Category: blog

I was reading a story last night about a primary school teacher in Alaska, who one day turned to the vast expanse of snow outside the window and asked her class, ‘what colour is it?’ The class — of mostly 10 year olds– said rather smugly, ‘it’s white, Miss.’ But she would have none of it. She looked at the snow, and said, ‘what colour is it?’. And it took a long time before someone realised that it was in fact blue (and purple, and grey, and black…).

The original, better told story is below the fold.

Then this morning a good friend emailed me after reading the blog for the first time. This friend has known me since I was twelve. She’s been a part of a lot of key transitions in my life. And yet, she read the blog and saw things that surprised her. It wasn’t the ‘me’ she was used to.

And it made me wonder — how often do we miss what’s right in front of our eyes with the people we care about? How often do we get used to thinking that the snow is white, so that we never notice if the light changes and it becomes blue or purple or grey?

And how often do we encourage the idea that the snow is white, because it’s easier than explaining how the shades of blue came about, or learning how to see each other again when the light has shifted.

There’s an odd dynamic to long standing friendship — the people who’ve known us the longest, but who aren’t always around enough to see who we have become. When I think about my closest friends, my oldest friends, I have no doubt that they know me. They can see to the heart of things quickly, understand mood and nuance, and strip away any mask that appears. Maybe it’s that cutting to the core of things that makes the appreciation of changing hues difficult.

And in the end, I wonder which is more true:
is the snow white or blue?

The original story is below.

Continue reading “what do you see?” →

Anyone who thinks Dunoon, Rothesay and Tighnabruaich are ‘remote’ should take a look at Tim’s blog today. It reminds me of my favourite Christmas snippet of scripture:

When peaceful silence lay over all
and night was in the midst of her swift course,
from your royal throne, O God, down from heaven,
leapt your almighty word.

Today in Rothesay, the vestry had a conversation about the peace:  what works, what doesn’t; things we might do differently.

There seems to be no bit of the liturgy as likely to cause conflict as the peace.  But today’s conversation was interesting, because Rothesay is not, on the face of it, one of those congregations in which the peace is politely endured.  It is jolly.  It seemed to be working.  And yet, it seems that for many, it still causes tension.

Now, that’s a fairly easy situation to deal with, and we found a way forward. But the conversation led me to another question.  Who decides what a liturgical action means?

I have often assumed that the main ‘problem’ with the peace is that people misunderstand it.  It gets confused with ‘saying good-morning’ and is perceived as a social intrusion on an otherwise sacred time.  So, I find myself defending the peace as a liturgical action:  pointing out that it is an important sign of the communal nature of our worship — that the eucharist is not about ‘me and God’, but ‘us and God’.  We need it precisely because it might interrupt our private train of thought before we approach the altar.  We need it because it connects us with the body of Christ, which is the church, before we receive the body of Christ in the eucharist.

And I believe all that.

And I remember the people who have quietly worked their way into my life though that simple weekly action of turning to each other and saying ‘peace be with you.’

But if this only becomes clear through explanation, is it still true?

I have always assumed that the underlying theology of liturgy is where the truth lies.  And I therefore think that it’s important for congregations to talk about the liturgy, study it, and explore meanings.  But today I wonder:  where does the truth lie when there is a repeated gap between the theologian’s explanation and the congregation’s experience?

Now, here’s a quick quiz for those of you familiar with Holy Trinity Dunoon.

In which of the following place(s) does water not flow?

1. down the tower
2. through the walls
3. through the font

Sadly, the answer is 3. Or so it seems.

Tomorrow, there is a school group coming to look at the church and to ask questions. So, naturally, I opened up the font to get it ready (for show and tell, that is — not for baptism). After removing the rather odd collection of things that someone had stored there (why?), I noticed that there was no plug to keep the water in. That should have set alarm bells ringing. But it didn’t. Rectors can be so naive…

It had occurred to me, though, that the font might not have been used recently — so I proceeded cautiously. I filled the small watering can and poured a steady stream into the hole, anxious to see what happened. It backed up a bit, but so does every other drain in Dunoon. I kept going.

No joy. By this time, I had a small pool of water — just enough to make the inner lining of the font start peeling– and I decided that the thing to do was to poke at the drain. There is a handy drain-poking-paintbrush in the back vestry. So off I went. Only to find that the paintbrush, when pushed gently down the font drain, encountered solid stone three inches down.

Apparently, when the font was moved from the back chapel to the main door (‘sometime before the war…’), they did not create the necessary drainage. And apparently, every child since has been baptized in a rather large glass bowl hidden in the font, so that no one could tell.

But here is the mystery. Why would someone go through all the trouble of moving a very large, very heavy stone font if it would not then be possible to use it? And why, if you were going to baptize a baby from a glass bowl, would you place it in a large stone basin, where it is harder to reach?

Still: this was a good time to learn.

I wonder if Ikea has a font sized bowl in it’s liturgical toy section this year…