matthew 19:16-22)

I thought the priest put it well at Mass. It is unlikely that “there is not a single person in this cathedral who doesn’t own more than millions of the world’s poor.”

So it’s not possession of property or money that is the problem, but worrying about it.


Well the answer to the question comes today. “For men” [to give up everything] “this is impossible, for God everything is possible.” (Matthew 19:23-30)


I was in a rush when I put the boat away and locked my keys inside the cabin. I had no others. Why do we fret so about such little incidents?

We forget today’s psalm:

“The Lord is my shepherd, there is nothing I should want.” (Ps 22)


Publication day of GCSE results. From now for another ten days, households are in tumult about where sons or daughters should go to school. But again everything is resolved in the end to the good.

“The wedding is ready, but as those who were invited proved to be unworthy, go to the crossroads in the town and invite everyone you can find to the wedding.” (Matthew 22:1-14)


Sometimes things appear not to be going well in our life, we descend into a spiral of anger and resentment but really what is the point? One cannot – should not – seek to control the fate of others and within twenty or thirty or forty years we shall be dead anyway. All this so obvious a cliché really but we never learn – we are hard wired to worry, control, and resentment.

In this respect the gospel is wonderfully soothing. It is a rushing stream to dip our heads in but within a day we are thirsty again and in need of its waters.

“You must love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind.” (Matthew 22:34)


Debates continue, back and forth, positions are taken, trenches dug, and held to the last man or the last thought if they are in our mind. To what end?

Would it not be easier to allow the evening to sweep over us or should we like the Old Contemptibles, fight to the last man as they did one hundred years ago to the day?

“You must therefore do what they tell you and listen to what they say, but do not be guided by what they do.” (Matthew 23:1-12)

Nineteenth Week & the Assumption


I can’t say I warmed immediately to Medjugorje. Of course it is crowded with endless tasteless Marian souvenir shops full of tasteless tack but you accept that. It is an amusing part of Lourdes, too. In no way is it a beautiful town or, like Lourdes, in a splendid location by the rushing river Gave in the foothills of the Pyrenees. The housing is East European apartment blocks. The parish church is dignified as is the domain around it. We went to a pleasant English mass in a simple hall.

Afterwards, after being stuck in a hot, noisy café, I climbed the Apparition Hill. The rocks are very sharp and it is steep, tiring, and hot. It is probably a mistake to go to these places alone. We were told that on Sundays the locals collected on the hill at 4pm, but I wasn’t aware of any particular group. I faithfully said the Rosary as I climbed the hill. I didn’t feel much. And yet…

In the emotion of my dog dying I felt a profound sympathy for all living things, human or animal. It was a good place to be. Bob, our friend, said although he was not religious, there is something about the place, an atmosphere, and he is right.


We made our way to Split. I much preferred the town to Dubrovnik. In Diocletian’s Palace there is a real sense of layered history. His tomb is now the Cathedral.

There is a sense of irony that should beset us all. Here the great persecutor of Christians, his body vanished in the foundations of a cathedral. So are our works crushed by the vastness of history. We die and the world is happy to go on without us in its own direction.

Meanwhile it’s a great place to sit in a café and have a drink in.


We were making our way home: now we were in Venice. I suppose the religious art in the Accademia should be inspiring. True, one can admire it, but does one feel moved? Religious art that hangs in museums is taken away from its natural berth. It is an academic exercise. They said rightly that Titian’s Assumption had to be moved back to where it should be, in the Church of Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari. There it is home in all its glory.

In Venice, I like to escape the suffocating crowds around the Rialto and the Piazza San Marco and wander along the long straight canals in the north. Here I found a quiet church and an evening mass for three people and myself, where I saw this sign up which made a real impression on me: UOMO DI POCA FEDE, PERCHE HAI DUBITATO.

But don’t get me wrong, even art in a museum is inspiring. Look at Giovanni Bellini’s Madonna degli Alberetti: the quietness of the Virgin as she reads is deeply moving. She is waiting…


Near the offices and church of the Order of Malta is a quiet chapel seldom visited where you can see a picture of St George and the dragon. I made the mistake of attempting the long, hot, crowded walk via the Rialto and the Frari church. Feeling ill, I felt I was more like a scene out of Death in Venice than anything else.


We were nearer home, in the Alps near Geneva. In a small chapel out walking I found a young priest saying Mass. It must have been a walking pilgrimage. How wonderful to be here in this simplicity with a young priest and young families in the middle of nowhere… and to greet the great sweep of Mont Blanc outside.


This is always a lovely day, right in the middle of August, a holiday all over Europe. The church in Combloux was packed. I have never seen anything like it. Every square foot of standing room taken in the small village church. The famous simple message simply uttered.


We were back in London after our holiday so I went to the 10:30 mass in the Cathedral. There is no singing at the Saturday Latin Mass in August. There is just a quiet low mass in English. The great doors to the street are open, the hot, dusty Victoria Street a distant echo, a few quiet tourists.

The reading is from the prophet Ezekiel:

“The fathers have eaten unripe grapes. And the children’s teeth are set on edge.” (Ezekiel 18:1-10)

What does this mean? I think it is about this a later time: “Make yourselves a new heart and a new spirit.”

Eighteenth Week in Ordinary Time


I am sitting on a balcony at Viganj looking at the cypresses shading the restless Dalmatian Sea. One hundred yards to the right there is a medieval church. The bells ring out and I go to mass in Serbo-Croat.

The words I do not understand at all, no matter, the pattern, the form and the essence are the same. I can read the words of the Gospel on Universalis in English and during the long sermon they sink in. It is the feeding of the five-thousand.

The words, many words, float by lost in non-translation. The mind wonders and is still.


We ride across the sun-setting bay to Korčula: this is a medieval walled city and one passes under the winged lion of Venice to enter. Here are stone streets with arched windows reminiscent of the mother city. It is nearly dusk and I come in to the end of Mass, a few old ladies dotted in the aisles, just as the host is raised. Then I climb the belfry and see the sun fall into the sea, the bells of eight o’clock thundering in my ear.


“This sense of the great gratitude and the sublime dependence was not a phase or even a sentiment, it is the whole point that this was the very look of reality.”

Is a sunset just a beautiful view, or the sun of science, of a rotating earth and the physical laws of the universe or is it an expression, in garish terms, of a sublime dependence on the immediacy of a God given creation.


It is eight o’clock, again the bells are peeling out the hour. I am tired. After a thirty year break I have tried wind surfing. The young fly across the water like angels, turning, swooping in and flying out again. The old like me falter, glide a few feet and fall.


We went in Bob’s little boat up the sound from Korčula, its medieval walls fading. The light was brilliant, blending on hill and water. We were grateful when passing hills soothed the eye from the sun’s bright rays. In a quiet village round a bay an old man opened the locked village church for us.

The sun shone in a fierce narrow beam down the length of the dusty aisle.

“There in their presence he was transfigured: his face shone like the sun and his clothes became as white as light.” (Matthew 17:1-9)


We went to the island Melijd where two lakes shone a brilliant blue. In the middle of the larger was a monastery. Monasteries which now are closed and half-ruined the haunt of hot tourists are sad things but in the beauty of the spot an echo remains of the divine. I sat in a quiet corner and tried to sleep, every few moments a new group of people chatter, stare, and walk out. There are terraces and Roman ruins to climb, a café to drink in, the lake to swim in. It is not so bad but the heat is crushing, extinguishing all thought.


The reading today is from the minor prophet Nahum, he writes in a vivid style about the fall of empire:

“Woe to the city cloaked in blood, full of lies, stuffed with bounty, whose plunderings know no end … Nineveh is a ruin. Could anyone pity her? Where can I find anyone to comfort her?” (Nahum 2:1 3; 3:1, 6-7)

Nineveh is Mosul where now the Christian Assyrians are being held and being martyred.

I went years ago to his tomb at Alqosh in northern Iraq. It is sadly dilapidated. It is a strange echo from the past, standing in a place like that is an experience you cannot forget. In a narrow side street in Korčula is the museum of icons where few people visit attached to small gem of a church. The icons stare out in silent witness.


We learnt today that our beloved dog William who gave only love and loyalty had to be put down. I was anguished that I could not be with him at the end in Market Rasen. The visit to a broiling Dubrovnik besieged by tourists seemed as barren as dust with the news, but we were on our way now to Medjugorje, turned back at the rather grim Bosnian border because we had no green card. We persevered the next day.

Seventeenth Week


We have made our way to Finisterre, the end of the known world ’til 1493.

At sunset at 10pm we watched the sun sink into the sea.

Finis Terra. Deo gratias.


I am reading G.K. Chesterton’s ‘Life of St. Francis’. He is, I know, a much-acclaimed author. I find him rather dated. He seems somewhat pretentious, pompous and self-regarding but I agree with him in this: there is no point in just writing a biography of a medieval saint. The stories of St. Francis are so well known. Just repeating them again seems to have little point. They are more interesting as an allegory.


This is the eight-hundredth anniversary of the birth of St. Francis. He is supposed to have walked the Camino of Santiago. I thought of him as I trudged those weary miles.

We went to the Franciscan church in Compostela to try and get some sort of certificate of our walk. We got to catch the start of a wedding instead.


We got to the mountains at Combloux by 8:00 and in the twilight I decided to walk. I passed by the Augustinian house and walked into the chapel. The nuns, five of them, trooped in. I think they were a bit surprised to see me and they sang compline. Strange to be sitting in that modern room looking through the plate glass windows towards Mont Blanc listening to the familiar words sung in French, but a moment of stillness too and peace after an eleven hour drive.


The nuns had told me mass was in the village church at 9. I walked there, Mont Blanc shrouded in the mist. It is difficult to follow every word in French but the essence is there, something about gathering the flock.

After I tramped up the mountain, then on a chair lift to the very top and walked back through the silent pine trees. It is very quiet here. I thought of the last time I was here, the snow falling off the bough and them lifting from the released weight.


We drove across the flat hot north Italian plain for twelve hours ending up near Rijeka on the northern Adriatic coast.

I was dipping into G. K. Chesterton when driving as a passenger. For all his self-regard, his prayers are always littered with insights like this one – “Rossetti makes the remark somewhere, bitterly but with great truth, that the worst moment for the atheist is when he is really thankful and has nobody to thank.”

Is this fair? Cannot the atheist thank luck or fate or circumstance, but it is good to thank God. Does it do any harm?


They have just built a new motorway in Croatia and one avoids the coast road, hurtling south through an extraordinarily empty landscape. It is more American than European. And there are great areas of unclaimed land, of slums.

Chesterton says that “the transition from the good man to the saint is a sort of revolution by which one for whom all things illustrate and illuminate God illustrates and illuminates all thought”.

It is rather like the reversal whereby a lover might say at first sight that a lady looked like a flower and say afterward that all flowers reminded him of this lady. So is all nature, beautiful in its grandeur diffused with God in God or as all nature a pointer to the work of God.

On the Camino


My sixty-fourth birthday. I was on my way to join my son and his cousin who were doing the Camino de Santiago.

They had already done 700 kilometres. I was going to do the last 100 with them, having done the first 100 a few years ago. Perhaps I’ll do the middle bit sometime.

I arrived in Sarria, 118 kilometres from the end. My son had walked 40k that day alone.


We set off at dawn-ish. Like a great conflux of rivers a tide of humanity seemed to carry us forward, all trying to get to Santiago de Compostela before St. James’ feast day on the 25th July. By 2 and 20k only the heat had wiped me out. As one plods on thoughts, even prayers, seem to vanish. The world revolves around the path. We made it to just short of Portmarrin.


Perhaps we stopped too soon. Perhaps we would not make St. James’ Day now. No mass in these out-of-the-way places but restful moment watching a priest give a great Eucharist to one pilgrim, framed by the evening light of the green fields of Galicia.

You stay in hostels in dormitories and people start banging about to leave at 5am in the pitch dark. Thus far they are bizarrely on Central European Time and it doesn’t get light until 7am.

The boys say now that they want to do a final great push to get there by the evening of the 24th.


We spend the night at Melide. Once again the heat has finished me by 4. But the boys make a great pasta dish in the hostel and by great good fortune we have a room to ourselves.

There is an evening Mass. In these country Spanish churches there are the most amazing statues, almost living in their depiction of the bleeding wounds of the dead Christ. The effect of the long walk and singing is overwhelming.


The boys have left at 4.30am for their great 60k final walk. I am too lonely on my own so I also get up and set off in the pitch dark. I have no torch and stumble on the broken path. I have no way of seeing the yellow signs but some kind Italians take me in hand. I follow in their wake at a great pace, for me, for an hour behind their kindly light.

The dawn happens imperceptibly in these woods. A great mist hangs over the land and seems empty save the pilgrims plodding on.

The convoy principle has not applied to our pilgrimage, the tough get going and the weak get left behind for the U-boats. In my case a Spanish white van driver travelling at 60 mph in what for me is the wrong side of the road but I plod on. I am now determined to get there by the pilgrims mass on the 25th.

I arrive at 7pm in Arca, only 20km short of Santiago. The 36k has taken 15 hours – a snail’s pace. But with great joy I get there in time for the evening mass. It is packed with pilgrims weary but happy near the end of their quest. The priest asks us to call out where we have come from; from Mexico, from France and Spain and Germany, they call out.


I set out but 20k in five hours is a big ask so I pile on and get to the Cathedral as the bells strike noon. The boys have made it, camping out in the packed city in their tent.
The doors are tightly closed and a huge queue stands proudly in front of them. Is this it? But they do open and we went in.

At the end of mass the giant incense holder – the “botafumeiro” – smoking box is swung above our heads, achieving a dizzying speed of up to 80kph it is said. It is only swung on feast days. We have made it.


We go to the pilgrim office with our credencial (pilgrim passport to get our compostela). It is a bit unfair that I get the same as the boys for having walked a measly 118k as them for having 774k but I suppose there are always vineyards and late employed workers and all that.

We queue up in the Cathedral to climb the narrow steps behind the high altar to hug the apostle and see his casket in the crypt. Is it him? Who knows, does it matter?
Tens of thousands have certainly believed it for over a thousand years.

Of course, the real camino is the way the medievals do it, you walk out of your front door in England, France, or Germany and trudge the whole way there and back, probably racked by disease and dysentery and poverty.

We can never obtain their faith. For us this is an act of faith rather than a belief in a reality. But one can only belief in what one can.

Do I believe St. James’ body was taken in a stone boat miraculously after his martyrdom in Jerusalem in around AD 44 to the most westerly top of Europe? No, I probably don’t. But do I believe that when you kneel in front of his casket under the high altar you a feel profound emotion. Yes, I do, because I have felt it.

Fifteenth Week


It was the final of the World Cup. Curiously I have got into football during this tournament, even after England’s early eviction. Perhaps the endless passing forward which frustratingly most time end in nothing are like the throwing of the seed on to the path in today’s Gospel, but maybe not. This, after all, is only football.

What can compare with and produce the majesty of this line:

“others fell on rich soil and produced their crop, some a hundred, some sixty, some thirty, listen anyone who has ears.” (Matthew 13:1-21)


We had a statement on Gaza, perhaps the Israeli government should heed Isaiah of today:

“search for justice, help the oppressed, be just to the orphan, plead for the widow.” (Isaiah 1: 10-11)


Re-shuffle day. I feel like the Flying Dutchman. I have seen so many reshuffles, people going up and the same people going down. Some so long ago, before 1991, that everybody who figured them has now left or is about to leave parliament.

Of course I would have liked to have figured in one of them but not at the price of saying what you don’t believe in or not at the price anyway of saying what you don’t believe in and still getting nowhere. I have seen many like that, of course it is disappointing never to have me given anything but …

“Pay attention, keep calm, have no fear, Do not let your heart sink” (Isaiah 7:1-9)


I remember staring up at the sails of my small boat. I was alone on the sea. Everything, rudder, wind, tide, sails were perfectly balanced. The sails themselves while up were in perfect form against the blue heavens and way beyond Spithead a deeper line of blue washed a distant horizon. Water flowed unthreateningly beneath the boat. What would be more in tune often simplicity is the best way:

“I bless you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth for hiding these things from the learned and clever and revealing them to mere children.” (Matthew 11:25-27)


I was talking to a friend of mine, a Hindu, about his concept of reincarnation. It seemed to make quite a lot of sense to him that our soul was broken away from the divinity that a bit of this divinity is always seeking a way back, that in our next life we are placed according to how we have behaved in the last.

We had this conversation on a houseboat on the Thames in the midst of a political conversation. It seemed much more interesting than the rest of the evening’s political conversation.


Perhaps like Hezekiah we should not worry so much. He was at the point of death and told to put his affairs in order. This he did only perhaps because of his acceptance to be given another fifteen years of life.


The heatwave has broken and the dog retreats from waves of rain, thunder and lightning.

In the local church I read Psalm 28 although sometimes for me Psalm 10 today is more appropriate:

“Lord, why do you stand far off.
And hide yourself…”

Fourteenth Week


A similar feeling in the small upstairs church at Osgodby staring through the window at the distant line of the Wolds.

I always love this passage from St. Paul to the Romans:

“Your interests are not in the unspiritual, but in the spiritual… ”


Tolle says that most people completely identify with the voice in their head. We are unaware of it.

I think the thinker is me. I am the thinker. But I am not. The soul is me.

Because the thinker is framed by its past and present position and hopes and resentments around it – many of them keep repeating themselves.

From boyhood I have very occasionally slipped out of this identification with thought and wondered if I was something separate. But I have never been able to follow this trail very far.

Tolle thinks the ego lives off identification and separation. Me & You. I have always wondered however if this sense of uniqueness is not false. If in fact we are not ourselves and others. That all of humanity is in some strange way us.


One reason why I only occasionally keep a personal diary, which I suppose would have to be completely honest is that I would just complain in it constantly.

Tolle thinks that id others irritate us, we should view it as their ego acting, not them, and this fewer good advice to lessen irritation and complaining. Other people are kinder and nicer in reality than they often seem. Of course they are.


We had a debate on the Srebrenica massacre in Westminster Hall. I spoke. Some people complained about the Dutch and the Belgians. To me this misses the essential point that the evil lay in the massacre and this contagion of otherness is part of the human condition that given the right conditions, feelings of irritation at another’s ego can quickly dissolve into murderous intent.

I believe the only antidote is to remind of the fact that we are one humanity.

I suppose the gospels of Tuesday & Wednesday this week are about witness we are all in our different ways enjoined to bear witness

“The harvest is rich bit the labourers are few.” (Matthew 9)


Tolle rightly says that trying to get rid of a grievance by being good will rarely work. The ego is too strong. But recognising them as the work of the ego will start to put them in perspective it is entirely impossible for the ego to obey today’s Gospel:

“You received without change, give without change” (Matthew 10:7-11)

But we can recognise resistance to it as a thought of the ego?


As Tolle says when I assert light travels faster than sound, I am not asserting the ego, but when I say I know this because I see lightening before I hear thunder, the ego is creeping in. It always does. You can read or write something like this and in a second it is back.

But Tolle is wrong in thinking if he does that he can make real progress if we try this alone, outwith of ordinary religion:

“Have mercy on me God, in your kindness.
In your compassion blot out my offence” (Ps 50, today’s psalm)


Tolle quotes Jesus – “I am the way, the truth and the light” – to illustrate his contention that the truth is in every one of us. This must be true.

But if several billion of us state ‘I am the truth’ not my ego but my soul is that not moral relativism and a recipe for chaos to an extreme order.

Perhaps not if it is the soul and not the ego that is the way, the truth and the light. But on a practical level do we not need organised religion as a guide?

People say that these focus and rules create persecution but only if we allow it. I can say I practice Christianity, I do not need to say another cannot practice Islam and that is equally valid for him.

Amongst all the dross in the papers this week are pictures, it was only a picture which caught my eye. It was of a monk of Pluscarden. He looked serene. His surrender of all his liberty, of all his ego, his grinding daily vocation starting at 4 am, of singing 150 psalms every week has given his real I, not his ego, almost complete freedom. Then if we “assume” the rightness of rules and liturgies, then I can be freed from the ever restless ego.

Thirteenth Week


I am reading Eckhart Tolle at the moment – “A New Earth”. I buy some of his arguments that spirituality has become too buried in form and dogma. And his criticism of the ego as the dominant motivator in all our lives has resonance. But for most people, spirituality is hard to sustain in a vacuum. One can contemplate a flower and empty the mind – but for what, and where to?

And the Psalms do not need to sing of a religion of form and intolerance. They can sing of themselves.

“I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord
Through all ages my mouth will proclaim your truth
Of this I am sure, that your love lasts for ever
That your truth is as firmly established as the heavens.”


Tolle is right to identify the ego as the source of many of our problems. He is wrong to want to blanket it out. Of course exercises to still the mind, to rest it from its innocent worrying are good, but to what purpose?

I believe the point of emptying the mind of the material ego is to seek the soul within. Mindfulness is a technical secular body-based thing. Religious spirituality is then conducted for a purpose.

“Mark this, you who never think of God.”


I was thinking of the time I went sailing. I was in a day dream. I noticed a large buoy and sailed next to it. On the way back, to my horror, I realised I had sailed without realising it at exactly the right place through the submerged submarine cable in the Spithead. I hadn’t even directed the boat, I just let it sail where it wanted with wind and tide balancing sail. I couldn’t believe that I had forgotten about this hazard, a nasty one. On the way back I noticed even small boats carefully making for the marked gap. I was fighting against the wind, drifted to leeward, had to desperately start my engine being on my own. The tiller slipped, the boat did a violent jibe. I just made it through the gap. Yet going at it had been so happily unconscious that I had rested by back, gazed aft, and let the boat steer itself.

I was thinking of this when I read today’s reading:

“’Save us, Lord, we are going down!’ And He said to them, ‘Why are you so frightened, you men of little faith? And with that He stood up and rebuked the winds and the sea, and all was calm again.” (Matthew 8:23-27)


With a friend I was reading a passage from Escriva’s “The Furrow”. In the chapter on cheerfulness, the author says something like ‘In life, if you try to be happy, you won’t be.’ The implication is that happiness can only come in the next life. I don’t know that this hard-work Christianity really appeals to me. Why not try and be happy here? Who knows what will happen next? But to be fair to Escriva, he does make plain that we should at least attempt to look cheerful. I suppose if you look morose you are focussing too much on the tribulations of the ego. Switch off and try to look cheerful.

Look at this lovely poetry from today:

“Let me have no more of the din of your chanting.
No more of your strumming on harps.
But let justice flow like water
And integrity like an unfailing stream.” (Amos 5:21-24)


Tolle mentions Decartes’s famous phrase “I think, therefore I am.”

In the context of the ego, being mistaken for reality, our thought is not reality. Only when we recognise it as separate from us, when we look at it from afar instead of being ruled by it, can we find any peace.

As Tolle explains, Sartre hit upon this distinction when he wrote “The consciousness that says ‘I am’ is not the consciousness that thanks.”

I would take this further. At the back of my mind I have always felt but not been able to articulate that we are not our thought. Part of me thinks we can be everywhere. In that sense all of humanity is a unity. But this is still too all-encompassing a thought. I now think that “I think therefore there is a thought. I am because there is a soul.”


Tolle reminds us that it is only with some great loss that the ego can be freed. This is what he thinks St Paul meant by “the peace that passes all understanding”. We can lose a ring or have it stolen but memory of it soon eases, but sometimes the ego finds relief in resentment at feeling that we are a victim, or fate has been unjust or God has forgotten us or that given this catastrophe he clearly doesn’t exist or at least care.

So the ego no longer really cares about the loss of the ring or a job or reputation or a relationship, it cares about unkind fate.


I sat in our local medieval church and continued my slow passage through the Psalms.

Dominus me salve (Ps 26)
Lord save me

It is rather nice going through this literature framed on some blazing desert over two thousand years ago, in a land of intense heat and battle in this quiet English country church.

Twelfth Week in Ordinary Time


Our priest brought the sixteenth-century vestments to show us at Mass. They date from the recusant times. On the back is a crucifix. Finely woven angels collect Jesus’ blood in a silver cup.

It made me contemplate on the extraordinary faith of these times – a faith it seems I cannot emulate, a certainty. I hoped that my trip to the baptism site on Monday might help give me that faith. Meanwhile, we can remember simple pleasures.

On Saturday evening, the longest day, we set the table up for a barbecue in the middle of the garden. As the family ate its hamburgers, the light gently faded about us. Until by eleven we were in total darkness.


I was here at the baptism site on the River Jordan. A blazing sun, 39 degrees Celsius in the shade, hot and stiffly. I walked towards the Jordan. Scrubby bushes, yellow, gravely soil, far away on the hazy far-off hills. Jericho.

And here was the Jordan, cut deeply in its dried-bushed banks, barely twenty feet wide, moving, yellowish, slowly. We walked on and here was the site at Bethany, east of Jordan. It is believed this is the site because very ancient remains of early Byzantine churches washed away by floods and earthquakes have been found here. The Jordan now flows a hundred yards to the west in its new course. It was so hot it would indeed have been nice to bathe.

I had hoped that in this most holy spot, where it had all started, I might feel more emotion but like any modern tourist I was more concerned with taking my photos. But the memory remains. I have been there. I suppose what remains is the very great simplicity of the place. This is Christianity shorn of all its trappings and liturgy. In the lowest part of the world, in this heat and in a place by no way beautiful, a man comes to be baptised.


A complete contrast. Here I was for the St John’s Day Mass of the Order of Malta at the Brompton Oratory. Tired, having flown all night to see my daughter get a medal for her work at Lourdes. A two-hour mass sung in Latin, all the detailed trappings. What a world away from that simple man at that dusty place of baptism. I fell asleep a couple of times. The mass, the investitures, seemed very long, very pompous. Yet beautiful and sure. There is nothing wrong in beauty and respect and ceremony but is it the essence?


Perhaps I was vaguely discouraged. No revelation had appeared at the Baptism site but here I was at a simple low evening mass in the crypt of Strasbourg Cathedral. The words of the Gospel in their simplicity and the sermon seemed to have their effect.

“I repeat, you will be able to tell them by their fruits.” (Matthew 7:15-20)

I started to realise: we are so self-conscious, too inwardly focused. We should concentrate on what we do, not who we are. In this simple mass, a golden lesson was found.


I went to the early Mass in Strasbourg Cathedral. I’m afraid I can’t really get into the complexities of the politics of Joachim, particularly when it is in French, but a calm moment anyway before getting back in the train.


We were at Downside for Mozart’s Coronation Mass. Is there anything more glorious than this piece of music? When I have my funeral, may it not be a dreary requiem Mass with black vestments but something jolly like this. How much better than going to hear this Mozart in a concert hall. The effervescent glorious Agnus Dei needs to be played by an orchestra, yes, but in the context for which they were written: a Latin Mass.


Eckhart Tolle bemoans that spontaneity is submerged by words but who can doubt the power of poetry.

My eyes wasted away with weeping
My entrails shuddered
My liver spilled on the ground
At the ruin of the daughters of my people
As children, mere infants fainted
In the squares of the citadel.
(Lamentations 2:2)

Trinity Sunday and Eleventh Week


I am always amused at how the priests struggle to explain the Trinity. The end line is always the same: it is unknowable.

Glorious Trinity. Unknowable. Distinct. Separate. Together. What gods are there? When or where the source? We cannot tell or know.


Someone in our parish wants to have a mass in the Extraordinary (Tridentine) Form. Actually the Novus Ordo Latin Mass is very simple, shorn of the fiddly bits and silences. I always think the sung Latin Novus Ordo Mass in Westminster Cathedral on Saturday morning is the most beautiful of the week. It is short too, only fifty minutes. We should have just moved to this type of mass after Vatican II and spared ourselves a lot of trouble.


We went down to Downside for Father Philip Jebb’s funeral. These monastic funerals are simple affairs. Sung by the monks, no hymns – a short tribute. It is the way they would like to go.

Father Philip was close to us. He gave us marriage counselling thirty years ago this summer. I remember it well, sitting in his Headmasters Study. A strong charismatic figure in the days of his health, he was always full of sound good advice. I wonder why he never became abbot – I suppose there were other good people around.


Always a difficult gospel, this one.

“And when you pray, do not imitate the hypocrites: they love to say their prayers standing up in the synagogue and at the street corners for people to see them…”. (Matthew 6:1-6, 16-18)

Well, maybe I shouldn’t be writing this, but isn’t it a good idea to bear witness?


Isn’t the poetry of the Book of Ecclesiasticus glorious?

“Taken up in a whirlwind of fire, in a chariot with fiery horses.”

Who inspired such poetry? How was it written? Was it one genius, or poetry sung by the camp fire and passed on?


Whenever you feel depressed about the shortcomings of life, you should remember these words:

“Do not store up treasures for yourselves on earth, where moths and woodworms destroy them and thieves break in and steal.” (Matthew 6:19-23)

How many jumpers have I lost to moth, how many things stolen? Anything in this world is soon lost or gone but what is Heaven? It is unimaginable. Are we there as part of the mathematical equation of the universe? We then become part of the eternal 2+2=4. Is it a living experience? I remember how Father Philip telling me that after death, when we encounter God, it is a crowd of perpetual “ahhh…”, of wonder and delight.


The longest day. Here in Lincolnshire in the North, the sun sets very slowly around 9pm over the western hill at the top of the valley. At 10pm you can still see everything. It is a long, gentle, blissful twilight.

Today’s Gospel is apt for this natural glory.

“Think of the flowers growing in the fields: they never have to work or spin, yet I assure you that not even Solomon in all his regalia was robed like one of these. Can any of you, for all his worrying, add one single cubit to his span of life?” (Matthew 6:24-34)

Third Week of Easter

Third Sunday in Easter
Now we are back on the glorious road to Emmaus. And the Sunday Mass echoes its every word. All Gospels are great but is this the greatest.

On a clear bright summers morning I walked to our local church and looked up the twenty-fifth psalm, Ad te Domine, levavi. Unto thee oh lord will I lift up my soul.

The people ask for a sign from Jesus “What sign will you give us to show that we should believe in you” (John 6:30-35).

We too always ask for a sign and grumble that it is not given to us, but perhaps they are all around us.

After the Mass in the crypt I could not remember any of the readings, just the drawing of the risen Christ on the front of the mass sheet, but perhaps this is instructive. Images, sensations are more important and cleave closer to the brain.

“You can see me and still not believe.” (John 6:35)

I went to Mass in the Cathedral and in front of me the missionary fathers were packed in to the choir. In a receding row they looked like angels in heaven. Perhaps some of them in reality were not so angelic?

After, they prayed in the chantry chapel to Cardinal Vaughan who founded the Mill Hill Seminary. I often pray to him in the hope that unlike the Saints, he has got more time to listen, and after all I pass by his tomb most days. St John Southwell is also around but he comes from a more remote, more sure age, whereas Vaughan – a modern in a time of disbelief, educated at Stonyhurst and Downside – seems more likely to understand.

The reading today is all about Philip’s journey to baptise the Ethiopian in his chariot. We are also in our chariot trundling along through life, but perhaps we are not reading Isaiah like the Ethiopian. If we did, we might notice more things.

I was reading Thomas Merton’s Contemplative Prayer, a marvellous book. He describes the prayer of the early desert mystics as being based on psalmodia, lectionaries, oratio and contemplatio. It is a continuous turning from the World to God. A prayer of watchful listening of the heart. It is a wordless and total surrender of the heart to silence. Early mystics call this prayer of the heart. A prayer that seeks its centre in the ground of our being.

There was stress in in the early monasteries on simple prayer such as Deus in adjutorium meum intende, O god come to my aid. The mystics did not look for extraordinary experiences. They forgot themselves and applied themselves just to love of God. They very much looked to the Psalter as a compendium of the Bible.

Full of thoughts of Thomas Merton, I had had a happy sleep. I got up for Vigils in the monastery at twenty to six. I rarely do this. I don’t have the energy. Between Vigils and Lauds I lay down on my bed. I was tired. I had one of those rare moments of real mindfulness, of a grounding in the eternal and a separation from worry.

Second Week of Easter

At this moment I wish the Gospel stories of the Resurrection continued but they don’t. Why are there so few? Does that give me a tiny dot of doubt? But this week I start to concentrate on the readings from the Acts of the Apostles. Now, against all the odds, they are filled with the Holy Spirit.

There is something inspiring about the way the community is organised, a sort of religious communism. The whole group of believers were united we are told and I am sure it was so but human nature intervened.

We were reminded today of the words of Eleanor Roosevelt. No one can make you feel inferior without your consent. This was in the context of the Apostles sticking by their guns and carrying on preaching. It is amazing how lacking in courage we really are most of the time.

I went to speak in a school, Stonyhurst and reminded them of Eleanor’s words. Earlier I went to mass in the Sodality chapel. I am always struck there by the plaque put up by grieving parents to the loss in the Great War of their only two sons. As a father I hate all war and I think the enemy would have to be sailing up the Solent for me to vote for it, as of course in 1546 they were!

After Mass I made a three-hour walk up to the Trig point, high up on the Fell. Here in the sunshine I looked over the great glorious expanse of the Forest of Bowland. As I walked shown the countryside was so glorious I could have been wandering in Ithilien.

Back in Lincolnshire I made the short walk to look up the twenty-fourth psalm. Domini est terra, the Earth is the lords, and all that therein is. It seems a complement to the twenty-third. Dominus refit me. The Lord is my shepherd, therefore can I lack nothing. The Lord is my Shepherd.

Easter Week

Easter Monday
Do you, like me, doubt?

“God raised this man to life and all of us are witnesses to that.” (Acts 2:14)

I sat in the Cathedral during Mass and looked at the beautiful display of flowers. This statement from today’s first reading struck me more than the momentous events described in the Gospel.

Are we witnesses too, but only in our own heart? Peter was transformed from a cowardly wreck in a matter of weeks into the confident who could stand up in front of hundreds and say this, but he had seen. Can’t the will be as strong as the eye?

Easter Tuesday
I love these days after Easter and always make a particular point of going to Mass. Today, Mary stands outside the tomb weeping. I love the way that she too does not recognise Jesus. I sympathise with her, as I have spent a lifetime doing the same.

Easter Wednesday is the day that we hear the Gospel of Emmaus. The whole mass is in this reading which must be my favourite. Here the scriptures are read to us and here we recognise The Lord in the breaking of the bread.

I took my little boat out in Portsmouth Harbour. Here everything was rain and wind, so we gave up and went round the Mary Rose exhibition. What a strange and moving evocation of a previous world. One moment five hundred men full of vigour and fight, the next plunged into that same grey patch of Spithead sea that I have so often sailed over.

I am reminded of the small cross on the road rising to the fell above Stonyhurst and its inscription: “Glad in the evening, sad in the morning. Watch out! You neither know the day or the hour.”

Let’s not be morbid but still think upon the surgeon of the Rose. A man of substance. We have his possessions now, but who was he? Is he, I wonder, chuckling at us now?

Easter Thursday
And now when they return to the room where the apostles are, Thomas is not with them. Just as we often are not there.

I went to Oakham Parish Church for the memorial service of my predecessor Lord Kimball. The centre of the town is a perfect mix of school and church. After, we sat by the quiet waters of Rutland Water, dappling sunlight, the lightest of airs, and small beached boats, the remembrance of summers past and reflected came back to us.

Easter Friday
And now we are by the side of the Sea of Galilee. The scene is homely and still convincing.

I was due at the launch of a Euro campaign but I took some time off to go the Eucharist in Lincoln Cathedral. How inspiring to be there listening to see words under the enormous East Window towering above us and way above me the tiny Lincoln Imp having a laugh. Somebody gave me some time ago some pretty hideous Imp cufflinks. I am wearing them now.

Easter Saturday
Now Mark summarises the whole extraordinary week.

We travelled to Rome on a wing and a prayer for the canonisation of the two popes, John XXIII and John Paul II. We had no ticket but Ryanair had a place. In the evening we watched the Polish groups led by their parish priests winding their way through the Piazza della Rotondo in front of the Pantheon. Their red and white flags waving to show them the way.

Divine Mercy Sunday
My daughter managed somehow to grab a mass book. Lucky, because there was a mile and a million Poles between us and the altar. But no matter, at the other end of the bridge over the Tiber leading to Castel Sant’Angelo there was a screen at an angle so we could watch the Mass, sort of. What an experience to be packed on that bridge in the crowd. We saw the dignitaries being whisked to their seats in their limos. Very nice, but they miss something.



Sit in the church. In front of you, the Tabernacle is empty. Everything is empty, still. God has left the Earth.

Is God gone? Has He ever been? Is He that which is in my mind? What is my mind? Is it that which God is in?

“In the beginning God created Heaven and Earth. And the Earth was a formless void.” (Genesis 1:1)


We attend the service, we listen, but in our heart of hearts, do we see and believe?

“He saw and believed.” (John 20:1-9)

After the great services, the three-hour vigil, the great hymns. “Thine be the glory”, the ringing Exultet, I sat alone in the empty abbey. Now all was deathly still. I looked in my mind’s eye at the empty tomb. I had listened and I believed. He had gone. He is risen.

“Salva festa dies, toto venerabilis aevo, qua Deus infernum vicit et astra tenet.”

Hail, festival day, revered for all time, on which God conquered Hell and holds all the stars in his sway.


Do you, like me, doubt?

“God raised this man to life and all of us are witnesses to that.” (Acts 2:14)

I sat in the Cathedral during Mass and looked at the beautiful display of flowers. This statement from today’s first reading struck me more than the momentous events described in the Gospel.

Are we witnesses too, but only in our heart? Peter was transformed from a cowardly wreck in a matter of weeks into the confident who could stand up in front of hundreds and say this, but he had seen.

Cannot the will be as strong as the eye?

The Fourth Week of Lent

The reading today is about the cure of the blind man. What I like about it is that faith gradually comes to him. He is actually quite cheeky in his replies. Faith I thinks can be like that. We needn’t take it too seriously and we can acknowledge that it has its ups and downs. One thing one can be sure of: whatever the evidence, the Pharisees in our midst will continue to mock.

On Tuesday the court official travels all the way from Jerusalem to find Jesus in Galilee. Quite a journey and no doubt he was mocked at court for seeking out an obscure provincial faith healer. Courts are still the same today, the preserve of the politically careful. How many today would have the courage or time to seek out the likes of Jesus.

On Tuesday I had lots of meetings to go to so I was very late at Mass. Like the crippled man at the Pool of Bethzatha, I could not get to the heeling waters in time but what a joy to arrive at the raising of the host. Well worth the hot walk down Victoria Street.

Again on Wednesday I had had a long-walk across central London. By the time I arrived at Mass I was tired but the fifth chapter of John gradually spread into the consciousness. “I tell you most solemnly, whoever listens to my words and believes in the one who sent me has eternal life.”

The Gospel on Thursday again from John 5 is even longer and even more soothing: “You have never heard his voice, you have never seen his shape, and his words find no home in you”.

On Friday I was grappling with a problem about what to do, which had vexed me for some time. Several Hail Marys had not done the trick. I tried one last time. I imagined I was with Christ in the garden and the choices that are given to us and I asked to do his will. Almost immediately a firm thought came into my head. “Do not do this.” This seemed to have resolved the problem. I woke refreshed.

Where had this sensible advice come from? From an illusion in my own head or perhaps just possibly from somewhere else? Perhaps it is true.

By Saturday the problem and the choice remained, but so too did the firm advice. I will not ignore something that could come from Christ himself. How difficult it is, though, to do his not our will.

Today’s Gospel asks a pertinent question “do prophets come out of Galilee”.

Third Week in Lent

We were in the Abbey for Sunday Mass for Father Leo’s last mass as Headmaster. A week later as I was writing this up I could not remember the reading but now it comes back to me. The woman of Samaria at the well. One shouldn’t forget it because actually it is quite remarkable. Jesus breaking all the taboos. Talking to a woman, on her own, she an outcast going alone to the well in the high heat of the day. Yet He reveals Himself to her:

“I who speak to you, am He.” (John 4:5-42)

The purpose of the sermon I think was Jesus’ words “Give me a drink”, which are addressed to us as well.

On Monday, we had the reading about Naaman being angry with Elisha for telling him to bath in the Jordan to cure his leprosy. I sympathise. Often we are asked to do so little with such immense consequences. Eventually Naaman, does the simple thing and he is cured. Like Naaman, who wants to bathe in his own waters, Abana and Pharpar, we too want to bathe in our own waters, in our own prejudices.

It is strange: sometimes within an hour or two of listening to a reading I just for the life of me cannot recall it. I cannot recall today’s reading without looking it up. It is about the wicked servant. Our debts are forgiven: how often do we forgive others?

On Wednesday we had a statement on the Ukraine. If only the EU and Russia could share influence and investment the country could become a bridge to peace, not a downward path to war.

Thursday’s readings are about “A house divided against itself is heading for ruin.” Seldom remembered.

On Friday I went to a funeral for a friend, Mary in Market Rasen. She cared for the church. It was full. The Lord is my shepherd.

On Saturday I carried on my visits to our local church and came to Psalm 18 “Diligam te Domine”. I will love thee, O Lord my strength. This is a long one, but beautiful. It is all about reliance. The Saturday before I had reached Psalm 17 – “Exaudi Domine”, Hear the Light, O Lord – and the Saturday before that Psalm 16 – “Conserve me, domine”, preserve me o God for in thee I have put my trust.

It is rather a nice thing to do, to sit in an English country church, small in its medieval quiet and read from the King James Bible, the glorious English language, week by week.

Second Week in Lent

Although this is not the Feast of the Transfiguration, the reading from Matthew 17:1-9 is about the Transfiguration.

It has never made much sense to me before, but at our little parish mass it did. Some strange, probably inconsequential thing clicked, the story seemed beautiful and consequential. I wonder why.

Monday was the feast of St Patrick. I couldn’t find Mass at first in the Oratory. Then I noticed it was at his own altar. An outsider, he seems to have ended up making quite an impact.

On Tuesday, we were debating Ukraine which means ‘borderland’ in Russian. I ask why it can’t be a bridge to peace rather than a path to war. At Mass, commenting on everything they do is to attract attention, the priest asks why we put so much importance on place.

On Wednesday we celebrated St Joseph’s feast day. It’s strange that from the loss of Jesus in the Temple we know nothing about him.

It was also Budget Day. They come, they go. 0.3% difference in the give and take by Government!

On Thursday I spoke on the Budget, notwithstanding talk of money. The reading today is the most demanding of them all. That of Lazarus and the rich man who actually doesn’t seem to do a great deal wrong apart from nothing, which I suppose is quite a lot.

Obviously today’s – Friday’s – reading is one of my favourites.:

“It was the stone rejected by the builders that became the cornerstone.” (Matthew 21:33-43)

On Saturday we went down to Kings Bruton in Dorset. The picture of the parish church, the five-hundred-year-old school, the green hills which I ran over in a cross-country, was perfect.

First Week of Lent

I was still reading in the Abbey guest wing Thomas Merton’s Elected Silence:

“Certainly one thing the Monk does not, or cannot realise is the effect which these liturgical functions have upon those who see them. The lessons, the truths, the incidents, and values portrayed are simply overwhelming. For this effect to be achieved, it is necessary that each monk as an individual performer be absolutely lost, ignored, overlooked.

Excellence here is in proportion to obscurity: the one who was best was the one who was least observed, least distinguished. Only faults and mistakes drew attention to the individual. The logic of Cistercian life was the complete opposite to the logic of the world, in which men put themselves forward so that the most excellent is the one who stands out. But what was the answer to this paradox? Simply that the Monk is hiding from the world becomes not less himself, not less a person, but more of a person, more truly and perfectly himself: for his personality and individuality are perfected in their time order, the spiritual, interior order of union with God, the principle of all perfection. Omnis Gloria ejus filiae legis ab intrus.

The logic of the world by success rests on the strange error that our perfection depends on the applause of other men! A weird life it is indeed to be living always in somebody else’s imagination, as if that were the only place in which one could be real!

This seems to me, particularly the last paragraph, to be a very powerful point. Strange how it is that in the Abbey, good intentions and thoughts rush forward in the mind.

I realised that what I was putting to you was that you can create a monastery in your mind. That, yes, you can attempt to steady the mind with mindfulness. By all means meditate and concentrate on your breathing and recognise pressing thoughts are not your real self no more than others’ opinions. But then fill it at times every day with attention to God and the spiritual.

As I lay awake in my cell I could not remember today’s Gospel reading, that was for the Saturday after Ash Wednesday. It was 3am and I turned on the light. It all came up painfully slowly on the blackberry, but finally it was there, line by line, from Luke 5:27-32.

“Jesus noticed a tax collector, Levi by name, sitting by the customs house, and said to him ‘Follow me’, and hearing everything, he got up and followed Him.”

As I lay awake those words “Follow Me” kept repeating themselves in my mind. So try every day to create a monastery in your mind. Go to Mass or a service or just read the Mass readings, day by day. For one small part of the day empty the mind. Do not, as Merton would put it, live in other peoples imagination.

On Monday the first week in Lent we are asked the most difficult question (Matthew 25:31-46):

“When the Son of man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on his glorious throne. Before him will be gathered all the nations, and he will separate them one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, and he will place the sheep at his right hand, but the goats at the left. Then the King will say to those at his right hand, ‘Come, O blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see thee hungry and feed thee, or thirsty and give thee drink? And when did we see thee a stranger and welcome thee, or naked and clothe thee? And when did we see thee sick or in prison and visit thee?’ And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me.’ Then he will say to those at his left hand, ‘Depart from me, you cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels; for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not clothe me, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.’ Then they also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see thee hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not minister to thee?’ Then he will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it not to one of the least of these, you did it not to me.’ And they will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.”

What does this mean? Is it not an impossible task to treat everyone, however irritating, as God? But this is the task laid down.

Tuesday’s task is more simple: (Matthew 6:7-15)

“And in praying do not heap up empty phrases as the Gentiles do; for they think that they will be heard for their many words. Do not be like them, for your Father knows what you need before you ask him. Pray then like this: Our Father who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, On earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; And forgive us our debts, As we also have forgiven our debtors; And lead us not into temptation, But deliver us from evil. For if you forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father also will forgive you; but if you do not forgive men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.

It is easy enough to repeat a prayer. But who is listening? We must assume it is listened to.

On Wednesday we are told that the only sign we will be given is the Sign of Jonah, but where is this sign?

On Thursday I was looking at the parish newsletter in the Cathedral. There was an interesting reference to the Meditations of St Frances de Sales. The one on death arrested me. Imagine that you have just died. Your soul bids farewell to its body. Very soon the body is burned and the person forgotten. As the soul looks back on its life in the body it remembers how it has treated other people.

On Friday funnily enough I was at the funeral of Dom Sebastian Moore at Downside Abbey. A friend, he died at the age of 96. He had been a monk since 1938. His latest thing had been Eckhart Tolle and the Power of Now, but far more than his many books and great, deep – sometimes incomprehensible – intelligence was his great kindliness to everyone, certainly to me.

By Saturday I was back in our little local church and up to Psalm 16 in the Prayer Book. Conserve me Domine – preserve me Lord.

Final week in Ordinary Time

We went to Matins in Lincoln Cathedral, the legal service for the High Sheriff.

I was struck by a quote used by the Dean. “No living man has ever seen God, no man who sees God ever dies.” Or something to that effect.

As usual I went to Westminster Cathedral for Ash Wednesday and submerged myself in Allegri’s Miserere.

On Friday we had a meeting of the Cathedral Council at Lincoln. I questioned as usual putting up the entry fee, this time to £8. I admitted I had no answer except that the Holy Spirit might provide. The fair rejoinder from the Dean: the Holy Spirit looks after those who help themselves.

Seventh Week in Ordinary Time

All my life I have been a most reluctant Christian. Every lazy way of thinking came my way. Jesus was a great world teacher, but God? Well guess what he said about himself? If thats the case he was a lunatic or a charlatan. This week I have completed Lee Strobel’s The Case for Christ. I cam across it by accident. There had been a particularly silly and simplistic Times article, fairly typical, airily dismissing Christianity as a legend and a letterwriter to the paper had recommended this book. So would I.

Lee Strobel is an investigative crime reporter. He uses questioning techniques to ask questions that should be asked in schools. Everywhere you look the evidence is compelling that the Gospels are a very early accurate record of what happened. Archaeology and scholarship has only bolstened the case in recent years. This is not legend. Early lazy assumptions like Jesus conveniently faked his messianic outcomes are disproved one by one. Torture on the cross could have ensured that a Roman soldier speared him rather than break his legs. Why were the Apostles prepared to die for something they had faked, like removing the body, even if that was true? And the sheer weight of circumstantial and outside evidence. But be that as it may, reason only goes so far. Reason tells me that the creed is correct, but I still wrinkle with the nature of God. How can one intellect create billions of stars? Are there not hundreds of millions of intelligent life forms? Why should God care about or concentrate on first-century Palestine? But perhaps for me the next step is study of philosophy – if reason can play any part.

One thing is certain, reason is dear and when faith and acceptance reach it, it is transforming.

Sixth Week in Ordinary Time

I was walking up a mountain in the Alps. First I went up the side of the piste under the chairlifts with the skiers chatting up above my head as they were taken up. But then the path plunged into the woods. Soon I was utterly alone in the wilderness. The snow crunching beneath my feet and it was snowing steadily all the time, great large flakes settling on my jacket. I kept plodding up a thousand metres, to the cafe at the top which the skiers ascended to so quickly in their chairlifts and descended from even quicker. The pistes were crowded with half term skiers but here on this silent path all was quiet.

I stopped. Now there was no sound. Occasionally a weight of snow settling on a branch of a great fir tree would cause it to topple and a gentle cascade would tumble down, sometimes on my head in a gentle shower. It was like those water bamboos in Japanese gardens. The water drips on them and suddenly they topple over and then start again. Thus for a moment time was marked only by nature. One could focus thoughts on the present moment, on nature. With infinite regret I thought of the afternoon ahead of the busy airport, the crowds surging back and forth.

On Monday James asks us to treat our trials as a happy privilege. On Tuesday he asks us to stand firm when trials come. On Wednesday he asks us to be quick to listen and slow to speak.

On Thursday I was in the small chapel at Combloux for a Mass. In these surroundings, it is easy to pay heed to James when he asks us to be rich in faith. There were few in the chapel. So simple in its white-washed walls, so glorious in the baroque magnificence of its baroque reredos. On Friday James asks us to consider the cause of someone who has never done a single good act but claims that he has faith. And on Saturday, he reminds us that the only person who can reach perfection would be someone who never said anything wrong.