I opened the egg but really I thought, it needed some salt and vodka.
That taste, immediately memories of Russian Easters past flooded in.
Zakuski, herrings, black bread, coloured eggs, pickles, perhaps not as far as a balalaika.
The party after Midnight Mass, after that long fast now permitted with rich food to sin.
And that long service. The oh-too-long standing.
The total invasion of the senses, incense, chanting, vision.
Astounded, it leads the soul to a mystical flame, Christ risen, remembering.
Khristos voskres. He is risen indeed to proclaim is our mission.
And then at midnight the solemn procession,
Three times the church circling.
Every action unchanging in one thousand years. This is the lesson.
He is risen, rising.
But it is gone one thirty.
The party awaits and I am thirsty.

St George’s Day — Thursday, Second Week of Easter

Have you ever understood why they attack you?
Remember if they persecuted me, they will persecute you too.
Remember if one stands against or even outside the world’s interests, they will come for you.
St George, a life clouded in mystery, only this we know. They martyred him too.
Does he watch over England in her lonely history offshore?
Sometimes you are hated but it hated him before.
If you walk through another country your vision may soar.
This is your fate if from the world’s ambitions you withdraw.
We know a servant is not greater than his master.
If they persecuted him, they will do the same to us.
But like St George we know it will be on his account. Like him we pray our enemies will scatter.
They do not know who sent him but they can only see us.
So we are the witnesses, no one else.
We must keep this in our minds. Our constant life’s pulse.

And indeed everybody who does wrong hates the light,
And avoids it for fear his actions should be exposed.
This Easter April sun out of deep velvet sky is terrifyingly, searchingly bright.
I can barely read or write outside. It searches me, only on shade is my soul reposed.
Does desired retreat from light expose, is inner sight denied, a soul in distress.
But we seek it with all our hearts.
Usually it lives behind a grey unforgiving English sky, our island’s mistress.
Its fitful rays forgotten in busy day, through clouds of care it barely darts.
But can I not remember, what did he say. I forget it to my cost.
God so loved the world that He gave his only son.
So that everyone who believes may not be lost.
I suppose all I can do is say in fitful hope. Thy will be done.
So easy to utter in brief quiet meditation.
So difficult to do in life’s busy commandeering commotion.

The wind blows wherever it pleases.
You hear the sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going.
This is how it it is with all who are born of the Holy Spirit. Into their hearts It eases.
But into our soul, is this message like our spring grass seed, gently sowing.
In shady gladed area I have lain this seed. It lies buried waiting for gentle rain.
The rain will come. The grass green, luxuriant will grow multiplying one hundred times over.
Yes my feeble faith lies buried, hopeful, waiting to wipe away future death’s stain.
And this wind, never ceasing, brushing my cheek, caressing like a spiritual lover.
I cannot tell from whence it comes, but into my heart steals a presence.
It did not come from storm tossed Atlantic or North Sea. It came from within, a breath of life.
An atheist within tells me poppycock. All self-delusion. Have some sense.
But it can’t be resisted. Not physically real it cannot be cut by any reasoning knife.
But if a nagging doubt remains in some undefined deep mind’s cove.
Where does this presence come, if not from Holy Spirit above.

The sky bright. East wind strong. I rested under the boughs, the old maple barely growing.
How long had it been here? One hundred years.
Yet long before its seeding, the priory had dissolved into green grass under cattle lowing.
It was swept away in 1539 — a long, slow, forgetting 485 years.
Now the only trace, gentle green mounds in marshy boot clogging sward.
Yet in that nearby abandoned stone barn is that not a round topped doorway long bricked in?
A remnant perhaps of that long vanished priory, with the past a slender connecting cord.
Did religious once walk through it? Only ghosts now pass in.
Once all was busy. Premonstatensian bells summoning.
Now by me a flock of sheep in contented ignorance stand idly by.
There is no echo here of ancient chanting.
No rebuke they make to prayers dissolved with no hope to belie.
And I will wander on, thoughts astray.
Will others passing by give thought to quiet prayer long taken away?

Quare Fremueunt Gentes.
Why this tumult among nations?
This useless murmuring among peoples?
Why these futile plots, why this arrogance among the nations?
But as they were praying, the house where the disciples were was rocked.
I hear only a wind through the rafters sighing.
A sparrow flies across the porch on it’s way by the church tightly locked.
They were filled with the Holy Spirit. Is He here in this wind with the passing tractor vying?
They went out to proclaim the word of God so boldly.
I just sit and feel a presence.
Are our actions mere words, our deeds carried out so coldly?
Thoughts flying from His essence?
The moment passes. It always does. No permanence it contains.
But a tiny sliver of belief, hope and love remains.

I was not there when You came.
I did not choose to hear You say, “Peace be with you.”
I did not hear Him when He called be by my name.
I did not listen to my sins being forgiven and life made anew.
I will not though yet say: Unless I see the holes the nails made, You will not believe.
I will ponder this quietly, praying, waiting.
Will I have to wait eight or eighty years until this burden of doubt is relieved?
Will I still doubt as I lie dying?
Happy we would be if only we could believe and yet not have seen.
Yet we, all of us, if only we let go and trust, can believe.
What joy there is in surrender to Him though unseen.
To my Lord and my God then can I say and receive.
There are indeed many other insights not recorded in any book.
Yet if just we pause and listen. He is here now. You truly do not have far to look.

My heart is heavy that these Easter days are ending.
These all too few days tell of a joy unended.
The witnesses with Mary first, the hopeful message sending.
But they did not believe her. Do I, my every suspicion suspended?
They doubted too, the men on the road. Do I?
And then He stood before them and still they stood dumbfounded.
I too, like them, stand reproached for my incredulity and obstinacy, believing any doubting lie.
This table now, this pen, this chair say I am here, your doubt confounded.
And do I heed His words, “Go out”.
“Proclaim this good news to all creation.”
Do we creep about, our word in shy whisper or in confident shout.
That this news cannot be hidden. It stands in glorious citation.
But I sit alone in my gentle garden. Drop of rain, birds calling. Wind sighing.
And with muted thought, a quiet disciple, merely thinking.

The blue lake was simmering in hot spring sun.
A blue so deep as to be almost black.
Yes, the sun shining was a bright whiteness blinding me to sight of His Son.
Once, long ago, some fishermen too were sun-blinded to their lack.
Yet He called and one said: It is the Lord.
And does He call to me from the lake’s blinding light?
Or is it in this gentle shallow stream bubbling gently over stones lit by light’s diffused sword?
From lake’s rim it flows without ceasing to the distant breaking sea day and night.
And does that Figure on the bank lay out a net for my soul to be redeemed.
Would I even leap off the shifting craft of my life to His voice?
For surely then a glorious meal awaits. It lives in this Bread sanctified.
Would I have the courage to say: It is the Lord. We all of us His born choice.
If only we would have that faith, never in our life before or since would there be such a catch.
And open the clasp and the way to eternal life’s latch.

They stood there dumbfounded.
These Easter readings are indeed the most intense.
If these are true then the whole world is changed for ever and all doubt confounded.
These too-few Resurrection readings, so joyous pervade our every sense.
They saw His hands, His feet, yet still they stood there doubting.
And I too, in this country garden, can say yes there is the beauty of the hyacinth, yet I see it.
All their doubts were dismissed by the grilled fish He was eating.
Surely we can believe, accept not in mental carping and keep the feeble flame of faith lit.
He opened their eyes to understand scripture.
And I am reading this Gospel story now too.
They were witnesses to this. They were there. I can only conceive in mental picture.
But can it not be real for us too
Jesus himself stood among them.
And He is saying to us too. Peace be with you. Amen.

But something prevented them from recognising Him.
And I too. Do I look around me? Do I search for the truth?
I am walking with my granddaughter to the village churchyard’s rim.
Do I recognise Him in the tall beach trees on the village road? Our cathedral in spring youth.
Do I find Him in the scattering bracken sward? In the joyful daisy and dandelion.
Do I see Him in the chalk stream’s light shining shallow flow?
But He is here all around and in the little girl’s shadow grown by bright sun as large as any lion.
Do I listen to Him in my head and in girl’s skipping so slow?
Do I ask Him to abide with me?
I cannot break bread with Him now but I can inspiration find in this green leafed tree.
Can this grandfather’s age care dimmed eyes at last see?
He is here everywhere. In small girl’s chatter. In nature’s new life, in distant sea.
Does not my heart now burn within me in his talk.
Is He not also with me on this slow country walk.

She did not recognise Him.
And I too ofttimes can barely recognise Him.
My faith is like the forsythia before me, a memory of its bright yellow glory ever more slim.
But my hope rises like a distant hymn.
No, He is not just the gardener. He is here in this spring garden.
He is here in the brightening yellow purple of the primrose oxlip.
He is here in the lawn, it’s life surging, strewn with the daisy’s white and yellow pardon.
He does not say “Noli me Tangere” but gently gives me leave to bring the flowers to my lip.
And surging life too for the mauve of birds eye speedwell. How then can I weep at His loss.
He calls be by my name and then I know.
And do I then have the courage to say he has risen from his cross.
And do I then have the courage like these wild plants, so inconsequential, the courage to sow.
Like Mary will I run to tell my friends of his word.
An leave awhile in minds eye this spring garden to write of new life undeterred.

Filled with awe and great joy the women came quickly away from the tomb.
They ran to tell the disciples.
And on this Easter Monday I would be in the flowered cathedral, a delightful calming womb.
Now the churches are locked by lay scruples.
I stand alone on the path, wild forget-me-nots and dandelion the only congregation.
The hawthorn hedge the church’s aisle.
The reading not from sonorous pulpit given. I am in isolation.
But from the Universalis app I can only ponder awhile.
No lack of Mass can take this story’s wonder away.
For I read and this I know that there, coming towards the women, was Jesus.
I cannot fall down. I cannot clasp His feet but, in my heart I can Him lay.
And I too can know the joy of finding Him alive and this joy will surely seize us.
And on this country path I too am never alone.
He walks before me for my sins to atone.

He saw and he believed.
The Sun dappled transient on the wooden cross.
And for this moment when I surveyed this cross the gift of faith , I received.
The linen clothes so negligently laid are a sign of our doubts loss.
All those hints , prophesies, words so negligently forgot.
This simple cross , it’s plain wood more glorious than any gold.
I see now my belief so small , so fleeting , so hard to grasp was my lot.
Is our faith then to worldly cares sold,
No, He is not here. He is risen.
And joy in my faint heart rises.
Like Mary we can only run to tell others of this vision.
The morning star that never sets. He really is here . Our burdens he reposes.
He bore for us the cross without complaint.
And he can make of all us if we wish, an apprentice saint.

The church was locked and I sat on the churchyard bench thinking.
The village sounding distant, lawn mower, and bank digging.
The sheep at a distance barely moving, new life in the white blossom growing.
The old Walesby warm honey glowed stone church for a thousand years not stirring.
But here before me the gravestones were breathless quiet.
And where on Holy Saturday is God?
Do I believe He is dead or just asleep, this is my disquiet.
These village people before me, their eternal rest never ended under earth’s unforgiving sod.
O let me, I beg in this quiet spot come into his presence.
And now at last in stillness I feel his touch.
So tentative, so fleeting but devoid of life’s menace.
The church is locked but he is here with me on this bench, a holy hutch.
I move, I stand, I walk gently closing the gate.
He is gone and for my breakfast and the World’s calling, I am late.

Mine eyes are wet with weeping.
My soul is in turmoil.
I listened to the Lamentations of Jeremiah, my soul always seeking.
In te Domine Speravi. Am I always loyal?
In you Lord have I put my trust.
Let me never be put to confusion.
The haunting cadence of the lamentations enters my soul’s hard crust
And joy burns away all Earth’s disillusion.
This cry wounded crushed in despair.
Speaks of Jerusalem’s desolation.
But will my emotions emerge from Hell’s deepest lair?
For surely joy and hope will rise once more and be put in hopeful motion.
But now this Friday they that see me keep their distance.
My only friend a God that seems to have forsaken me and strikes me with an indifferent lance.

Dilexi Quoniam.
I am well pleased
That the Lord has granted my prayer as the merciful lamb.
That calling on him I believed.
Death encompasses us.
Trouble and heaviness of heart are everywhere.
But God is indeed merciful to all without nagging fuss.
I was miserable and he helped me from the torture of my lair.
My soul then can rest secured
Because it has been rewarded.
My soul then will not die, my feet stumble, mine eyes with tears spared.
My love for him close to my heart hoarded.
We will receive the cup of salvation.
We will pay our dues in the presence of God’s nation.

Salvum me fac.
Save me O God.
For the waters are come into the soul to my heart’s lack.
I stick fast in the deep sod.
I am come into the suffocating waters and I am weary of crying.
My throat is brittle dry.
They hate me by their tongues’ lying.
They have no cause is my sigh.
Mine enemies are more than the hairs of my head.
Though guiltless they would destroy me.
You God know my supplications that I have left unsaid.
Let those that trust me see my prayers as your fee.
It is only for you God that I suffer this reproof.
And it is your understanding that is your existence’s proof.

In te Domine speravi.
In thee, Lord, have I put my trust.
Let confusion fly from me.
Incline thine ear unto me and pierce conceit’s enveloped crust.
Deliver me Lord out of the hands of cruel men.
For I put my hope in you.
I knew you in my mother’s womb, Amen.
And my trust in you can only slowly accrue.
May I sing of your praise all day long.
And do not leave me I beg you as I grow old.
Even if my enemies gather to persecute me.
Let their hate be stilled and lie cold.
While I continue to praise you more and more.
Mine aim is this, to make mention only of your righteousness, this I abjure.

I stood alone by the country church reading today’s psalm.
The Lord is my light and my salvation.
This thought I treasured in my hand’s palm.
Thus I thought whom should I fear in all creation.
Is not then the Lord the strength of my life?
Of whom then I should be afraid.
Mine enemies then, they shall stumble though they cut my flesh with the sharpest of a knife.
There then in your tender hands will my trust be laid.
I stood alone listening to the psalm’s essence.
My mind and my thoughts silencing,
And now working through me I felt his heavy profound sentience.
No present fear, no disappointment, long festering, me menacing.
This then by this empty church was a joy creeping in.
And all for a moment, just one fleeting minute of quiet, banishing sin.

Where do I find God’s oneness?
Is it in this spring garden’s noise sparing?
In its utter quietness.
The blossom’s smallest leaves appearing.
The fascia’s brilliant yellow majestically spread.
Before me in great glory’s beauty.
Or a quiet prayer coursing unbidden through my head,
It’s strength the call of a power almighty.
The garden’s beauty so transient.
The prayer so fleeting too and humble.
The one so visual, the other sentient.
But both point to a truth incontrovertible a presence unfathanable:
That in this gardens loneliness.
My heart reaches out to a calling seeking ultimate oneness.

May the venerable exercises of holy devotion
Shape the hearts of your faithful O Lord
To put the paschal mystery into motion
And move the praises of your devotion towards the holy ford
Through which we wade towards our Lord Jesus Christ your son
Who lives and reigns with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit
One God forever and ever in unity with your holy Son.
One God forever and ever, one being, one essence with your Holy Spirit.
Let all the people rejoice in this,
Your endless call too rarely answered.
Yet somehow is our inner self always seeking this,
Our pain too constant thus lanced.
Can we in just one moment of concentrated prayer,
Seek solace from our daily life of worry through this and by your holy seer.

Based on the collect for the day

O God who renews the face of the World through mysteries beyond all telling
Grant we pray
That your Church May be formed by virtue and not through selling
Its teaching that our priests lay
That your people may be guided by your eternal design
And not be deprived of your help in this present age
Through Jesus Christ his son given by his sign
Who lives and reigns with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit his sage
One God for ever and ever you are mine
May my love for you sublime
Never falter in this my mind for ever as a telling sign
But be forever mine and not mere empty mime
But proven in my inner feeling
And true till my death that ultimate ceiling

Sunday 8 March 2020 — The Transfiguration

Our priest tells us that is how we shall see Christ when we get to Heaven. In the next sentence he tells us we’re all going to spend a long time in Purgatory.

So there we are.

Monday 9 March 2020

I go to the 10:30 Mass. We have no kiss of peace.

The psalm is number 78:

“Do not hold the guilt of our fathers against us.
Let your compassion hasten to meet us.”

Tuesday 10 March 2020

Apparently they have found such a huge explosion in the universe it is half the size of the Milky Way, half our galaxy, a space that could contain millions of stars, civilisations without count. Once again I think how could a wandering faith preacher, walking the dusty roads of Palestine, create such things. I think back on the concept that every needle must have a point. He can be that point.

Psalm 9: “I will recount all your wonders, I will rejoice in you and be glad.”

That is all we can do. One will never find answers in physical concepts but only in feelings. God isn’t perhaps something — that explosion the size of the Milky Way — He is nowhere and everywhere. He is love that is nowhere but can be everywhere.

Wednesday 11 March 2020

Psalm 30:

“Save me in your love, O Lord.”

Thursday 12 March 2020

We are driving up to Lincolnshire and as we pass by I pop in for a moment for the 6:00 pm Mass at the Oratory.

An image which abides: the church darkened and atmospheric in twilight. At the far end, the priest facing away, intoning the Agnus Dei in Latin. The congregation quiet, beautiful and inspiring.

Friday 13 March 2020

I open the Book of Common Prayer at random in our village church and come across Psalm 40:

“I waited patiently for the Lord,
and He inclined unto me,
and heard my calling.”

As I sat there quietly in the silence looking at the dappling light I thought maybe these words are for me of not enough faith. One just has to wait patiently and belief will come and it did in that moment.

Saturday 14 March 2020

Again I open the Book of Common Prayer at random. This time I find Psalm 74:

“O God wherefore art thou absent from us so long…”

It was a kind of bookend to yesterday’s psalm.

Sunday 1 March 2020 — First Sunday in Lent

I am giving up nothing for Lent save being angry with things like Monty our dog. I have already failed several times.

Collect: Grant, Almighty God, through the yearly observances of holy Lent, that we may grow in understanding of the riches hidden in Christ.

Monday 2 March 2020

I take Sophia to Mass. We sit at the back and she watches Peppa Pig on the iPhone.

Collect: “Instruct our minds by heavenly teaching, that we may benefit from the works of Lent.”

Tuesday 3 March 2020

Entrance Antiphon: “O Lord, you have been our refuge from generation to generation.”

Wednesday 4 March 2020

I am walking to the Gare du Nord and I pass the Corpus Christi chapel in the Avenue Friedland. I am tired and late but surely I can spare two minutues for God. The Mass is halfway through and I go up to the altar to receive communion. Just six of us. A quiet moment in the bustle.

Then amazingly I find the 43 bus to take me straight there.

Thursday 5 March 2020

The Forty Hours is just finishing in the Cathedral today. Sophia and me don’t last long. She wants to be on her way to soft play at the Army Museum.

“To my words give ear, O Lord. Give heed to my sights.” (Antioch)

Friday 6 March 2020

I am in the village church and open the Book of Common Prayer randomly and alight on Psalm 66:

“O be joyful in God, all ye lands
Sing praises unto the honour of His name,
Make His praise to be glorious.”

The sun is out, the wind is calm. Time for a three-hour walk across the Wolds.

Saturday 7 March 2020

I read today’s psalm in the Book of Common Prayer:

“Blessed are those that are undefiled in the way and walk in the law of the Lord.”