Remembrance (2)

In a way similar to that in which All Souls Day quietly comes into focus, and, after lingering for several days, drifts from my everyday awareness, Remembrance Day takes its place in the annual rhythm of my life. My awareness of it is shared with the country as a whole and with every individual in it, just as my acknowledgement of it is shared with the majority of the population; awareness of the day, after all, has become unavoidable, and conforming to the recognizable acknowledgement of it now appears to be almost compulsory. But what speaks of both my underlying valuing of it and of its effect on me, is my experience of the day. That experience is not a comfortable one.
This contrasts starkly with my relationship with All Souls Day, which is always comfortable and peaceful, and which, in spite of merely tip-toeing into my consciousness every year, is every bit as unavoidable for me. Since its introduction into my life, its low profile has anchored itself within me in a way that the visible face of Remembrance Day has not, does not, and probably will not.
All Souls has become a meaningful and undeniable link with something barely understood but tied in with my faith as much as with thoughts of life and death. Most people do not share my awareness of this day; it has not been made unavoidable. From most viewpoints it is all but invisible, and most people’s awareness around that time is likely to be based on Halloween; but nothing hides the occurrence and the presence of Remembrance Day when it comes round. Indeed it has become as the secular aspects of both Christmas and Easter: obvious to all long before the day itself.

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The experience, as well as the day itself, has now slipped away and I am able to write this in a way that would not have been possible a few days ago. As soon as I had thought to write something here on the subject, I found myself struggling to put my thoughts into words. The answer was found in The Guardian editorial of November 7th, and the following link will take you to the relevant writing should you wish to read it. Far better that than for both of us to waste time on words that would not do the job nearly so well.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/nov/07/remembrance-day-poppies-cenotaph

Quoting from the above, ‘One recent poll found that four-fifths of the population think the two-minute silence is “relevant to them”.
It is certainly relevant to me, but not through any experience of loss or grief associated with wars and conflict between peoples.

For everyone in Britain, Afghanistan is today’s constant reminder of the cost of involvement in war, but other than those who are directly involved in the conflict – military personnel and their families, and, to a lesser degree, their friends and neighbours – none of us really know that cost or truly find remembrance relevant as a result of what is happening in Afghanistan. The relevance comes from what is embedded in our own lives: remembrance is made real by conflicts which are already part of our own reality.
For those of us whose whole lives have been lived in peace, the sacrifices made and the risks taken in the cause of retaining and protecting that relatively secure and peaceful world are known to us only through reflections of history and through the memories of older family members. It is the Second World War that makes Remembrance Day relevant for me. For those who lived through it, civilians included, it is part of their own life story, and they may see all that has occurred since 1945 in the light of their own uncertainties during those preceding years. But having been born just after the war, I have no direct experience of it, no personal memory, no loss, no grief. Awareness of its importance in my own life is through consciousness of the important place it occupied in the lives of two people who did live through it: the soldier and the nurse who became my parents.
A few years ago, during this month of remembrance, a quiet but powerful chapter in my life, representative of the same half-century story of the local community as a whole, and indeed of the entire country, came to an end with the death of the last of my father’s siblings.

In March 1944 photographs of four soldiers, my father and his three brothers, appeared in a local newspaper article reporting on their whereabouts. They had all volunteered in 1940 and had gone their separate ways for the duration of the war. All four survived, though it was not until April 1946 that the last of them finally returned. I have often wondered how that must have felt to my grandparents: saying farewell to all four of them and not knowing if they would ever see them again; and then, having all four of them return safely home. Not only the brothers, but their parents too will have known and felt what remembrance was all about.

Every November, the poppies, the parades, the silences, the coverage of the Cenotaph and the Albert Hall: all these, built upon year by year through my parents’ thoughts, words, and quiet tears, have somehow made the war a defining part of my own life despite its having ended before I was born.
Yes, we will remember them. Not only those who died: those who never came home, but also those who did return; the men and women who lived on, and made the world that is ours today. Men like my father and his brothers: men who risked all for our sakes, and then rebuilt the security of home in their quiet lives.
One day, after the death of the last of the brothers, and as his executor, I came across his medals. He had done exactly the same as my Father. They had opened those small brown cardboard boxes, looked at the medals, and replaced them, the ribbons still unattached and folded. And there they stayed for the next fifty years. There they remain today; valued and evocative; safe in their boxes.
I also came across a small unimportant looking notebook among assorted bits and pieces; something which could so easily have been simply thrown away. It was several days before I picked it up again and opened it. It was ‘The Boys’ Diary’, as my Grandmother had called it at the top of the first page. Her handwritten record of every known move they made during the war, and every communication received from them, from the day the first one left home, to the day the last one returned, - a period of more than six years.
It is a wonderful fragment of truth from a troubled time; a time that finally came to an end for me when a surviving soldier’s ashes were placed in his parents’ grave and his generation was finally at rest. As with their return from war: all safely home, and together once more.

I remember, as a boy, watching my father close up his shop to take his place in the Remembrance Day parade, and marching through the town with the other men. I always wondered why he had no medals; everyone else seemed to. That was before my sense of awe and wonder when I first came across them. From those far off years right up to the end of his life, his face always looked different on Remembrance Day. Experiences undisclosed, faces only he could see, and names that I would never hear; all these he has somehow passed down to me. Together with that silent box and its contents, they join my awareness and appreciation of all that my parents gave to me and to my own siblings: foundations for the forming of my own very personal and very real experience of Remembrance Day and all that it should signify.
Yes. We will remember them.

At the dawning of each new day we shall remember them: all of them.
And may we who remain do as well for those who follow.

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Remembrance (1)

I was almost taken by surprise this morning when words from the radio nudged me from my lack of awareness. I am relieved to be able to use the word ‘almost’, as to have found that the day had slipped by without my recognition of it would have troubled me, though I would have struggled in vain to find a solid and acceptable reason for being so troubled by it; acceptable for anyone other than myself, that is. My own acceptance of my feelings is not based on anything particularly solid either, and nor are the feelings themselves, but they are undeniable, unforgettable, and form part of a sequence of memories that echo the early stages of my movement from wherever I once was to the place where I find myself today. All Souls is quietly come around. I failed to see or hear it coming, and in some strange way that troubles me. It is a day that has crept up on me before; announcing itself in whispers as though in explanation of why I have been drawn to a deeper thinking, and a wrestling with words as my only way of laying to rest the ghosts of unknown sorrows which hung their cloaks of grief about my shoulders. ‘... All Souls is quietly come around. He weeps upon the whispering ground, as warmth bleeds from his naked flesh to be lost in the sobbing wind. ...’ So read lines from the end of one of the first poems I ever tried to write. It was written, not so much because I wanted to write poetry, as because I needed to find a way to still the restless thoughts, and sounds, and voices that increasingly filled any empty space I managed to create within my mind. I seemed drawn to acknowledge and record the fact that I was filled with an awareness of something or someone forgotten: something reaching out for anyone with the faintest glimmer of recognition who may pause to ‘harken to the darkening of the memory in the sand’. A longing that searched for ‘just one to stop and wonder what it was he thought he heard; ... to sense the loss: to understand; to hear, to feel the pain, to pray and to remember.’ It was the writing of that poem that stilled the restless voices; and it was the realization, as the quiet returned after weeks without peace, that it was the closing of All Souls Day, which embedded the memory of that unrest within me. That was years ago, before my days of walking the sand with Jesus; but it was the same sand: it was the same Irish strand that would play its part in my awakening to His presence. Earlier today, I received news of another life ended; Raymond Taylor, a gentleman with whom I have been working, after more than sixty years of hunched and silent life, died today. All Souls is quietly come around, and now slips quietly away again having gathered him in its passing. May the souls of all who have passed this way, whether long ago, more recently, or during this very day, rest in peace. .

Windblown

Leaves are gathering under the trees once more, and until the wind scatters them across the countryside they will lie there, en masse, as though each leaf looks up in awe at the tree which had given it life. The stillness of some of these autumn days makes the falling of leaves an audible experience; not something we would usually anticipate from what is, for us, a predominantly visual experience, but which can cause us to turn in surprise when a dry leaf from an Ash slowly ricochets down through twigs and branches on its way to the ground in an otherwise silent world. Each has its own tune, from the almost silent shower of Birch leaves to the stiff ticking sound of Beech as each leaf seems to proudly proclaim its intention to remain un-rotted throughout the coming winter. Not only to those who are out and about in the countryside, but also to people strolling in the park, or round their own gardens, leaves have contributed to a full orchestra of voices from the first greening of the hedgerows to the final shedding of their un-greened and crinkled forms.
Thomas Hardy’s tale, Under The Greenwood Tree, begins with an expression of this fact: ‘To dwellers in a wood, almost every species of tree has its voice as well as its feature. At the passing of the breeze, the fir trees sob and moan no less distinctly than they rock; the holly whistles as it battles with itself; the ash hisses amid its quiverings; the beech rustles while its flat boughs rise and fall.’

Within the next few weeks I shall have a large pile of leaves in a corner of the garden, raked up from the grass when the trees are almost bare. Even in springtime and through the summer, I frequently picture the view leading up to that time, with the leaves being blown from the trees to fly briefly before dancing along the ground until caught and held by some snag or barrier, muddy hollow or puddle. It is a picture which conveys to me a paradoxical message of movement and activity in response to the guidance of a power greater than myself, while always carrying the blessings of peace and quiet joy. I do not need to see the leaves to be reminded, but the message is there whenever I walk from the house. Similar scenes are available to all of us almost everywhere throughout the autumn, but I find this meaning only where I am able to take time out to look and to become, as it were, part of the scene. This makes home the obvious place to appreciate the experience.

Picturing this flurry of leaves always leads me into the memory of another similar scene from nearly twenty years ago; again, in a place where I spent much time and could pause every day to appreciate what was happening beyond the window. Here, I was looking beyond the garden boundary into the grounds of a school for children with special needs. The school itself was almost out of sight at the top of a small hill, though the sounds of children in the playground would drift down to me on the breeze.
I remember being struck by that sound one autumn day when all seemed well with the world, and the shouts and laughter combined to produce an effect that was so obviously joyful in the known circumstances, but in isolation was in fact a noise; not joyful, not anything: just a noise. And then, momentarily, I heard that noise differently. The sound was the same but the circumstances seemed changed utterly; the shouts became screams and the laughter turned to cries of grief and terror. The change was real enough to have me searching the skyline for the reassurance of children running into and out of view at the edge of their playground. They were there. All was well.

The experience lasted for only a few seconds but left me wondering; what if something terrible suddenly occurred up there and the sounds were of anguish and horror? How long would it be before anyone at my distance from those children realized anything was wrong? The noises seemed frighteningly similar. Thankfully I have never been witness to any of the dreadful occurrences the world has seen and continues to see; perhaps the differences between the sounds would be all too obvious to me if I had, but those few moments taught me how easily we can presume that all is well – in almost any situation – when in fact it is not.
The enduring image here is of the leaves on that windy day being blown down the slope towards me, like hundreds of children running, jumping and dancing across the grass. The wind blew the sounds from the playground to me louder than usual, and as my hearing of them changed from quiet pleasure to deep concern, so the happily dancing leaves changed to terrified and panic-stricken children fleeing from heaven only knew what.

I have been reminded of these images by words in an article by Charles Whitehead in the September/October 2008 edition of Good News magazine. Writing on discernment, he says, ‘If it is God’s Holy Spirit at work, then I want to be inspired, blessed, touched, and empowered by what is happening. But if not, then I need to be protected from being “blown here and there by every wind of teaching and by the cunning and craftiness of men in their deceitful scheming” (Ephesians 4:14), or, even worse, being lead astray by the lies and strategies of Satan and his demons.’

Learning to distinguish truth and falsehood in our lives, and discerning our direction and the genuine calls on our time, our support, and our action, helps us to know when all is well and when it is not. It not only keeps us from being “blown here and there by every wind ...”, but enables us to recognize dangers and the presence of evil in even the most settled and apparently safe conditions and situations.
A great deal can happen, for good or ill, when we are relaxed, unconcerned, and generally at peace. A lowering of our barriers will allow us to be more open to seemingly good and plausible, but false, ideas from elsewhere, anywhere and everywhere, but will also make us more receptive to the work of the Holy Spirit within us. Knowing which is which is not as easy as we may think, especially if we expect all that is good to be comfortable, and all that is evil to present itself in the form of a struggle.

It is like a re-run of the leaves being blown down that grassy hill. Are the children shouting and laughing? Or are they screaming and crying? Do we make assumptions and switch off again? Do we hear them at all? Or do we focus, question, and discern before deciding that all is well? Before returning to the peace and the empty space we have created for ourselves?
A space which – if we are fortunate – will become similar to

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‘... the crucible of the desert, in which the soul ... is twisted and shaken like a leaf in the storm of the Spirit.’
(Carlo Carretto. Love is for Living.)
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... and clear

‘... ever since the creation of the world, the invisible existence of God and his everlasting power
have been clearly seen by the mind's understanding of created things.’
(Romans 1:20)
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People use many well known words or phrases to express such things as anger, surprise, contempt, or disbelief. Many are obscenities, used deliberately by some to cause offence, and by others as part of their habitual and unthinking stream of language; others are variations on the theme of taking the Lord’s name in vain, again used without thought or, less frequently, with deliberate blasphemous intent. But there are other expressions which have either lost their original meaning or relevance completely (e.g. “Gordon Bennett”), or which no longer convey their meaning with the force they once did. Among these is the protestation, “Is nothing sacred?”
In a world where respect for other people as well as for their human and legal rights, traditions, beliefs, and property, and for authority in general, was only part-way through its decline, the accepted ‘untouchable’ nature of respected things was an acknowledgement of their basic correctness and goodness for the individual, for the community, and for a wider social health and stability. Our progress into civilization, and the continuing refinement of our ways of living in this world and with each other, had, at some time in the past, reached a point where we were able to stand back from the balance of respect and freedom we had created: the rules, written and unwritten, by which we aimed to live. We stood back, we looked, and we saw that it was good. It was because it was good that it was regarded as untouchable: unchangeable. Other than through the continued refinement of its goodness, why would anyone ever want to change it? It became sacred to us. As parts of this constructed goodness began to be undermined, the offended parts of society would rapidly have found ways of expressing their concerns, their disappointments and their disgust. “Is nothing sacred?” would have grown out of this atmosphere, and would have had very real meaning.
We would have been conscious of this sacredness in the non-religious sense, but, because it was indeed good, and pointing in the direction God intended for us, it was also sacred in the sense that it was holy. Unawares, we were being directed by it towards holiness.

In the Creation story, in the first chapter of Genesis, we read that God looked at His creative work at each stage, and ‘God saw that it was good.’ We are told this seven times, beginning where ‘God saw that light was good’ (v.4), and ending where, having made man and woman, ‘God saw all he had made, and indeed it was very good’ (v.31).
The physical world is sacred. The whole of creation is sacred. Our journey into holiness and a better understanding of our place in this world is part of our slow awakening to our relationship with our Creator and our purpose in His plan, not only for mankind, but for all that He saw, and continues to see, as good.

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‘... for the whole creation is waiting with eagerness for the children of God to be revealed.
... We are well aware that the whole creation, until this time, has been groaning in labour pains.’
(Romans 8:19, 22)
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Wisdom 13:1-9 speaks of those ‘who, from good things seen, have not been able to discover Him-who-is, or, by studying the works, have not recognized the Artificer ‘(v.1), and asks, ‘if they are capable of acquiring enough knowledge to be able to investigate the world, how have they been so slow to find its Master?’ (v.9).
Today’s answer to that ages old question is that, in general terms, very little is seen as being sacred any more. We look but we do not see; we listen but we do not hear. We are increasingly conscious of something not being right in our world, but we seem incapable of holding the veil aside: we do not recognize the sacred even when it lies at our feet.

The message is clear enough, but it is not being heard or seen by the majority of mankind, and most of those who do see and hear it fail to recognize it for what it is. Of the few who do know it, most make little or no attempt to acknowledge it; and among those who do, there are few who are prepared to rise, who are called and directed to shout loudly from the mountain tops. These are our prophets, and we have need of them today.
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We are all being called to hear the psalmist’s words, not as a whimper from the past, but loud and clear in today’s world, as we stand in awe of the creation of which we are all a part, and for which we have been given responsibility as masters. Only when this is achieved can God's prophets fade silently into the valleys once more.

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‘No utterance at all, no speech,
not a sound to be heard,
but from the entire earth the design stands out,
this message reaches the whole world.’
(Psalm 19:3-4)
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Shout loud ...

Nobody can deny the extent to which poverty and deprivation, injustice and greed, cruelty and abuse, disfigure the mind and mutilate the body of mankind. As a species, we regard ourselves as supreme; even those among us whose thoughts would never include any conscious awareness of Scripture in even the broadest sense, are somehow reinforced in their arrogance by a faint echo, as it were, of God’s words as laid out in the book of Genesis after the creation of humankind: ‘God blessed them, saying to them, “Be fruitful, multiply, fill the earth and subdue it. Be masters of the fish of the sea, the birds of heaven and all the living creatures that move on earth.”(Genesis 1:28)
Looked at coldly, without any disturbance or intervention from the parts of our nature that make us different from the rest of creation, the qualities that define us as members of the human race, we could look at what we have accomplished and congratulate ourselves on a job well done. We have been fruitful, and we have definitely multiplied; there are now some 6.8 billion of us. Can we even begin to imagine how many people that is? It is clear that we have done our best to fill the earth, and in so doing it must be said that we have accomplished some astonishingly wonderful things; but we have also been the cause of horrifyingly destructive consequences of our attempts to subdue the earth and everything in it. We have taken it upon ourselves to enslave everything, finding no possible alternative meaning for the instruction to “Be masters”, and we carry our natural tendency to lord it over the world into our relationships with other people, ignoring, depriving, robbing and abusing those who have been created as our equals.

And how can we read the next two verses of Genesis without further doubting both the integrity of our mindsets, and the wisdom of our actions?
“Look, to you I give all the seed-bearing plants everywhere on the surface of the earth, and all the trees with seed-bearing fruit; this will be your food.” (1:29) – without being visited by images of the famine stricken and starving peoples of our world?
“And to all the wild animals, all the birds of heaven and all the living creatures that creep along the ground, I give all the foliage of the plants as their food.” (1:30) – without being assailed by images of the planet’s blatant destruction, and the desolation, emptiness and silence that follow our rape and pillage of the environment and all that it once had the ability to sustain.

Our free will is potentially our greatest gift, and granting to others the freedom to exercise theirs is in keeping with the brotherhood and sisterhood of humankind. But, for ourselves and for the world, it is what we each do with our freedom that determines whether we become a blessing or a curse. In those areas where we fail to bless our neighbours and our world, an apparent indifference is as much a curse as any active or militant contribution to destruction and injustice. A terrifying reality of our freedom and of any failure to bless, is that the curse to which we contribute may sweep across the entire face of the globe, with no way of differentiating between those who are blessings upon the earth and their destructive neighbours.

Our actions have ensured there is no shortage of blood, but however much we spill and wherever we may smear it, destruction and death will not be kept from anybody’s door.
‘Some of the blood must then be taken and put on both door-posts and the lintel of the houses where it is eaten. ... The blood will be a sign for you on the houses where you are. When I see the blood I shall pass over you, and you will escape the destructive plague when I strike Egypt.’ (Exodus 12:7-13)
We regard ourselves as absolute masters of our own destiny. However late we may leave it, we believe that we shall come up with the right answers and act accordingly; that we have the power and the ability to put things right; that everything will be fine. It is only now that most of us are beginning to suspect that all this talk may be more than just a potential script for another exciting disaster movie; we have stopped popping popcorn into our mouths, and our smiles are beginning to fade. Some of us are wondering whether there may even come a time when there are no more movies to watch.

Those whose freedom is a blessing for all of us, in terms of economics, the environment, health, education, justice, peace, and all areas which have a bearing on human dignity, have, in recent years, raised their concerns loudly enough to make the difference we now see being accepted and acknowledged by political leaders around the world. These pressures must be maintained of course, but more than this, we must learn to appreciate our ability to choose: our freedom to exercise our free will; and those who are called to be today’s prophets – they are out there somewhere – must allow the Spirit to take them where it will, and must proclaim the message God places within them. This message will not only be, “Wake up! Open your eyes; look, and see”; and it will not be merely an additional urging to find the scientific counterbalance for the destructive path down which we are all slipping. It will undoubtedly include a call to finally understand the intended responsibilities inherent in God’s will that we should “Be masters of ... all the living creatures that move on earth”, and that “this will be your food”.
We shall receive and act on that understanding, only when we realize we are the keepers and carers of our world and everything in it; that we have been appointed as caretakers of our own home, planet Earth, while The One who is our own Master, and Master of all that is, longs for our return to harmony with the rest of creation, and to the dignity, equality and unity that should be hallmarks of our trust in Him.

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‘Go up on a high mountain, messenger of Zion.
Shout as loud as you can, messenger of Jerusalem!
Shout fearlessly, say to the towns of Judah
“Here is your God.”
(Isaiah 40:9)
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Available to all

Since making the decision to set up and convey my thoughts via this blog, I have become increasingly aware of coming across thoughts from other people that support my own way of thinking after I have committed my ideas to the written page. Instead of raising doubts over whether or not the ideas are truly my own through being read or heard before writing, they have provided me with a welcome and strengthening form of confirmation that what I am doing is worthwhile and, in general, in line with what I believe to be the truths that I allow to govern my life.
This has been highlighted over the last few days by a series of apparent coincidences that have supported my decision to pass thoughts on to someone for whom life has not been going smoothly. I have referred to a brief contact with the people most immediately affected by this situation, and since that meeting, despite not really knowing the nature of the problems, I have been pressed by an urge to make known to them what my own thoughts are. At the same time however, I still have an underlying wish to remain anonymous, not for any particular reason, but – as I have said in my profile – because it really does not matter who I am. Nor have I hurried to make known to people I know that I am writing here; if they happen to come across my ‘Soliloquy’ and then realize who I am, that is fine, as would be their spreading of that knowledge to others, but I do not seek their attention, their praise or their comments on what I am doing. I am here for whoever may cross my path, and for those who, in crossing, may glance at what is written here. If just one person finds what they read to be meaningful and of real help to them, then I thank God for it, and I am content.
But having experienced the prompting to offer my thoughts, I know it would be a failure on my part if I did not respond. It is part of the ongoing multiplicity of chances to respond to God’s desire for us to act when asked to do so.
I do feel somewhat confused over my decision to maintain anonymity when I am in fact well known to the people in question, but the chances are that I shall be ‘discovered’ and recognized before too long.

For the most part, I am happiest when unobserved and out of mind. I am just another ordinary man who has had the good fortune to fall into the hands of the living God; a nobody who has learned that every ordinary person, every nobody, is in reality an extraordinary daughter or son of God, loved, valued, and graced with a potential for good in this world that is far beyond their comprehension.
I have been too timid to write or phone directly, primarily because I do not know what is the right thing to do, but this space on the internet allows me to say what is in me to be said without editing to suit the anticipated – or more accurately, the guessed at – responses, and in a manner more likely to speak to people in general rather than to a particular soul.

An excellent example of the affirmation I have received from other sources over recent weeks, is a website I came across for the first time yesterday. It struck me at once because the theme for the day (15.10.09) was ‘Resolving your problems’, and on reading through the quotations used in support of that theme I felt they would speak to the heart of the particular person I already had in mind. More than this, however, the stated belief that God calls out to all people, not only Christians, and that ‘inspiration can be found in all spiritual faiths’, echoes my belief that the Church as we know it (both as Christians, and more specifically, as Catholics) has boundaries that extend far beyond the limits of our restricted and regimented thinking.

I do not make a habit of promoting other websites – we have to make our own ways through the immense variety of viewpoints available – but this may be of interest or of value to you, and therefore becomes only the fourth such link I have provided here. There are of course many wonderful places to visit, but with a little thought most of these can be found easily; it is the comparatively unknown, unsung, and unsuspected sources of inspiration that need to be pointed to for the sake of those who may seek precisely what they have to offer. This one may or may not be of value for you; there is only one way to find out.

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...........................................................................http://www.thereligionnetwork.com/index.html

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It is far too easy for us to believe that those who are not Christians (without venturing into the dreadful disunity which exists between some sections of the broad Christian Church) are beyond the reach of God.
How do we dare believe that God does not reach out to every living person, and to the whole of creation? Nothing, and nobody, is beyond His reach. Banish all thoughts that the Catholic Church teaches otherwise, and read the following passages from the documents of the Second Vatican Council:

‘All this holds true not only for Christians, but for all men of good will in whose hearts grace works in an unseen way. For, since Christ died for all men, and since the ultimate vocation of man is in fact one, and divine, we ought to believe that the Holy Spirit in a manner known only to God offers to every man the possibility of being associated with this paschal mystery. (Gaudium et Spes 22.)

‘... those who have not yet received the Gospel are related in various ways to the people of God. In the first place we must recall the people to whom the testament and the promises were given and from whom Christ was born according to the flesh. On account of their fathers this people remains most dear to God, for God does not repent of the gifts He makes nor of the calls He issues. But the plan of salvation also includes those who acknowledge the Creator. In the first place amongst these there are the Mohamedans, who, professing to hold the faith of Abraham, along with us adore the one and merciful God, who on the last day will judge mankind. Nor is God far distant from those who in shadows and images seek the unknown God, for it is He who gives to all men life and breath and all things, and as Saviour wills that all men be saved. Those also can attain to salvation who through no fault of their own do not know the Gospel of Christ or His Church, yet sincerely seek God and moved by grace strive by their deeds to do His will as it is known to them through the dictates of conscience. Nor does Divine Providence deny the helps necessary for salvation to those who, without blame on their part, have not yet arrived at an explicit knowledge of God and with His grace strive to live a good life. Whatever good or truth is found amongst them is looked upon by the Church as a preparation for the Gospel. She knows that it is given by Him who enlightens all men so that they may finally have life. (Lumen Gentium 2:16.)
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Great and good

I can see clearly that the ideas conveyed in my previous two posts are the product of my own experience. If I had not written down the resolutions that grew out of my thoughts on that cold and wet night long ago, I would not have had the same powerful memory of that time, nor of the echoes which followed me for so long after; and a recent brief contact with people whose present situation brought it to mind again, would not have resulted in the words that were posted here. I may have found something to say based on what I had heard or read, but it is unlikely that I would have had the feeling that I should write something; the feeling that arose in me as a result of my own experience, and as a reaction to my uncertainty over whether or not to respond to their distress in a more personal way.

This has reminded me that the bulk of what we take for granted today, most of the systems and structures and processes in society, the options and laws and theories and beliefs, are the product of other people’s thoughts. The answers to nearly all our questions have been born in some other person’s experience. Their experience gave power to their thinking – not that experiences were necessarily good, nor the thinking well founded – and thoughts gave wings to delusions and errors as well as to their insights. But if their ideas and propositions were sound they were taken up and built upon by others whose experience confirmed the value and the truth of these foundations.
In a similar way, our faith will come alive only through our own experience, not merely as a result of listening to others: belief in the existence of God is achieved, as Newman said, ‘not because others say it, not on the word of man merely, but with a personal apprehension of its truth.'
Most of mankind has been led through history by a succession of people, few in number, whose thoughts and actions, in one way or another, have steered the advance of mankind into increased knowledge and (in theory at least) increasingly civilized forms of society.
Thomas Carlyle’s thinking – of nearly one hundred and seventy years ago – is not accepted as fully as once it was, but it still carries within it underlying truths relating to humanity’s continued progress towards a realized potential, harmony, and perfection.

‘... the history of what man has accomplished in this world, is at bottom the history of the Great Men who have worked here. They were the leaders of men, these great ones; the modellers, patterns, and in a wide sense creators, of whatsoever the general mass of men contrived to do or to attain; all things that we see standing accomplished in the world are properly the outer material result, the practical realization and embodiment, of thoughts that dwelt in the Great Men sent into the world: ... We cannot look, however imperfectly, upon a great man, without gaining something by him. He is the living light-fountain, which it is good and pleasant to be near. The light which enlightens, which has enlightened the darkness of the world; and this not as a kindled lamp only, but rather as a natural luminary shining by the gift of Heaven; a flowing light-fountain, as I say, of native original insight, of manhood and heroic nobleness;--in whose radiance all souls feel that it is well with them.’
(On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History.)

How well that also describes the biblical journey from Genesis all the way through to the incarnation of Jesus Christ, and the place of the Apostles, Paul, and the sequence of other great men in the early years of the Christian Church. From Noah, and Abraham, and the chain of great people empowered by God to command, to lead, and to teach the people: Moses, Solomon, David, the Prophets, and all the wonderful names God has raised and used to achieve His ends, the world’s awareness of God at work has been dependent on the thoughts and deeds of these few men, each one ‘a natural luminary shining by the gift of Heaven.’

The Muslim statement that “There is no god but God” is in complete agreement with both the Jewish and Christian certainties that there is only the one God. In that basic agreement, we are all of one mind. We all sit, kneel, and prostrate ourselves at the feet of the same God, and it is to the one undisputed source of our being that our prayers are directed. In the same work, Carlyle had in mind not only great men in general, but Muhammad and Islam in particular when he wrote, ‘the Great Man was always as lightning out of Heaven; the rest of men waited for him like fuel, and then they too would flame.’
This appears to contradict the suggestion that other people’s words and deeds are, in themselves, not sufficient to bring us to a real belief in God, but it is the experience of being led towards faith by such people that enables us to approach the very edge of our own doubts and fears , and to venture into our own surrender into His unseen hands. God works through such people to draw us out of ourselves and into our own defining experience.

Jesus was, and is, the ultimate Great and Good Man: God’s own expression of perfection in mankind, and our Teacher, Example, and Saviour. In coming to Him, and following Him, we are not being led towards an encounter with God; we are encountering God. In the meaningful context of our own lives we are experiencing Him for ourselves, and it is this experience, devoid of all worldly advancement, honour, or material gain, that has the power to transform us.
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... but progress

Others may clearly see our strengths and innate qualities; some may accurately discern the direction in which our path should lead, but we are the only ones who can discover where we are to go, and when, and how, and why. It is part of finding out who we really are, and of becoming the persons God has made us to be.
In writing this I am conscious of the numbers of university students who change courses, take years out, or drop out altogether in their struggles to find their direction in life. I urge these, as well as all others who are wavering in some way, changing course, burning bridges, giving up, or picking themselves up to begin again, to dismiss all feelings of failure, particularly where such embers are urged back into life by others. In the only ways that are ultimately of value, you have not failed. You are being prevented from wasting too much time. You are not just wanted but are needed to be on the right path, and your turmoil is the result of your own unsatisfied yearnings. Without yet knowing it, you yourselves need to be on the right path; the path for which you have been made.

Any mention of paths, right and wrong, cannot be separated from the fundamental attractions of right and wrong which constantly play havoc with our lives. The tug-of-war between the forces and satisfactions of good and evil is never-ending, and is made known to us by the voice of God within us: a voice of which John Henry Newman has spoken in his sermon, ‘Dispositions for Faith’: -

'Whether a man has heard the name of the Saviour of the world or not... he has within his breast a certain commanding dictate, not a mere sentiment, nor a mere opinion, or impression, or view of things, but a law, an authoritative voice, bidding him do certain things and avoid others. I do not say that its particular injunctions are always clear, or that they are always consistent with each other; but what I am insisting on here is this, that it commands - that it praises, it blames, it promises, it threatens, it implies a future, and it witnesses of the unseen. It is more than a man's own self. The man himself has not power over it, or only with extreme difficulty; he did not make it, he cannot destroy it... This is Conscience; and from the nature of the case, its very existence carries on our minds to a Being exterior to ourselves; for else whence did it come? and to a Being superior to ourselves; else whence its strange troublesome peremptoriness? I say, without going on to the question what it says, and whether its particular dictates are always as clear and consistent as they might be, its very existence throws us out of ourselves, to go and seek for him in the height and depth, whose Voice it is. .......... .... This word within us not only instructs us up to a certain point, but necessarily raises our minds to the idea of a Teacher, an unseen Teacher: and in proportion as we listen to that word, and use it, not only do we learn more from it, not only do its dictates become clearer, and its lessons broader, and its principles more consistent, but its very tone is louder and more authoritative and constraining. And thus it is, that to those who use what they have, more is given; for, beginning with obedience, they go on to the intimate perception and belief of one God. His voice within them witnesses to him, and they believe his own witness about himself. They believe in his existence, not because others say it, not on the word of man merely, but with a personal apprehension of its truth.'

And so, conscience, having already matured within us, takes its place, as it were, before us; recognised, acknowledged, and, as likely as not, a source of niggles and worries rather than something to be listened to. It is an immense power for good, but if my own experience is anything to go by, it can be a long time before we understand this, preferring to let the years slip by without being unduly troubled by it, or, at least, without allowing ourselves to be confronted by its accusing finger.
Without stopping to face it head on, that is how we experience it: that is how it seems to be. No sooner do we sense it than we turn away from it; the very awareness of its presence rising within us troubles us too much. We already know what it is going to say to us, and have no wish to be made to recognise our own wrongdoing, - especially if it speaks to us before we have actually gone wrong.

And yet, it is all so false. Our holding it at bay in that way tells us from the start that we have recognised it for what it is. It is unavoidable, and it has the power to make our choosing of the right course of action so simple. And yet we repeatedly manage to brush it aside while fully understanding what we are doing, and all the time longing to follow the opposite course, -the one towards which it was directing us.

'I do not understand my own behaviour; I do not act as I mean to, but I do things that I hate.

...though the will to do what is good is in me, the power to do it is not:

the good thing I want to do, I never do; the evil thing which I do not want - that is what I do.'

(Romans 7:15,18-19.)

So says St Paul, and surely, so would say any good and honest man or woman who has ever lived.

In the same way that our conscience will guide us through every right and wrong moment, every action, every thought, if we will but let it, it is constantly trying to steer us in the overall direction best suited to our nature and our particular skills. It is not in preventing, accusing, and reprimanding that it has its reason for being. It strives to match our giftedness with the areas of need which cry out for it; and this striving is not so much in the assessment and recognition of our calling, as in the implementation, which requires our consent and ongoing commitment. It is in trying to awaken us to ourselves and to our calling that our conscience never sleeps.

Our experience and understanding of feelings of contentment, happiness, joy, peace, hope, regret, sorrow, fear, and so on, is dependent upon the degree to which we follow its guidance in our daily lives and its calling in the longer term. Our response to the awakening of our conscience plays an essential part in our perception of all the basic and underlying emotions from which our lives are drawn.

Aristotle has summed it up in these few words: -

'Where your talents and the needs of the world cross, there lies your vocation.'
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Not failure ...

I have written before about my need to put things in writing as a way of unravelling and making sense of my own thoughts and feelings. I do not know when this started but it is certainly not a lifelong habit; in looking back, I am aware of the complete absence of anything resembling what has now become completely normal for me. I can only recall one occasion (prior to consciously setting out on this Journey in Faith) when I did something similar, and that was while in Spain after leaving school.
It is strange to think that I was eighteen years old at the time, had not started work, had not met the person I would marry, had no children of my own, and had never imagined the home in which I now live. In short, my life as I now know it had yet to begin; and, though completely unaware of it at the time, I had no idea who I really was, and had not even begun to wonder who I was going to be.

The few bits of writing I did during those weeks in Spain were not done for the same reasons at all, though I now recognize in my fragmented memory of them hints of what was to come. The single occasion when writing helped me to see clearly what my thoughts and intentions were, came about as a result of simply feeling rather fed-up and generally down in spirit. I had only two or three days left before I was due to sail from Vigo back to Southampton, and, having that day had a single lift on a lorry all the way from Alicante to Vigo, I was just marking time until the boat took me home. I was annoyed, in a way, at having had such a good lift, but at the same time I was ready to return.
All I could do was hang about. I was hungry, having been living on a shilling a day for the last two weeks, though that did buy me a bread roll, a piece of cheese, half a kilo of grapes, and wine in my wineskin. I looked forward to the boat as the thirty-six hour journey included several meals - all paid for with the return ticket I had bought in England.

I had walked out of the town looking for somewhere to spend the night, and it had begun to rain. Having not found anywhere better, (I found a dry place in a timber yard for the next night) I walked into a wood on a hillside overlooking the road, and sat down on my rucksack against one of the tree trunks with my groundsheet thrown over my head and back. I had no tent.
As it grew darker, and colder, and wetter, I began to think about what I was going to do when I got home; what I was going to do with my life. And then I began to write it down. I knew exactly what I would do, and I resolved to turn my thoughts into reality. I would make my parents proud of me, and I knew how I was going to do it. I would take my place happily in the real world of family, routine and work.
By the time I put the notebook away, I had tearfully promised my parents and God that I would make it all happen, and, with my new-found resolutions helping to make me feel happier with my lot, I huddled down tighter under my groundsheet in the hope of getting some much needed sleep.

Sleep did not come; only more cold (it was October), continual rain, and the early discovery that my groundsheet was no longer waterproof. The longed for dawn found me soaked and shivering, and the discomfort made me every bit as miserable as I had been before thinking the thoughts which had developed into those promises.
I was already losing my belief in what I had resolved to do, but I told myself it did not matter anyway as I was the only one who knew; they were only thoughts, not real promises.
I was slipping before I had even started, and I felt guilty about that. I was failing almost as soon as I had made the decision, and, having promised not only my parents and God but also myself, the whole episode only contributed further to pre-existing feelings of failure which, for the most part, I had managed to keep suppressed.
But those thoughts had been written down, and though nobody else would ever know of them, they would not completely leave me while I still had that notebook; - and that was to be for a very long time.
I finally destroyed it twenty seven years later.

It was my memory of that night that prompted me to write to someone years later when I heard from the parents that they had received a worrying letter. Their son, far from home, had made it clear that he was feeling very low. When those to whom we write are unable to help in any way through lack of contact and not knowing exactly where we are, such information is naturally upsetting and disturbing. My letter contained thoughts based on my own experience of writing while feeling low but without posting anything to anyone, and without speaking about it later. My suggestion then still stands for anyone in a similar position today; that we should write our thoughts down somewhere that will enable us – at any time – to either keep or destroy them, rather than actually writing home with them. Writing home, or making any other form of contact, is of course the right thing to do if we include details of where we are and our plans for the immediate future; even more right if we are asking for someone to come and get us. But without this, all we do is perpetuate the worry in those who most love us and care for us. Recording our negative thoughts and feelings, but keeping them to ourselves, not only protects others from undue worry but also leaves us in a position where we can still, at any moment, take complete control of our own life without any shadows of conscience to confuse the picture; shadows resulting from having shared important thoughts with others and then appearing to fail to see things through.

Feelings of failure are just as likely to cast shadows without others knowing anything of what goes on within us; in all probability we shall think we have failed ourselves. But this should be seen differently; we have not failed, but have simply changed our minds; and changing one's mind is not necessarily a bad thing.
It is probable that, however true we think we are being to ourselves, we are still being influenced in our decisions, ideas and desires, by a constant stream of outside forces, some recognizable and others not. And when we think we have at last come to know what we really want, we enter into that supposed solution for a while, until something wells up within us once more, building in force, until we can no longer continue along the path we have taken.
It is not always that we decide to get off through lack of perseverance, or a realization of having misjudged either the path or it's destination, but rather that we are made to change direction: we are forced off that particular path.
There is a path, a direction, and a whole way of being that is right for each of us: - for which we have been made; and we can experience much of our search for that right course as being pushed aside into what feels like failure. It feels like failure because we have not yet found it; we have taken another wrong turn, and if the direction had been one into which we had been led by others, the unavoidable sense of having let them down can turn our supposed failure into an even deeper distress. But this is where we are called to believe in ourselves, and to believe in the worth of whatever burns deep within us. This is the gift with which we have been blessed, and recognition of it reveals the light that will guide each of us into the fulfilment of our potential.
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Unknown

Solitude should not be equated with loneliness. Loneliness should not be equated with being alone.
The feeling of being lonely may frequently accompany the experience of being alone, but the two should never be regarded as being one and the same thing; they may be closely connected or even inseparably entwined with each other, but this should be recognized as being the particular circumstance of individual persons, not taken as being the norm. However rarely it may occur, and however fleeting it may be, a feeling of loneliness is part of most people’s life experience, but here again we have something that is too easily mistaken for something that it is not. Our occasional feeling of being lonely must never be equated with the chronic loneliness experienced by many others. It can never give us an awareness of the loneliness lived by people we never see – those who hide away from us – or of those we do see but who hide their loneliness from us; it can never give us the ability to open our eyes to see those whose paths we cross every day: the seemingly gregarious person at work, or the lost, depressed, or dispossessed persons we pass in our well frequented streets.
For many of us our short-lived feelings of loneliness are merely a form of boredom: a gap in the constant movement and buzz of our lives for which we are not prepared, primarily due to our failure to create such gaps for ourselves. We are out of practice; we do not do it any more; we do not recognize any reason for doing it; it is no longer part of our lives and it has simply faded away. When we suddenly find ourselves in such a gap, we hurriedly search for something to fill it, and whatever activity or venue may be involved is only the means to the one important end: some form of contact and communication with other people.

Thinking and writing the above has raised a mildly discomforting feeling within me: a feeling which reminds me again that we are truly astonishing creations, with a potential to become sources of comfort, compassion and consolation for others – beacons of light in the dimly lit corners of this world.
I am in no position to disagree with René Voillaume’s assertion (previous post) that human friendship ‘is probably indispensable for human perfection’, but I do not regard it as being essential for happiness. Having good friends undoubtedly contributes greatly to one’s feelings of being appreciated, valued, cared for and needed; it helps to keep us cheerful and stimulated, and engenders a feeling of being happy. But this feeling conjures up one of life’s many illusions. It is so easy to believe that feeling happy equates to real happiness, but happiness is not merely a feeling, it is a state of mind: a way of being.

The aim of our spiritual life is often thought of as being perfection. Perfection is what we strive for, and, though we are well on our way when first becoming aware of the fact, it is what we hope to achieve when we first set out on our journey. But what leads us toward that goal is nestled between the two: between our stepping out in faith and our approaching perfection. The aim of our spiritual life is friendship with God. We move toward perfection through our relationship with Him. We gradually become more perfect through being close to Him. This closeness, through the awakened consciousness of both His love for us and our growing love for Him, is experienced as a meaningful friendship with Jesus leading to an ever-closer imitation of Him, not just in our outward actions but in our thoughts, our predispositions, our whole way of being. It is also experienced as an increased belief in the presence of the Holy Spirit, and an orientation towards that Presence as Teacher, Comforter and Guide in our world, as well as the conveyor of God’s love to us. ‘... the love of God has been poured into our hearts by the Holy Spirit which has been given to us.’ (Romans 5:5)
It is that love which leads us to unlock doors for others, and to play a part in releasing them from the constraints of whatever form of bondage their lives have led them into: to ‘set captives free’. In so doing, and in imitation of our Lord and friend, we are called to bring His healing touch to those held and bound within their prison cells of unremitting loneliness.

“The spirit of the Lord is on me, for he has anointed me to bring the good news to the afflicted. He has sent me to proclaim liberty to captives, sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free ...” (Luke 4:18)

With Jesus as our model and our companion, we can more accurately judge our relationships with others. We may not find it easier as we find it easy enough already: we are far too quick to judge others. To begin with the opposite may be true; the most noticeable difference may be that we find it more difficult to make our judgments because, perhaps for the first time in our lives, we realize that we do not really know who anybody is. And, in parallel with that realization may come another: - that we are not sure who we ourselves are.
Much of what we show to the rest of the world, even to our friends, bears little resemblance to the person we may have spent years keeping buried within our outer shell. For the most part this will not have been based on conscious decisions but on subtle influences, good and bad, real and imagined, inevitably woven into a lifetime of contact and interaction with other people; and such influence applies regardless of the length of our lifetime. A nine year old boy has experienced nine years of these influences, just as his ninety year old grandmother has experienced ninety. The cumulative weight and effects of the experiences and influences are nowhere near the same; the one, as yet, has found little reason to be anything other than who he seems to be, while the other, having been through all that life shows, offers, gives, takes away, and then hides, has reached a point where she knows there is nothing to be gained, and much to be lost, by being anything other than who she is. Outwardly, there appears to be little difference between the two persons in their ways of facing the world and the people they meet, but in this, as in our own knowing of ourselves and others at different stages of our spiritual journey, the actual difference is great.

People struggle to see the truth behind our own revealed image, just as we have difficulty seeing beyond the images revealed by them. In Newman’s words, ‘we make clean the outside of things’, and we maintain our selves’ anonymity as best we can.
We can befriend our anonymity in such a way that it becomes a substitute for friendship: it can even become our friend. An already existing prison of loneliness can shrivel still further into a self-constructed dungeon when someone befriends and defends their anonymity in this way. They are no longer unnoticed only, but through their interior hiding from the world, and through a longing that has been perverted to a desire to remain aloof and unseen, they have, to all intents and purposes, become unseen. They have become entombed in what they think they desire: they are unknown, and unseeable.

Here is where we may experience one of the many calls on our potential as followers and companions of Christ. We are needed to follow not only the actions, but the thinking and the feeling of our Lord. It is this calling that raised the mildly discomforting feeling within me when starting to write: a nervous feeling that, in being called “to proclaim liberty to captives, sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free”, we are also being called by Christ from within those entombed in their own loneliness.
He calls us to raise them from their place of death; to lead them into the freedom of life with Him, where they may hear God’s words spoken directly to them: -

‘Yes, I know what plans I have in mind for you, the Lord declares,
plans for peace, not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.’
(Jeremiah 29:11)

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Never alone

Allowing thoughts to dwell on our friendships is a natural part of belonging to a particular place at a particular time. It is a normal response to our experience of being part of a community of people whose lives are based within that same time and place. Even people who spend much of their time alone have a need for contact with others, however rarely it is felt as a need, and in many cases their solitude may be bearable only because they have the sustaining knowledge of long-lasting friendships.
René Voillaume, who, in 1933, led of a small group of seminarians from Paris to make their base at the edge of the Sahara, and who called themselves the Little Brothers of Solitude, wrote: 'Friendship is something so great and splendid that it is probably indispensable for human perfection. I find it hard to believe that a man without friends can be perfect; at any rate, I am sure he will be profoundly unhappy. Without a friend a man is imprisoned within himself.' (Brothers of Men.)
Unlike Charles de Foucauld, whose life and death in the Sahara was the inspiration for the group, René was accompanied by friends. His words may well have been born of the sense of loss found in merely imagining their absence in such an inhospitable place, and, beyond that, glimpsing for a moment the utter loneliness of such a life without any friend at all, anywhere.

If a man without a friend is indeed imprisoned within himself, it is because it is only with a true friend that he can share the truth about himself, the reality of his experience of this life, and his hopes and fears about what has yet to come. But however indispensable friends may be to some of us, the belief that we cannot survive without them is at the same time an admission of the weakness of our faith.
Solitude is not a prison, and should not be a source of fear; it is a freedom, and our movement towards perfection is enabled far more in that freedom than by human companionship and encouragement. The value of time spent alone is inseparable from the building of relationships within the community; everything communal is based on what men and women have already received as individuals, and the most valuable knowledge and presence we can bring to the communal table is fruit of our own discovery of who we really are. Our real self is what the community needs, and is what the world is waiting for.
However great the contribution of others may be in our journey toward self discovery, the discovery itself, and the realization of what we find and learn, takes place within the mind and heart of the person who rises into life in our time spent alone. We may mature and blossom within a community, bearing fruit in the presence of others, but the seed will have been germinated in isolation, and nurtured in our times of solitude. And once we have been brought to fruition among people, we may find ourselves longing to leave them behind again, until, refreshed and newly empowered, we are called back to take our place among them once more. Jesus’ own life repeatedly demonstrates this pattern to us.

It is our awareness, not of our long-lasting human friendships, but of the everlasting friendship of God through the companionship of Jesus and the presence of the Holy Spirit that sustains us in our solitude.
Thomas Merton, a Trappist monk who found himself increasingly called into time spent alone, instructs us – ‘Do not flee to solitude from community. Find God first in the community, then he will lead you to solitude.’ (Thoughts in Solitude.)
The shape of my journey is not accurately described by those words, but something within me recognizes them as being applicable to my own experience. Much of the first forty years of my life were spent in a form of solitude. I am who I am, and have not only learned a great deal about who I am, but have learned to value the person I have found within. An awareness of the presence of God and of our value in His eyes, cannot help but lead to our valuing ourselves, and in that one altered way of seeing the worth of our lives lies the key to our transformation from loneliness to fruitful solitude.

It is loneliness, not solitude, that is the prison. Many of us have experienced solitude as a form of heaven, and far too many know loneliness as a form of hell, especially when in the midst of crowds who neither see nor hear them. Heavenly solitude is filled with awareness of the presence of God, and needs no other. Hellish loneliness may be filled with the presence of people but is completely devoid of any consciousness of God’s presence: awareness of His and Her love, comfort, forgiveness, strength, friendship, companionship, acceptance, guidance – whatever we most desperately need – eludes us. God is no closer in the one than in the other: the Spirit of God is abroad throughout the world, present to every one of us. It is not the Presence which varies, and nor does it avoid or exclude anyone; the difference – and what a profound difference it is – is between one person’s awareness and another’s lack of it.

Our needs may point us towards a potential reliance on God; that potential may lead us to faith in His existence; and faith will open doors as yet unseen, yielding the awareness that ‘Bidden or not bidden, God is present.’ (Desiderius Erasmus).

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Called to care

We make many assumptions about other people's lives and their living of them, based on our own apparently similar experiences; but our experiences are not the same. Even a shared experience will be lived differently by those who share it, not only as it happens, but also in recollection and in its effects. The individuality of the essential truth within any experience, as well as the equally individual psychological, emotional, and physical experiences deriving from it, places our personal reality – whether accurately perceived or not – even further from the grasp and understanding of others than is the outer reality of the experience itself.

I recently came across a quotation I had written out years ago in one of my books of such things. For some years I have kept a written record of passages that registered with me in some way when reading; the underlying reason being that the experience of reading them touched me in some way that spoke of their potential for further thought. I have no doubt that other readers, if similarly inclined, would produce entirely different collections of quotes from the same books. We would, as it were, each find different fruit in the experience of the same tree. Everything discovered would be part of the tree, and we could each point to the words we had found, though our registering and interpreting of them may not speak to others as it does to ourselves.
If we spent time dwelling on this “food for thought” we would no doubt discard some items, perhaps many, but from others we may manage to tease out the meaningful heart of what had touched us in those words, and then, perhaps, we would be able to convey the fruit of our thinking to others. The fruit we had found would have fed us, and, bit by bit, such feeding, along with all the other small touches we experience, would bring about the beginnings of an overflowing: a gentle and unstoppable pouring, through our own giftedness, of God’s love into the world. This is all part of the individuality of the essential truth within any experience. We must hope to make sense of what seems to speak to us, not only for ourselves but for the potential benefit of those whose paths we cross. In my own way, this is what I attempt to do here: to unravel the threads of my ongoing soliloquy that I may better understand my own inner self, and through that better understanding, find and offer something that may in its turn speak to another.

The author of the recently reread quotation had apparently gathered bits and pieces which touched him in a particular way: in a way very similar to my own recording of whatever words spoke to me. He had eventually used them to form the basis of a book which brought them into a form which could be passed on to others. The gathering and keeping; the sorting and re-writing; the wish to pass on the heart and soul of something felt to be of importance; this all seems so familiar to me.
And the subject matter, drawing me as it does with its echoes of highlands and islands –primarily of Scotland, but by association within my memory and longing, also of Ireland – only serves to strengthen the feeling that the indefinable up-welling of emotion accompanying my thoughts of such places is something very real, very important in my life, and worth passing on to others.
The author’s harvesting of words also says something similar about my faith and my journey, the reassurance coming from a realization that there are others who experience the same feelings that are so important to me. It is simply through awareness of the existence of such persons that I find I am not alone in my solitude, nor lost in the losing of myself to the power of love and life. The author is one of these others, and he has not allowed fear, self-doubt, or timidity, to keep him from achieving his aim.
At the end of his introduction, he writes: -
'What I have done in this book is a very simple thing. I have taken the little ships of tradition and custom and legend and history, and I have towed them into port. For years, forlornly and apart, they have floated among my note-books, or drifted past the treacherous shoals of memory. Now they have come to the anchorage of the printed word.' (Alistair Maclean. Hebridean Altars.)
He also writes, 'Whoever brings a gentle mind to what is written here, may He bless, who loves us all, and, as they read, may each catch a vision of The One Face.'

The considerable and constant pull exerted on my mind and heart by these places is a form of meaningful friendship. Regardless of the length of time between my visits, we are inseparable; and though there is an ongoing relationship, it is of course one-sided, and could never be regarded as anything but an unrequited love. And yet, the land itself continues to call me in its own indefinable way, as though local and individual histories from such times as the Highland Clearances, and the Irish Famines, are still reaching out to those who are able to hear their whispers. It seems that the comparatively small part of my blood belonging to these lands, insists that I acknowledge its capacity for fighting well above its weight. Part of the ‘fight’ to which I am called by these ancestral links is the remembrance of those long gone, whose fearful voices still cry out with a longing not to be forgotten - a longing within themselves that someone, somewhere, should always remember them, and a longing cry that can never be forgotten by the one who experiences it.
In some way I am linked to them; they know me as their friend.

In a sermon on The Incarnation, Ronald Knox said, 'It would be a poor doctor who should never call again when his patient had passed the crisis; it is a poor friend who loses interest before he ceases to be of use.' (The Pastoral Sermons.)
Surely, it is a poor friend who loses interest whether or not he is of use. Friendship is not a using of one person by another; it is an uninhibited two way sharing of strengths and weaknesses, which is not barred from any particular aspect or corner of people's lives. It is complete, and it is ever-present, with or without the physical presence of the friend. It is being companions; spending time together, or surviving long absences through having previously spent time in each other’s company; it is sharing the highs and lows, the wonders and the ordinariness of life. A real friend is felt as a companion even when not present, as the reality of the relationship brings a trust, and a knowledge of the permanence of the other's care.
It is in the knowledge that there is someone who will always care, that strength and peace may be found.
In our human friendships, in our remembering of those who have journeyed before us, and even in a consciousness of past desperations and needs in the landscapes to which we are drawn, we each have the ability to bring a constant caring to those who may have no other friend to bring it to them.
However little we really understand each other’s experiences and the emotions aroused by them, there are common threads that run through them all. Above and beneath all degrees of sickness and health, poverty and wealth, exhaustion and strength, ignominy and honour, is the common theme of our humanity. In so many men and women, recognition of the evils and injustices in our world is buried so deep that they are unable even to know that we are all equal, as members of the human race, and in the eyes of God. And, above and beneath that truth, and even less known, is the Spirit of God constantly breathing into the lives of every one of us.

The strength and peace we bring is not our own; the caring is not entirely our own.
What we bring is the compassion of Jesus, and the wonder that is the Holy Spirit.
In spending time with others, we bring them to a meeting: the meeting of Christ in us with Christ in them; and in all such meetings, let us hope that we ‘may each catch a vision of The One Face.'
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A new day

‘To you I pray, Lord.
At daybreak you hear my voice;
at daybreak I lay my case before you
and fix my eyes on you.’
(Psalm 5:3)
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The new day dawns; misty, with a gradually increasing hint of blue in the draining greyness of the sky. No breath of wind: no wind, no breeze, no breath. Not a single leaf stirs.
The gap between trees, where the slope of North Hill props up the southern end of the sky, is a uniform pale grey; the hills have yet to be born into my day.
A brightening: mist bleaching from grey to white; unfocussed shafts of light as the sun begins taking command of the scene, and draws the autumnal quilt from this corner of the Earth – the green acre in which my family has made a home.
And now, in that wedge of distance, from within the thinning mist, a diagonal line appears; and in the darkening of the space beneath, a reassurance that the world is as it had been the previous day: the rebirth of granite hills into my certainties.

At the centre of my view, amid the first gentle stirrings of leaves on the nearest Ash tree as the Spirit of God moves through the garden, a deeper waving of a high Beech branch seems to beckon me: ‘come, up, out, and into the world’. A Collared Dove has alighted at the branch’s tip, and as its perch settles into stillness once more, the Dove’s swaying body rejoins the unwavering steadiness of its head.
It remains for a while, appearing to return my gaze through the window, until, setting the branch into a repeat of its gentle beckoning, it flies toward me, up and over the house.
God’s touch continues to shimmer among the leaves, and the Spirit stirs once more within me.

Not only the few minutes it has seemed: the clock shows evidence of another time, another place, another life.
Not just a brief appreciation of a beautiful morning: an hour and a half has come, settled, and flown into the awakening day.
The book I had been about to open still lies untouched beside me, and I am returned, awake, from time spent in the peace and the presence of God. – I know what I shall write today.

‘My heart is ready, God,
I will sing and make music;
come, my glory!
Awake, lyre and harp,
I will awake the Dawn!’
(Psalm 108:1-2)
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One to one (5)

'Whoever fears the Lord makes true friends,
for as a person is, so is his friend too.’
(Ecclesiasticus 6:17)

Physical presence is of the utmost importance in a meaningful friendship. In a crisis, a real friend’s presence is the most effective support of all; it outweighs any words that may be said. That presence may include small but significant touches of love such as making a drink, draping a shawl around shoulders, answering the door ...; it may even involve a leaving of one’s needy friend for a period once one’s presence has been felt, perhaps to travel a great distance for them, to meet with someone, or to bring someone back; to deliver or collect something of vital importance to them; a literal going of the extra mile for them. The task may be of such importance for them that, paradoxically, such an absence would be experienced by them as a continuation of one’s presence.
Love may be proved by our actions, by deeds, but there are times when we are called to quell all thoughts of doing things: to prove the depth and dependability of our friendship by simply being there; feeling, loving, watching and waiting. Waiting until the time to listen; listening until the time to speak.

‘They sat there on the ground beside him for seven days and seven nights. To Job they spoke never a word, for they saw how much he was suffering. In the end it was Job who broke the silence...’ (Job 2:13–3:1)

Just as a friend’s physical presence may be experienced as continuing when they have left to undertake some vital deed, so, in a similar way, a much needed friend’s presence may be experienced as having already begun as soon as news is received that they are on their way. In both cases, the presence essential to the creation and deepening of the already mature and meaningful relationship is in the past. The chain holding the friendship together was forged in earlier times spent face to face, and its final links closed by mutual experience and a shared hope.

I have witnessed both types of such meaningful and supportive absences.
The first, a dying lady’s relief and contentment resulting from the arrival of one particular person, who, though out of the house more than in it, and far more than actually at the lady’s bedside, was present to her throughout the night and day, even when absent for several hours. She had known, without any doubt, that once her friend had come to her, any absences were to achieve the essential outcomes required for her own wellbeing and peace of mind. She had complete faith in her friend. And it did not occur to the friend that she could have done things in any other way: at the time, she felt that she existed only to be there and to do the things that had to be done.
The second, involved another dying lady and a member of my own family. As a mother in the middle of Christmas celebrations with her young children and husband, with no wish to be anywhere else and knowing that this was where she was meant to be, she received news that a much loved aunt and friend, Mai, in the west of Ireland was dying and asking for her constantly: -

“Where is she?”... “Is she coming?” ... “Is she here yet?” ... “Is that you ...?” She was becoming increasingly distressed because the one person she needed was not there.
After agonizing over the situation and the seemingly impossible decision she was called upon to make, the young mother travelled from Worcestershire to Ireland to be with Mai. On arrival, she found she was too late – at least, that was how it felt.

As soon as Mai had heard the news that the one person who mattered was on her way, she relaxed, rested, and was content. She died shortly before the longed for arrival. To Mai, hearing what amounted to “I’m coming”, had been an immediate knowledge that she was already there.
Mai’s distress appeared to have been due to her increasing difficulty in maintaining her ability to live: maintaining her refusal to die before the arrival of the one person whose presence would make all things well.

In thinking of these two friendships, and those two deaths, something speaks to me of the continuation of friendship and love, not only during absences through life, but into and beyond the longest absence of all: the one that follows a death and which continues until we are returned to each other’s company through our own passing.
I cannot help but hear again those words from Julian of Norwich’s ‘Revelations of Divine Love’: “… all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”
The anticipated arrival, as well as the actual presence of a friend, can speak those words to us. Once we have overcome our grief, the absence of a friend through death can also breathe with an awareness of their continued presence. The above words were spoken to Julian by Jesus, and, through hearing or otherwise experiencing them through a meaningful friendship, we too are being reassured by Him. He is present with us as our Friend, speaking to us through a relationship that is truly meaningful because He is present within it.

The two words, ‘friendship’ and ‘meaningful’, mean different things to different people. For some, almost every person they meet more than once is regarded as a friend, and they may bathe in the knowledge that they have hundreds of “friends” on Facebook or some similar social networking internet site. With the mindset of some others, those same people would regard almost every one of those “friends” merely as acquaintances, and their few friends may not include any they would regard as being particularly close. Whoever we are, and whatever our interpretation of those words, it is only when a friendship includes the integrity of mind, body and spirit, that it becomes both humanly and spiritually meaningful, and develops its own invitations. It places us at the heart of an invitation to unite with and in the presence of Jesus, and it invites the Holy Spirit to come deeper into our friendship and into the rest of our lives.
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One to one (4)

In today’s world it is difficult to believe that worthwhile meetings can only occur when people are physically present to each other. The telephone seems to provide ample evidence to the contrary. It has existed long enough for us to almost forget that there was a time when it was not even dreamed of. It had to be invented before we were able to speak to people as though they were in the same room with us, when they were many miles away, even on the other side of the world. We take it for granted that we can remain “in touch” with others when they are far beyond, not only touching distance, but the natural range of seeing and hearing.
The mobile phone allows us to reach and be reached almost anywhere, and we no longer need the telephone at all when we have access to a computer; and with the lines becoming more blurred all the time, I am no longer sure that a separate computer is needed when we have one of today’s ‘mobiles’. With Skype, for example, we can speak to anyone, anytime, almost anywhere in the world, and for as long as we may wish, without concerns about time and cost restricting the natural flow of words, feeling and emotion. And seeing the person to whom we are speaking removes the most obvious difference between this way of communicating and real physical contact. When cameras allow us to see each other while we converse, we are better able to assess and understand the feelings behind the words we hear, and it is more difficult to hide our own true feelings behind the words we use.
We could say that such live video communication does bring people face to face in all but living physical reality, and it is much easier to regard this as providing a means of meaningful contact, than it is to ask ourselves what more there could be. It is a question of degree. How real does our contact have to be before we regard it as being meaningful?

To meet face to face, to stand facing; to be opposite to. This is one of the meanings of the word ‘confront’, though it generally hints at something less relaxed, with elements of disagreement and friction – to face in defiance or hostility; to present a bold front to, to stand against, to oppose – and it leads into confrontation, with the possibility of third party involvement: the bringing of persons face to face for accusation and defence, for questioning and for discovering the truth.

Our usual thoughts on one-to-one relationships naturally fall into the areas of friendship, of family ties, of pleasure or displeasure in the interactions at work or with our neighbours; affection, concern, jealousy, frustration, annoyance and anger towards parents, children, siblings, or lovers. And, in one form or another, for one reason or another, fear is always in the mix somewhere.
In the context of our spiritual lives, the thoughts tend to focus on our fear of becoming better known; our reluctance to face the embarrassment of admitting that we are less than the person whose image we strive to portray and maintain. Our temptations, our unholy thoughts, our un-diminishing weakness in particular areas of life, and our failures and mistakes, are all carried with some degree of disregard and lightness in our daily lives, but weigh heavily in our conscience when we think to be more honest about ourselves.
A greater degree of closeness in a spiritual friendship moves our focus beyond these troubles to an appreciation of what a true friend can be. It allows us to discover the beginnings of an understanding of what the word ‘meaningful’ can mean in our relationships, and it draws us closer to a way of seeing ourselves and others in a more forgiving, reconciling, and supportive way: a way that more easily attunes us to the presence of the Holy Spirit in our lives and in the lives of others, and makes Jesus’ way of seeing us and our world so much easier to understand and to follow.

Our relationships are not meant to provide company and no more; they should not consist of agreement and praise in all things, nor should they be nothing more than mutual confessions of failure and perceived inadequacy; they should not make us life-members of a club for serial-penitents and those who have grown comfortable with their routine of recurring faults. They should bring us into the light, and once we are there they should make that light undeniable for us.
There is good and bad in each of us, and while the bad can so easily go unnoticed in a life without any thought of who we are and why we are here, a spiritual life brings us to a recognition of at least some of our poor qualities. This is necessary, and it is good, but it can so easily become the focus on which we constantly dwell rather than a stepping stone into reality. Jesus calls us to that recognition, but in order that we may change and move beyond it, into a discovery of the gifts with which we have been blessed; a discovery of our potential for good in this world, and a realization of the person into whom we can be transformed.

A truly meaningful friendship needs the complete presence of one person to another. Whatever the apparent relationship – master and servant, companions, lovers – friendship is what makes it work in a positive and meaningful way. It needs not only the honesty, trust, acceptance and support, but the touch, the silences, the creation of space: the intimacy and the safety that come only when people are true friends and in each other’s company. We hear this expressed in many ways: – “I know she’s my mum, but she’s my best friend as well.” - “My very best friend has always been my brother.” - “I don’t see him often, but I feel so safe when I do. I can talk to him about anything and he always says the right thing. If that is friendship, then I only have one real friend.”
It is our presence to one another that leads us beyond our regrets and failings to the quest for fulfilment and the joy that it engenders. We may see clearly the good in our friends that they cannot see for themselves, just as we may be blind to what they see so clearly in us.

‘You have to start seeing yourself as your truthful friends see you. ... You look up to everyone in whom you see goodness, beauty and love because you do not see any of these qualities in yourself. As a result, you begin leaning on others without realizing that you have everything you need to stand on your own feet. You cannot force things, however. You cannot make yourself see what others see. ... You have to trust that God will give you the people to keep showing you the truth of who you are.’
(Henri Nouwen. ‘The Inner Voice of Love’.)

I find that a beautiful definition of a real friend:– Someone who keeps showing you the truth of who you are.
There is no more complete way of showing another the truth about themselves than being with them. For a person who is blind, all I have said about seeing people face to face via video conversations has little meaning; they do not see them when they really are in the same room. But when they are there before them, their heightened awareness via the other senses makes them every bit as present as they would be for me. The same applies to any person who, for whatever reason, is unable to experience the world in the way that we mistakenly regard as the only possible way.
Presence is essential. And who, more than anyone else, can show us the truth about who we are? Who is our closest and most reliable friend? It is Jesus: the person who was present as a friend to the adulteress about to be stoned to death. He led her beyond her regret and the mistakes she had made, and showed her the truth of who she was. He was also present to the men who encircled her, and He showed them also the truth about who they were. That they failed to recognize Him as their friend too was part of the story of the Incarnation: part of why Christ came to them, to us, to all mankind.

He is the one who joins us whenever we meet face to face in His name.
It is His presence that makes our own presence to each other so much more than anything I can suggest among these pages.

‘For where two or three meet in my name, I am there among them.’
(Matthew 18:20)
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