Border Crossings

Icon of Christ Pantocrator  http://www.christianiconography.info/sicily/pantocratorMonreale.html Icon of St Mungo  http://www.stgregoryoc.org/st-kentigern/ Yesterday was the last Sunday in the Western Christian Liturgical Year, known as the Feast of Christ the King by many.   Not a feast that I am readily drawn to, probably a result of too many patriarchal, hierarchical and triumphalistic imperial sermons along with memories of hymns such as “Hail Redeemer, King Divine.” However, it is the feast on which I celebrated my First Communion more than 50 years ago, which I remember with joy.  The feast was originally introduced by Pope Pius XI in 1925 to remind Christians that their allegiance was to their spiritual ruler in heaven as opposed to earthly supremacy, which was claimed by Benito Mussolini at a time of rising fascism in Europe. While there is much gaudy art representing Christ enthroned, frequently the Eastern Icon of Christ Pantocrator, ruler of the univer

As a child one of the expressions my mother would use was “You will be sent to Coventry” meaning that I, or whoever was in her bad books at the time, had committed some misdemeanour worth of banishment.  Well, I went to Coventry for 24 hours and found it to be a delightful town with much to teach me.  I had a day to spare having finished the photography workshop in the Lake District before taking up my Airbnb booking in London.  I considered an extra night in London but not only were the hotel prices exorbitant, but I would have be encumbered by my luggage, needing to lug it across the vast city, as I visited places of interest.  I had also discovered that by breaking my journey or at least buying a split ticket I could save on rail fares.  I so looked at various options and settled on Coventry, finding a hotel close to both the city centre and the railway station.  Coventry has a compact city centre dominated by its cathedral(s), with some quaint medieval streets and a mass of

This past week I have been in the Lake District in far north England participating in a Landscape Photography workshop with LakelandPhotographic Holidays. It started as a wet week!   This area cannot be so lush and green, supporting flocks of sheep and the odd herd of cattle along with a booming tourist industry based on tramping the fells, without at least some rain, but it can be really horrid weatherwise. On Monday having consulted the regional weather forecast we set off in a direction of clearing and clear weather.   What we experienced was constant heavy rain.   At one point the sun broke through the clouds, we parked the cars, jumped out, tripod in in arms, set up on the side of the road and down came the rain.   We moved seeking shelter in a nearby forest, but the rain pounded on the roof of the car as we waited inside, while the windows fogged up.   Eventually we sort refuge in a small, very simple Anglican Church.   For me it was an opportunity to learn some of t

 Harvested Cornfields in Akron Ohio I am wondering if this sabbatical time can, in many respects, be described as a post-harvest time.   The 9 weeks to date have been a time of thanksgiving for the rich harvest that the past 7 plus years has produced.   I have an increased awareness of the gift of the gleanings having seen the harvested cornfields in Akron Ohio.   At the edges and in the corners of the field there remains unharvested crop.   I saw birds feasting on it.   According to Leviticus the gleanings should be left for the poor, strangers, widows and orphans to collect.   I wonder what may have been left, following my exit from both for prison ministry and with the homeless that has continued to nourish.   Whatever it is, it is not mine to reap. I am also wondering if this is a time for threshing.   Traditionally, threshing is performed by beating the grain with a flail on a threshing floor or by having oxen walk in circles upon the grain crushing it on the hard s

I woke this morning with the sudden realisation that I can’t pray.   For the past eight weeks during this sabbatical time I have been unable to pray.   Not in the traditional way of saying prayers.   But I abandoned that notion of prayer many decades ago.   For I no longer believed in a God that pulls puppet strings to bring rain for the farmers and sunshine for the holiday makers, that decides who is killed in a car crash and who will survivie,   Or even a God that sent his son to die for our sins that we may live.   None of that made sense to this feminist scientist of the 1980’s. But I have not even been able to follow my spiritual routine for recent years.   A time of quiet upon waking each morning, gratitude journaling, contemplating scripture , reflecting on the content of daily devotionals, followed by a short period of silent meditation interrupted by the gymnastics of my monkey mind.   A routine practice that has grounded my ensuing day as I ventured out into the bus