My Pentecost

I remember Pentecost Sunday in 1953. We called it Whit Sunday in
those days, the commemoration of the Holy Spirit coming upon the
early church.
It was a hot day at the end of May, and I was taken along with my
sisters to Crusaders, a sort of Bible club for children. I remember
sitting on a bench in a small hall crammed with a bunch of kids.
Probably the leader, Mrs Tilsley-Green , a lovely Irish lady, talked
about the Day of Pentecost. I don’t remember. But I do remember
that she ended her talk by reading a poem. It was about a boy who
was confronted with a decision: to follow Jesus or not? He chose not.

A few years later, another opportunity presented itself, and again he
declined. Then as a young man, and at intervals all through his life ,
he had further opportunities to become a Christian, but kept
hardening his heart, until eventually, the last time came. Now he was
on his deathbed. Even there, he knew he had the possibility of
surrendering to Jesus. The poem finished: “Again the Spirit called:
but turning on his pillow, he died.” Having hardened his heart for the
last time.
Wow! Drama! Tragedy! A collective gasp from the listening children!
Today it might be called manipulation of tender children’s
sensitivities; or at least rather bizarre evangelistic methods. But as
Mrs Green explained that we didn’t have to wait all our lives to
become Christians, we could be saved NOW, something was
happening in my seven year old heart. It was pounding as she led us
in a simple prayer. I knew he was calling my name, and without
hesitation, I gladly responded. “Yes! I want to follow Jesus! Please
forgive my sin. Thank you for dying for me! Please come into my
heart!”
He came. He stayed. He has never left. He has loved me, led me,
provided for me, forgiven me countless times, equipped me,
challenged me, always there, always faithful. I remember suddenly
being engulfed in happiness, and after the prayer running forward
and flinging my arms around Mrs Green’s waist and shouting, “Jesus
has come into my heart!”
My father came to collect us, and I told him too, and my mother
when we got home. The next day at school, I told my friends, and
insisted on singing a hymn to the class when it was time to go home!
I was probably a pain in the neck!

My walk with God fluctuated through my teens, but I never doubted
that I belonged to Jesus. I was born again: I could not be un-born
again! My joy and excitement that day was equalled some thirteen
years later when I experienced not only new birth but Pentecost. It
took that long for me to hear, understand and receive the baptism in
the Holy Spirit. This was a controversial subject in the sixties, with
rumours flying around about heresy and tongues being from the
Devil. Yet I could not get away from the feeling that my Christian
experience was lacking and there must be something else.

By now, I was at Bible College in London, and the baptism in the
Spirit was the subject of some lively discussions. A student called
Terry Virgo arrived at the start of my second year who seemed to be
happy, at rest, a fervent Bible lover and an effective Gospel preacher.
Eventually I noted that he would pray with people and they would
testify that he had laid hands on them to be filled with the Holy
Spirit.

That summer he led an evangelistic team to three towns on the
Sussex coast. I was on that team, and one wet Sunday, I had an
opportunity at last to clear up my questions.It was important to me
to get a coherent answer from Scripture that was satisfying
theologically, as well as leading into an experience.
Terry took me through the Acts of the Apostles, patiently showing
me how the early church received the Spirit. Then to John ch 7, and
ending with Luke ch11. “If you then, being evil know how to give
good gifts to your children, how much more shall your Heavenly
Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask?”
The penny dropped. The Father wanted me to receive the Holy Spirit,
an authentic gift from Him! “Faith comes by hearing the word of
God”.That day, I asked and received.

This brought an explosion of joy, greater intimacy with the Father,
and gifts of the Spirit. We went on to discover others who were
entering this (to us) new dynamic, and the ever-increasing
excitement of being part of a community of spirit filled believers,
who loved to worship with joyful abandon, walk in love with one
another, and reach out with loving hands to a broken world: all
triggered by being born again, and filled with the Spirit.

I am more grateful than I can say that I heard him call my name that
Whit Sunday sixty-seven years ago. “Except you become as a little
child you cannot see the kingdom of Heaven.” Salvation can be
received by little children, or at any age. So can the baptism in the
Spirit. Jesus is the doorway into a new life, eternal life, that grows
more and more until perfect day.

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Hearing His Voice

In spring, we love visiting a farm to watch lambs being born. There is
something irresistibly fascinating about seeing a bedraggled tangle of
legs and head emerging wetly from the mother and landing in a heap
on the straw, and then within seconds staggering upright and nosing
its way to the ewe’s teats to feed. Soon it has been licked clean all
over and has changed from a strange yellow creature to a fluffy
white bleating cuddly lamb!

Somehow, the mother recognises the unique voice of her lamb.
There may be literally hundreds of sheep and lambs in a field, all
baaing and bleating, but each mother knows her lamb’s voice, and
vice versa.

Our friend is a shepherd, and they know his voice too. They even
know the sound of his car engine, and run over to him as soon as
they hear it. But when Terry and I drove over to see them, they
weren’t the slightest bit interested and stayed obstinately on the far
side of the field.
Jesus said that his sheep know his voice. How often have we read
that, and maybe felt a tiny bit wistful? How often do I hear a voice
and identify it as the Shepherd calling? I have often prayed, “Please
Lord, help me to hear you!” And yet, he does make himself heard in
many and various ways. Often it is as Elijah experienced, “a voice of
gentle stillness”, or as NIV puts it , “A gentle whisper.” Another friend
of ours, who often gets words of knowledge, says it is like a butterfly
fluttering by, soft, unobtrusive…, there it goes! You have to grab on
to it. Was that you Lord? And as you wait, and listen, he confirms it
and maybe adds to it.

Samuel, a young boy serving in the tabernacle, heard a voice in the
dead of night. Who was calling? Who did it sound like? He only knew
the voice of one who regularly spoke to him, mentoring him. It must
be his! He ran to Eli. “Did you call me?”
“No my son, lie down”. It happened again. And again. Now Eli
discerned that the Lord himself was calling the boy. “Next time, say
‘speak Lord, your servant is listening.’”
I find it interesting that to Samuel, God sounded like his mentor,
(although he was very far from being a good model). Its comforting
to know that we can be as the voice of God to someone however
imperfect our example.

For many of us, these days of lockdown present an opportunity to
stop and listen. That still small voice is so easily drowned out by
everyday sounds, and especially is lost in the melee of rush that most
of us live in. I am discovering that for me, rush had become a habit.
My mother ran everywhere, was always trying to catch up with too
many things to do, and unconsciously I imbibed that mind-set, and

have lived with always trying to do things quickly. Now I am finding
that a lot of things are better done slowly! For example, threading a
sewing machine, cutting out a pattern, inserting a zip, are not things
a novice like me can do fast. I planted my runner beans and lettuces
and tomatoes, and everyday I go eagerly to see how they are doing. I
soon found, you cant hurry them, they come in their own good time.

I am finding that listening for the Shepherd’s voice requires patient
waiting. Just position yourself, be there. Get into the habit. Why
should God be required to comply with our time-table? Ecclesiastes
5v1: “Guard your steps when you go near to the house of God. Go
near to listen….do not be quick with your mouth…God is in Heaven,
you are on Earth, so let your words be few.”

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Tedium or Te Deum?

I am wearing a dress and smart shoes, and even a dash of lipstick. It must be Sunday! Every Sunday during lockdown, I have dressed up a bit and cooked a roast dinner after we have “ been to church” , that is, interacted with our church online in our lounge. It gives contour to the week, makes a change and varies the rather monotonous routine.

I am reminded of a little book called “Hinds Feet on High Places”. It is an allegory of a girl called Much Afraid. She meets the Shepherd who begins to change her life as she journeys with Him to the High Places. She encounters many difficulties and dangers, highs and lows, but at one point she comes to a dreary shore alongside a leaden, dull sea. Day after day she trudges along; nothing seems to change, the landscape is grey and featureless, the sky uniformly cloudy. There appears to be nothing to look forward to on the horizon, and every day is dull. She begins to get frustrated and restless. This is worse than facing deadly peril when at least there is excitement, an adrenalin rush, action! But this endless boredom is making her wonder if she has made a mistake! She can’t see the Shepherd: surely he wouldn’t want her to be living in such mindless tedium? Should she go back and look for something more fulfilling?

But she can’t go back, she must keep doggedly walking.

Sometimes our path lies through boring territory. We didn’t choose it, it’s just where life has taken us. Of course, in this strange
lockdown time, some people would give anything for a chance to be bored, to just stop and lie down! They are dealing with the opposite
problem. But others feel like they have been trudging through the wilderness and getting nowhere. Every day is the same! Attempts to
liven things up work for a while, but the novelty wears off. You live for the one day in the week when you make a quick dash to Tesco.
Imagine: that is now an event, not a chore! You torture yourself with memories of visits to the grandkids, days at the beach, picnics…even going out for coffee would be nice.

Where is God in all this? You feel useless, non-productive, sluggish. Surely this can’t be right? We followed the map: but we ended up
here!

Yes. The map takes us through Boredomville. Why? Because everywhere the Shepherd leads us is with purpose. There are things
he wants us to learn while in this season. It would be tragic if later on we realised that we failed to lay hold of the lessons we were
meant to learn.

One is patience. Patience isn’t learnt when you are preoccupied and rushing around. It is learnt when life comes to a standstill, and you don’t know when it will move again. For most of us, we experience this sort of frustration on the M25 when the traffic has ground to a

halt in the rush hour. But we haven’t had to live through days, weeks, months of nothing much happening. We won’t learn just by gritting our teeth: we learn by believing God has a purpose and is working it out, so stay in faith!

Another thing to learn is persistence in prayer. God is giving us time to remind him of his promises for revival and to pray into them. It is encouraging to hear of the sale of Bibles rising exponentially; of increased numbers watching church videos, of small groups multiplying online. These are not revival, but they are indications of a stirring taking place: pray on!

Linked to this is the exhortation in Psalm 46 to “Be still and know that I am God”. We have lost the art of being still in his presence and cultivating hearing his voice. Now is the time to rediscover it! Wouldn’t it be great if we emerged from this humbler, closer and more full of love for him, and faith in his promises?

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The Watchman

What are you waiting for? Perhaps you are in a queue outside the supermarket, with a trolley, two metres apart from the persons in front and behind, waiting for the slowly shuffling line to bring you to the door. Perhaps you are waiting for a book from Amazon to bedelivered; or seeds you planted to germinate; or like us, for another grandchild to be born. (Two in fact!)

We are all waiting for lockdown to be eased, for the coronavirus to cease its violent assault on our society, for vaccine to be developed. Some are eagerly awaiting re-entry into normal life; others are waiting with trepidation.

David the Psalmist wrote in Psalm 130v5 : “ I wait for the Lord more than watchmen wait for the morning.”

How do watchmen wait for the morning? Habakkuk the prophet imagined it: “I will stand at my watch and station myself upon the ramparts; I will look to see what he will say to me.” (2v4)

The watch from 3 am. until dawn is the hardest. The soldier wakes and gropes in the dark for his boots and cloak. Everyone else is asleep and snoring around him. He goes quietly up the stone stairs to the ramparts and briefly acknowledges the man he is relieving, and takes up his station. He can’t see much because it is so dark, the darkest hour. The thought flits across his mind, “Isn’t it a bit pointless trying to “watch” in the dark? It’s black! Why not just stay in bed?”
But he is under orders; he must stand guard!

There are some things he can see: vague shapes and silhouettes of trees. On a clear night he can see the skies full of stars, and if the moon is full, he can see a lot more, not as clear as day, but clear enough to discern movement, such as animals scurrying about, owls flying, or even the stealthy movement of marauders lying in wait. But if it’s a cloudy night, what then? Or foggy? If he cant see a hand in front of his face, is it a waste of time? But he has learned, you don’t only watch with your eyes, you have to train your senses. He stands very still and listens intently, slows down his breathing, every sinew alert, tense. He waits.
Every rustle of leaves, a twig snapping could be suspicious. Every flutter of a bird could indicate it was disturbed… by what?
Its dark; its cold; it may be wet. Its lonely. He is tired. He yawns thinking wistfully of his warm bed. He begins to drift, to loose concentration, his eyelids lower…No! He must not sleep! Disaster could come while his eyes are closed and his hearing dulled. He shakes himself, re-aligns his position, changes his stance slightly. Looks toward the east: will morning never come? Is there a glimmer of light on the horizon?
He waits. He watches. It will be morning soon.

Daylight brings relief that night is ended. Are we simply waiting for the coronavirus pandemic to come to an end? For these “unprecedented” days to finish and allow us to get back to normal, whatever “normal” will look like? Many Christians are expectant for more, waiting with eager longing for a fresh outpouring of the Holy Spirit, for the Good News of the Gospel to be proclaimed with power and vigour, for myriads to lift up their eyes, once blind, now opened, and shout, “Now I see!” Salvation to be poured out accompanied by signs and wonders, the manifest works of God when he comes in power as he did at the first Pentecost. We are waiting for such a sweeping move of God that can only be described as ‘unprecedented”!

Sometimes we get fed up with waiting and walk away. But waiting for the empowering presence of God is waiting for a certainty.
Morning always comes, he has decreed it. “His going forth is as sure as the dawn”.

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A Fox in the Garden

brown animal on green grass

This morning Terry saw a fox in our garden. He looked up momentarily from his book and thought, “That squirrel looks unusually big,” took a closer look and realised he was looking at a fox: or rather , it was looking at him with haughty indifference. Having stared him out, it strolled casually across the lawn and lay down on the grass in a patch of sunlight.

In a rural setting we can appreciate foxes….unless you have lambs or chickens of course. We live on the edge of a small country town and foxes can be seen from time to time in the fields and woods. This one was beautiful with a rich tawny, glossy coat and a luxuriant fluffy tail which it coiled around itself as it lay in the grass. It looked strong and healthy and was a pleasure to see.

A few years ago we lived in west London and scraggy feral foxes were a pest. They roamed the streets arrogantly, scavenging and leaving their droppings on our doorstep. They loped around in broad daylight, investigating rubbish bins and generally behaving with insolence and defiance. Somehow, seeing them skulking around in city streets seemed unnatural and was unpleasant.

Foxes are not meant to be in cities. They adapt; but they loose something in the process. They don’t thrive, they look thin and scraggy and their coats are not luxuriant red, but brown and boring. They don’t behave like rural foxes, they have lost their natural dignity, and are a poor imitation of what a real fox should be.

I was going somewhere with this: ruminating on “little foxes spoiling the vines” , and “foxes have holes…” etc. But I keep coming back to this theme of not being in the right place. This is a picture of some people who are reading this. You are not in the right place. You are in alien territory, adapting, existing, but not thriving. You have lost a sense of destiny, and with that, a sense of self esteem. You were born again, liberated, made to run freely in meadows and woods, metaphorically speaking, but instead you are slinking around city streets looking for anything that is edible but not necessarily nourishing, ashamed, dissatisfied. Not living like a real fox.

The message is this: this is not you! Don’t be content with just existing, get back to being who you really are. Take responsibility for your life. Rediscover the dignity of what God intended and made you to be. This is not about external details, where you live, what you do, covid 19, : it is about knowing your identity .

“You are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light.”

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Some Light-Hearted Thoughts about Birds and God

I never cease to be amazed by birds. Just the idea of inventing living feathered creatures that fly about is wonderful to me. Who would have thought that one up?

And of course they sing! Last week I was walking in the glorious bluebell woods near our home when I saw a man, camera in hand, looking up into the trees overhead.

“Seen something interesting?” I enquired. “ I can hear a woodpecker”’ he answered, “and I would love to take a photo.” There followed a long and interesting conversation, (at a safe distance of course) about how to identify birds from their songs. I was fascinated, and when he suggested I buy a CD of birdsong from Amazon, it was the first thing I did when I got home.

Many birds visit our garden feeders and I identified twenty in the first few weeks of our residence here. Sometimes I wake in the night to hear a screech owl, or the haunting hoot of a barn owl. One morning at five o’clock in April two years ago, I heard a cuckoo loudly calling: and last week we were excited to see a lesser spotted woodpecker in our garden.

So where am I going with this? Simply that I think Jesus watched birds too. He watched farmers planting seed and the birds following the sower and stealing the seed. He knew how much they sold for in the market place: one penny for two! He said that God fed and clothed the birds and the lilies, so why should we be worried about provision for our food and clothes? He knows our needs , like he knows the needs of birds. He also notices when a sparrow falls to the ground! Imagine! The demise of such a fragile little thing is registered by God Almighty! So be assured, he really sees you too.

King David was also aware of birds. One day he was in the courts of the Lord and he noticed a sparrow’s nest near the altar. (Psalm 84) No-one else was allowed to get so near the altar, but God permitted a sparrow to rest there. David found comfort in that. If God could allow a little bird so near, then he, David, need not fear, but take delight and shelter in the tabernacle.

Perhaps in these days of lockdown when for many of us the pace of life has become slower, we can take some moments to stop and listen and enjoy the sounds and sights of nature around us. God speaks to us through his creation. The Heavens declare his glory: every spectacular sunset points forward to a day when the skies will split and Jesus will descend in the clouds. But blades of grass, clusters of rhododendrons, sunlight slanting through the purple haze of bluebell woods, and the evening shadows of distant hills all declare his wonder. The ugly pupae of dragonflies hauling themselves out of the mud, waiting on a reed while the extraordinary transformation into the iridescent winged creature takes place, is a powerful picture of being born again. Skeins of Canada geese across an evening sky, the call of sheep and lambs in Springtime, the flutter of a peacock butterfly all have things to say to us.

To me, all these and more speak of the amazing ingenuity, creativity, imagination and enjoyment that God must have employed in creating the world. The sheer diversity is breathtaking. And as humans perceive increasingly the complexity of animals, birds, plants, insects, weather patterns, the more we realise that we will never come to the end of exploration and discovery.

The Apostle John had revelation about this. “You have created all things; and for your pleasure they were created.’ God took huge delight in making things and sustaining them and watching them. I think he takes even more delight in watching us watching them and enjoying them too! I often thank him for it; I hope you do too. But the stunning thing is that we also come into that category: he made us for his will and pleasure too! We have the capacity to bring joy to him.

Paul says that “all creation is waiting, standing on tip toe to see the glory of another world, the new Heaven and New Earth. This is just a shadow of what will come. “Eye has not seen , or ear heard, neither has it entered the heart of man what God is preparing for those who love him.”

It is going to be good! Its going to be fantastic!

And the birds will be out of this world!

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Bit of a Bodge Up

When I was a little girl at school, I learnt to sew: not very well. It sounds Victorian now, but we had to learn to do different stitches on a piece of cloth called a sampler. By the end of term mine was crumpled and grey with holes where I had had to unpick the stitches and try again. Eventually I graduated to make an apron, but again, it was a sorry affair, joyfully abandoned and never worn. A bit of a bodge up.

 

Lately I have been rediscovering the fun of creativity as a long forgotten instinct to make something has suddenly reasserted itself . I started with knitting just before Christmas and a few weirdly coloured hats and scarves emerged. Then I thought I would venture into sewing. But because all the shops are shut, I couldn’t go out to buy materials and fabrics, so I phoned a friend who has a curtain making business to ask if she had any bits and pieces that I could experiment with. She happily left a couple of bags of leftovers on our door step.

There was some beautiful stuff: mostly heavy brocades, far too stiff and thick for any clothing. (Remember the Sound of Music when Maria made play clothes for seven children out of curtains? I’m sceptical). But eventually I hit upon a tutorial online , “How to make a cloth bag.” In fact I was surprised to discover that there are dozens of tutorials making all sorts of things!

How difficult could it be? I chose a tasteful beige and brown material for my first attempt and cut up an old sheet for lining. I struggled a bit with frayed edges, and ended up with a passable bag which looked fine on the outside but didn’t bear much scrutiny on the inside. I sorted that by running a line of machine stitching all round the outside, hiding the ragged edges inside. Bit of a bodge up, but not bad.

For my second attempt I tried a different technique. The tutorial made it look so easy! This time the outside fabric was grey with pink leaves and the lining was a bright magenta. I got into a horrible muddle and ended up with one side right and the other with the lining and stitching outside. I racked my brains : I could not see how it worked! Back to the drawing board, or rather, the Ipad. At last I could see how the pieces were meant to be sewn together, and the end result was quite pleasing. But I am glad that all the ragged ends are hidden inside the lining. Again, a bit of a bodge up.

My next attempt at creativity was in the garden. I have long wanted to plant a vegetable patch, and sowed some lettuce, tomatoes , and beetroots in some plastic food cartons. Then on a trip to Lidl’s, between the soup and socks, lo and behold , a cold frame! I returned home triumphantly with my find.

Terry kindly helped me put it together, although flat packs are not our preferred way of spending time. However, it was a warm, sunny day, so we got on with it.

It was not straightforward : no words, just rather indistinct diagrams were our guide. But after a couple of hours our mini green house was constructed. The corners are not quite ninety degrees and there is a gap between the panes at the top, but, hey, the seedlings look happy. Bit of a bodge up, but it works.

 

As I read through Philippians, I keep coming across words Paul uses to describe himself now, and what he will be. He says, he is not yet perfect, but he is pressing on. But although he has not yet attained perfection, he has a glorious hope, that the perfect is waiting for him, while he stretches forward to grasp what Christ has already obtained for us.

He says it even more clearly to Titus: “Now unto Him who is able to keep us from falling, and to present us faultless in the presence of his glory with exceeding joy”. What a prospect! As we stumble along, straining toward the goal, there will come a day when Jesus presents us before the Father with joy, and the Father will welcome us because we will then be perfect, in Christ. Not a bodge up! Do you feel like a bodge up now? Bit of a muddle? A bit ashamed by your mistakes and discouraged that perfection seems so unattainable and frankly, unlikely? That is not how the Father sees you. He sees you in Christ, his perfect son.

Not a bodge up.

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