Death is Defeated!

Adhesive tape from the 1960s did what it said. It adhered forever. No wonder it was agony to remove the dressing applied by the school nurse onto a scraped knee: a piece of gauze held in place by that powerful white adhesive tape.

Another aspect of adhesive tape was that you could write on it. And so, half a century later, the adhesive wrapped round the housing for the end pin on my cello, still says my name and address and telephone number as it was when I was a child. I haven’t removed it. I am still that person, still that child. And this is still my cello, an aspect of my identity in some weird and wonderful way.

God has wrapped us in his identity. He has written his name on us, and nothing can remove that identifying mark. He embraces us in his love. From before he created us in our mothers’ wombs, he knew us. He counts the hairs on our heads. He died for us.

I can’t visit my grandchildren in this wretched lock-down, but I am kept going by precious videos and pictures sent regularly by their considerate parents. Every one is viewed more than once, for sure. I just viewed, through tears, a short video of our eldest grandchild singing as she coloured in, ‘I’m gonna sing, in the middle of the storm. Louder and louder, you’re gonna hear my praises roar. Up from the ashes, hope will arise. Death is defeated: the King is alive.’ She is five years old.

God has wrapped each of our grandchildren in his loving arms and put his mark on them. What a comfort in these turbulent times. We can’t visit any of them, but we remain connected in a powerful bond of love.

Death is defeated. The King is alive!

Old Music

The music is yellowed with time. Dog-eared and torn. Old Sellotape perished long ago, leaving a crusty swatch.

Pencilled in fingering, written above the notes by Mr MacKenzie, my cello teacher over fifty years ago. My goodness! Over fifty years ago. I performed this in an annual music festival in high school. I played much better then than I can play now, but still, it is strangely comforting to link with my younger self, with a life that faded long ago.

Then I remember a piece by heart. Tarantella. A speedy dance, full of life and exuberance. I start out robustly, confidently, but after a few minutes I hit a wall. I can’t remember that next bit. I can’t find the music. Maybe tomorrow I’ll remember it.

Because tomorrow I will unpack my old friend, my cello which has been with me since the age of 9, and I will try again.

I didn’t launch straight into Vocalise, though. First I tuned the instrument. Not bad, considering I hadn’t played in a few months. Then I warmed up with some scales, some arpeggios, various bowing styles. Only once I’d warmed up did I attempt the piece of music.

After a time of nostalgic wandering through corridors of half-remembered musical pieces, my fingertips, now un-calloused, began to sting a bit. My bowing arm ached a little. Time to wind up.

So, I let my spirit soar as I played through some of the current praise music, which can be so uplifting. I worshiped with my cello, struggling through a few I didn’t know so well, but ending with King of Kings, Majesty. My heart sang with my cello, praising my God and King.

I am so grateful to my parents for the financial sacrifices they made so that my sister and I could learn to play the violin and cello. I am so grateful to God for giving me a love of music and a slight aptitude in it.

Music is a tonic. It is a balm for the hurting heart and a comfort in times of trouble. It is a joy which brings a smile to my face even now as I think of the unalloyed pleasure it brings. I first encountered Jesus through the heartfelt singing of believers who loved their Lord. There he was in the midst of their praise, and I met him.

May your day be filled with music, lifting you out of fear and frustration, anxiety and sorrow, and filling you with the peace of God which passes all understanding. May you sense his love and joy as you warm up by reminding yourself of who he is, the faithful, everlasting Lord.

And then may your spirit soar in praise and worship.

The Detail

Don took away the broken picket fence that divided vegetable patch from grass and flowers. The acer tree which has grown there for thirty-five years can now be appreciated from my bedroom window, and when I rise each morning, I look out and am astonished at its beauty, particularly at that time of day. The light sits gently, subtly, on the sides of the branches and twigs facing eastwards. It’s not spectacular or breath-taking, and yet I am blessed by the beauty of this detail. Every morning I pause and gaze, and am blessed by this detail.

I always thought the acer was an expensive tree because of its glorious show of reds in the autumn, when the leaves blaze forth before dropping. But now, as I look at its still-bare branches, I appreciate the grace of slender branches as they reach upwards, bending here and there only slightly, twisting occasionally in a sort of arboreal dance. Because we rarely prune, there are many branches, intertwining and resting on one another. I am loving the beauty of the bare branches, and am blessed as I gaze. I am blessed by this detail.

Soon there will be leaves. Leaves which will obscure these exquisite branches, I suppose, but I anticipate that I may appreciate a new revelation of another kind of beauty. I will be blessed by a new detail.

‘I have loved you with an everlasting love,’ God declares to us. That is incredible. That he says it to each one of us individually, wherever we are, whatever our history.

Just as the picket fence obscured my view of the acer tree, so my sin obscures my view of God. I am so grateful that Jesus’ redemption has made me dead to sin, so that as he helps me tear down the picket fence of negative and critical thoughts, of perverse and selfish attitudes and ideas, of fear and doubt, my eyes can more clearly discern the beauty of the Lord. I am blessed by the detail.

At some times, I appreciate the light he shines on me and my circumstances. At other times, I appreciate the stark beauty of his sacrifice and love. Still again at other times, I anticipate that I will appreciate the poignancy of his compassion and the agony of his often unrequited love for the world.

As humanity writhes with the pain of pandemic, the confusion of how to combat the virus and how to keep people safe, the moral dilemmas presented by lock-down, may God help us take down the picket fence of sin so that as we stand in confident hope and assurance of a bright future, increasing numbers of the lost and the frightened can see the reason for our hope, can see who stands with us, and why, in the end, there is no need to fear.

In this world, Jesus said, you will have trouble. But take heart, for I have overcome the world.

May the eyes of all be open to this glorious detail.

Rest

The world is flooding with bad news. The pandemic is throwing up moral dilemmas demanding wisdom and courage in decision-making. What is right? What is wrong? What is reasonable? What is going too far?

I may be willing to risk my own health in order to see family and friends, but what if that risk puts me on a respirator which pressurises the over-worked, traumatised health care workers? Which leads to bereavement and guilt borne by those I love and long to help?

Tossed about in this pandemic storm and washed up on a desert island, I crawl up the beach to you, Jesus, my strength and my life. I don’t know what to do, Lord, but I trust you. I shelter in your loving, everlasting arms, drawing comfort from your presence. You help me regain perspective and clear the clouds of confusion so I can see the bigger picture.

The bigger picture is that whatever is happening in this world right now, the gift of God is everlasting life in Jesus. Everlasting. Everlasting and good, because it is lived in the presence of the God who loves the world so much he sacrificed everything to save it. We have been saved. We can’t see beyond the horizon, but knowing you, Lord, we trust that there is life beyond the horizon.

Everlasting life. No more sorrow; no more tears. I rest in the promises of God.

Better than porridge!

One of my favourite books as a child was about an old woman who had a magic pot that produced porridge. I don’t remember much about the story except that one day the pot went mad for some reason and would not stop. Porridge overflowed from the pot, filled the house, splashed out of the windows and doors and flooded the streets and other houses in the village.

I have just read Romans 5:1-5 in The Message, and it reminded me of this book! (I know I have a weird sort of way of thinking). To paraphrase a paraphrase, the writer is saying that as we shout our praise to God even in times of trouble, the troubles develop passionate patience in us which forges the tempered steel of virtue, ‘keeping us alert for whatever God will do next. In alert expectancy such as this, we’re never left feeling short-changed. Quite the contrary – we can’t round up enough containers to hold everything God generously pours into our lives through the Holy Spirit!’

Wow! I am praying that during these days we can all be like this, alert for whatever God is going to do next as we overflow with the Holy Spirit. May his Spirit overflow through our lives, through our homes and families, out the doors and windows and flood our streets and villages and cities. I am excited to see what God will do next.

He is with us. And he has a plan.

Rain Fire

There are times when it can feel that the things I offer to God become drenched in life’s vagaries. I do things because I feel led by God; I pray in faith for things in response to his direction; yet they sit in a puddle and don’t ignite. It can be discouraging.

Elijah watched as the Baal worshippers worked themselves into a frenzy in order to persuade their god to light their dry fire. Nothing happened. No response from their idol.

Then, instructing that the wood on the altar built to God be saturated in water, Elijah prayed a simple prayer. Lord, light my fire; accept this offering to you. A fire blasted from heaven, igniting and consuming the sacrifice.

There is a lot of worldly junk around just now, trying to quench the fire within us. The more drenching, the more prayer: come on, Lord, light the fire of revival here in this place, here in this nation, here in this world.

Start with me.

Those who trust in the Lord bear fruit even in a season of drought. May we all trust, and see others enjoy the fruit of the Spirit.

The Gift

Gifts. I have been so blessed in life, receiving gifts that were thoughtfully chosen, that required self-sacrifice. I have been blessed, too, in having the means to choose gifts for others.

There is such joy in giving a gift. It is so much fun when you find that gift which is just perfect for someone you love. Often that gift is found when you’re not really looking for it.

I received the gift of the Holy Spirit when I was not expecting it. The Giver knew, though, that I was really looking for it, and was in a position to receive, open, and value it. Even the faith to receive the gift, was a gift. I didn’t – don’t – deserve such a gift.

In The Message paraphrase of the Bible, a couple of verses in Romans are rendered, ‘Abraham entered into what God was doing for him, and that was the turning point. He trusted God to set him right instead of trying to be right on his own.’ ‘…it’s something only God can do’ ‘…Sheer gift.’

Sheer gift, which cost God more than I can even take in. A gift which he was prepared to give, despite the sacrifice. A gift which he was excited to give. A gift which gives him joy to give.

Part of the joy in gift-giving is seeing the surprise and joy in the person receiving it. How heart-breaking for God, to find his priceless gift, the gift of salvation, left on the floor, unopened, unvalued. Not received by so many. And yet, received by every believer, but sometimes taken for granted, forgotten about, unvalued.

I’ve still got the wee bleed spot on my wrist, a poignant reminder of the price of the gift, inspiring a thankful heart, a grateful spirit. I hope it doesn’t go away before I’ve made it a habit to thank Jesus every time I notice my wrist, marked or not.

What a gift. What a Giver.

Circle of Bruising

I notice a small circle of bruise on my wrist, and wonder where that came from. Being on a blood-thinner, it is probably just a broken vessel which has leaked a spot there. Nothing of concern.

As the lock-down continues into the foreseeable future, with ominous comments about it stretching forward for months or even a year, we may notice signs of brokenness in our own lives that we didn’t know were there. This morning I noticed a slight malaise, a vague dissatisfaction as I awoke after a good night’s sleep. No reason for it that I can identify.

This is where our free will comes in. I can choose to go with the malaise. I can blame it on the disruption in relationships because of the lockdown. Missing sons and daughters-in-law and grandchildren. Anxiety for Mom. I can blame it on fear of the future and catching the virus. The brief brush of the forehead to see if I have a temperature. The swallowing to check my throat isn’t sore after all. I can blame it on dissatisfaction with Zoom meetings, which are great and yet a torture at the same time, reminding me of what we have lost through this isolation. Missing hugs. Missing spontaneous laughter.

Instead, I am choosing to be reminded of Jesus’ death on the cross, and I am using the tiny circle of bruising as a touchstone with that. Every time I see it, I am going to say, Thank you, Jesus, for saving me. I choose to chase after a more thankful heart. I choose to renew my mind through Holy Spirit immersion.

I am only human…but I AM human. Filled with the Holy Spirit of God. Saved for eternity with him.

Thank you, Jesus.

Hosanna!

Sitting with my back to the window, I heard a kerfuffle and turned. Two cock pheasants, resplendent in their glorious colourful feathery attire, faced off against one another. Tiny heads bobbed and poked aggressively. Clawed feet stepped to the side, forward and back, as they challenged each other for territory, for power, for position. Wings outstretched, fluttered aggressively, with agitation. It was an Attenborough moment. I could imagine his velvet tones describing this ritual in the natural world and explaining what was really going on.

Nations posture and challenge one another. Politicians and leaders strut and proclaim, seeking to gain, or hold on to, power. We watch and listen, struggling to determine what is truth, what is fake, what is safe, what is reckless. We yearn for someone to explain what is really going on.

Hosanna to the Son of David. Hosanna to the King of Kings. Glory in the highest heavens, for Jesus the Messiah reigns.

How often that old chorus comes to mind and I sing out some of the names of our Saviour. Hosanna. Save, help. If ever the world needed the Saviour, it is now. How much clearer can it be, that we mess up? That we don’t know what to do to fix the messes we make? That we are helpless without God?

Hosanna to the King of Kings. Jesus. Hear our cry for your world, Lord. Thank you that you are the God of hope, and that we can look to you for salvation, for light, for life and truth and grace and peace. Hosanna, Lord. Thank you that you hear us, that you are always with us, and that as you inspire us, so we can help lead this wounded world into a new chapter. Give us vision and strength to imagine and achieve change, to partner with you in enabling mercy and justice to reign. Vision and strength, Lord Jesus. Grace to imagine and pray. Peace to accept our helplessness with humility and to trust in you for everything. Gratitude and hearts full of praise.

Hosanna.

Life Strategy

A curtain of fog hung over the land this morning, obscuring all in its swirling raw dampness. We could not see beyond the nearest point in the fields. Yet the birds were singing; above the cloud, the sun was shining, and before long warm rays broke through and beamed a light down. Gradually, the mist dissipated and the view returned.

Every news report seems to lead with the most recent 24-hour death count, draping a pall of doom over us all. But yesterday on Facebook I saw the smiling faces of dear young people in Illinois, welcoming the birth of their fourth baby with exclamations of joy. An atmosphere of death cannot stifle the power of life. Life, light and love will break through. God is the Lord of Life.

It was a quiet Easter, but a powerful one. Living through the chaos of this pandemic, where nobody has suggested a strategy which guarantees a safe exit from the lock downs, it is comforting to know that God has a strategy. Even at creation, he recognised that a pall of death would threaten us and would require his personal intervention as the Lord of Life.  

Remain in me, Jesus told his friends, and I will remain in you. Nothing can separate us from the Lord of Life. Rooted in Jesus, may we all bear the fruit he is bringing at this time, whatever that may look like.

A Beautiful Morning

The glow of a golden dawn tinged the delicate pink blooms of the flowering cherry tree, giving them a richness and depth. The cherry tree was a gift from a friend thirty-four years ago when my sister died. The colour is a beautiful reminder of the gentle touch of the Father on our deepest griefs; his love doesn’t take away the pain but reminds us that whatever challenges we face, we never walk through them alone.

Sitting in the prayer window, I watch as a pair of geese fly low over the field. In silence. Usually I hear them coming, but this pair were perhaps just enjoying the beauty of the awakening spring morning. Aware of each other’s companionship.

Our precious daughter is on the flight from LA this morning, on her way to London. Tomorrow she should be making her way home to Scotland. Thanks be to God. It’s a beautiful morning.

Peace

I have time to stop and stare, out the kitchen window, watching as the wee birds house-hunt. One, perhaps a blue tit (I’m hopeless at identifying birds), clings to the perch outside the red birdhouse that nestles in the holly bush. His wee head bobs this way and that as he – I assume – checks out the safety of this place. Then he pokes his head into the hole, and disappears for a moment or two.

Meanwhile, at the multi-story pink bird house, a different sort of bird is performing some sort of dance routine on one of the perches. Suddenly a second bird pops out of the hole and flits to the nearby bush. The dancing bird pops over to her but she’s not in the mood, I guess…

My peace I give to you, Jesus said. In the midst of this pandemic, those who, like me, have time to stop and stare and receive the peace of Christ, are privileged beyond belief. How can we complain of anything? It is relatively straightforward for us to receive Jesus’ peace.

My prayer this morning is for the key workers on the front lines, exhausted and emotionally spent, frightened and distanced from their loved ones. I pray that in the midst of their exhaustion they will receive the peace of Jesus, that his peace will overwhelm and comfort and encourage them.

My prayer is also for those who are isolating in small flats, those who are penned in with abusive partners or parents, those who are vulnerable physically and mentally, and for those whose financial security has been ripped away from them. May the peace of Jesus Christ overwhelm them, a peace that the world cannot understand, a peace that makes no sense in the middle of the distress and fear.

May those of us who are so privileged, use our isolation well. May we write encouraging letters, make friendly phone calls, campaign for change and justice, and pray for a vaccine and an effective treatment of Covid-19.

Choose Faith

Down in the hollow beside the path nestle the pale yellow primula. We look for them every year, and they don’t disappoint. Nobody tends them, but they appear annually. Their delicate design brings a smile to our faces as we greet old friends with delight, friends not seen since last year.

Distanced from our friends and family, we wonder when we will greet them again with delight, apart from in a virtual fashion. We don’t know, but we do know that ‘this too shall pass’ and we will, indeed, hug and greet loved ones once more.

Corona virus is an invisible enemy, striking indiscriminately. There is horror arising from the fear of not being able to see it.

We have a choice. We can live in fear of an invisible enemy, or we can live in faith in the God who gave his life to set us free from fear. He, too, is invisible, and yet his presence can be felt through the Holy Spirit he entrusts us to.

Again I make the choice, to live in faith. It is a choice that needs to be made moment-by-moment. It is a choice made easier if I use some of the ‘down time’ we have been given, by drawing nearer to God, and getting to know him better.

There is no fear in love. Perfect love casts out fear.

May you choose faith today. May I choose it too.

Hero of Heroes

I stood on the porch and clapped. Our nearest neighbour is a quarter mile away. My clapping was hollow and unheard. Or was it?

The Butterfly Effect says that when a butterfly flaps her wings in New Mexico, a hurricane happens in China. Or in this case, a miniscule virus infecting someone in China causes a global pandemic.

I clapped to show my gratitude for the thousands of frontline workers who are risking everything moment by moment. I clapped to join the chorus of clapping, bagpiping, bell-ringing, and shouting rising right across the nation as a thank-you to these heroes.  

Then I came in to pray. Whatever this night holds, Jesus is in it with us.

Today we remembered the night when he was betrayed by his friend, and then abandoned by the rest of his friends as the ruling powers took him into custody. Tomorrow we will remember his lonely walk to Calvary, the agony of his crucifixion and the depth of his separation from the Father. True isolation.

He hung there alone. He might have been tempted to think that his sacrifice was a fruitless gesture which wouldn’t make any difference. But if he was tempted, he didn’t yield to it. He hung there hour after hour, and then he died.

With his death, and even more so with his resurrection, he changed the world. I am so grateful that he didn’t think one man dying on a cross wouldn’t make any difference. He knew the truth.

The truth that he is the way, the truth, and the life. He made a way for us because he is the way.

I’ll maybe go back out on the porch, and clap again. For the hero of heroes. The king of kings. Jesus.

New Nest

A pale blue sky is scattered with individual white clouds, like a Monet painting. The flowering cherry tree is full and heavy with blossom. There is no wind this morning, just the lightest of breezes.

We watch a robin fold himself into the birdhouse opposite the kitchen window. The birdhouse nestles amongst a holly bush, planted there by a bird or the wind. He’s out again. Then she emerges and darts off. They are busy arranging their nest for the new life they expect any day.

Walking through this week with Jesus. Walking towards the cross. Death, not life. But Jesus didn’t hesitate to embrace the cross, because of the ‘joy set before him’. His focus was not on the death and struggle but on the life and glory beyond.

He had been busy for three years, preparing the nest for those who would believe and love him.

In these dark days of lock-down and endless news coverage of pestilence and death, when fear of becoming one of the statistics sits heavy on our minds, may we focus instead on the joy set before us. Because Jesus endured the cross, and entered glory after he was powerfully raised from death to life, so we, having endured whatever we are called to bear, can be assured that eternity in his glory awaits.

Jesus has gone ahead to prepare a place for us. His was an eternal perspective. As we share in that perspective, joy overwhelms and peace fills us. There is no room for fear. Only love, deep love and gratitude.

Angel with a Trolley

I emerged from the grocery store unscathed (I think), but couldn’t open the boot of the car. Don, waiting in the car for me, got out. We’re not going anywhere, he said.

The battery had died. On a hybrid car, it’s not quite straightforward, and we stood considering our options. Call the neighbour to come and take us home where we could get our other car and the jump leads, and Don could consult YouTube to locate the hybrid’s battery.

Ah. We hesitated. The neighbour is nearly 80, taking isolation very seriously. He is so helpful; it would not be fair to put him in such a predicament. Who else could we ask for help? Who else could we even approach to speak with, as everyone is keeping their social distance and approaching a stranger in a car park seems akin to an assault?

I had seen Fiona from church inside the store. Just then she emerged, smiling. What can I do to help? she asked, unhesitating. She made room in her boot for our purchases; we got into the back seat and she drove us the three miles home. Then messaged later to see how we got on.

The angel with the shopping trolley, Don called her.

Where do we draw the line in social distancing?

The familiar story told by Jesus, of the man robbed, beaten up and left for dead, comes to mind. Two religious folk kept their distance. They had their reasons, no doubt. There were dangers inherent in helping someone – the muggers might still be around, the religious leaders would need to purify themselves – self-isolate – before carrying on with their agendas. An innkeeper would need money to look after the injured victim. They averted their eyes and kept on the path.

The Samaritan didn’t hesitate. He went to the aid of the injured man, using what he had to dress the wounds, lifting him onto his donkey and paying for his care at a nearby inn.

In the beginning, the word was with God and the word was God. Through him – through Jesus – everything was created. He looked at it and pronounced it good. But then evil muscled in, insinuating himself into humanity, and Jesus saw his creation mugged and robbed and left for dead. And he didn’t hesitate. He stepped in as a vulnerable human being, carrying our load of sins to the cross and thereby paying for our return to spiritual health and everlasting life. His intervention cost him dear. Physical agony. Humiliation. Profound isolation.

Yesterday we marked his triumphant entry into Jerusalem, at the beginning of this short week ending in him hanging on a cross. My Jesus, my saviour. Our Jesus, our saviour. Thank you.

Skips

Our neighbour has just rented a skip. A dumpster in American. He’s using his self-isolation, his wife tells us, to clear the attic. When he asked her if she wanted to keep anything from the attic, she shook her head. ‘If I’ve not missed it for the twenty or thirty years it’s been there, I don’t need it.’

The ramifications of enforced home time are wide. De-cluttering is a good thing. Throwing it all into a skip? I don’t know what he has in his attic, but I hope that if it still has a life in it that would benefit someone else, he will save it for the charity shops when they open again.

It would be nice, I was thinking, if we could rent a skip in which we could throw all our sins, all our memories of things done by or to us which crowd and shadow our thinking and stunt our spiritual growth.

But of course, we don’t need to rent one. Jesus has provided that skip. He invites us to confess our sins – which he forgives and forgets. He invites us to forgive those who have sinned against us. Gone. He hung on the cross to win us the freedom to hang out with him forever.

It’s so hard to really take this in. It’s easy to confess a sin, receive his forgiveness, and then stew in a guilt he doesn’t want us to have. It’s easy to forgive someone else and yet still rehearse the hurt in my head. As I prepare to walk through Holy Week with Jesus in a different way this year, one of my prayers will be to really accept his forgiveness, so that spiritually, I can stretch out into an airy, open space and grow, no longer shaded and cramped by what God has forgiven and forgotten.

Perfect Peace

On my daily walk, I noticed telephone wires swinging alarmingly in the wild winds. I hope they don’t break, or communication through the telephone and internet will be abruptly stopped and isolation will take on a new depth.

Storms in life can put tremendous strains on communications. A pandemic is such a storm for us all. Praying for those in difficult relationships during these times of lock-down.

I turned down the lane where the pine trees moaned and swayed. I watched as the red kite flapped his wings, which looked heavy and cumbersome. He struggled to lift off in the heavy gales, rising and dropping, rising and dropping, flapping harder, flapping harder. Eventually he achieved height.

Up there, high above the earth, he cruised on the currents. He wheeled and spun, turned and rose higher. His wings only twitched occasionally; movement seemed effortless.

Sometimes I come to a time of prayer and it is just hard work. I lift off and then drop away, distracted, anxious maybe, even bored. If I persevere, lifting off, dropping, lifting again, faltering, lifting again, then eventually I find myself in the presence of peace himself. Flapping – blurting out words of petition – has gone and I am left soaring in silence, enveloped in His love.

May we all persevere until we reach that place of perfect peace, resting in Jesus’ love.

United

Having been away so much last year, I’m still trying to clear up the autumn leaves, stacked in the flower beds, as well as twigs and branches and pine cones thrown down by wild winter winds. The twigs come from the larch, the Norwegian elm, the damson, the cherry trees … a rich mixture.

The night before he died, Jesus asked his Father to keep his disciples safe. He had protected them while he was in the world, but as he prepared to leave the world, he wanted the Father’s protection to continue to cover them. Not just for their own sakes, but for the sake of the church, ‘so that they may be one as we are one.’ (John 17:11)

As the winter winds of pandemic rage round the world, I’m praying that all of our roots of faith in Jesus – whatever our tradition, be it larch, elm, damson or cherry – go deep. Deep so that they join in Jesus and we are one, as Jesus and the Father are one. Praying that unity in the church would be a beacon of light in this dark world, that as we work together as we have never worked before (largely digitally!) the world will see Jesus in us.

I know for myself, I don’t want to let go of Jesus like an autumn leaf, nor be swept away from Jesus as the winter’s broken twigs and branches.

Jesus self-isolated on the Cross. He suffered a loneliness we can’t even imagine. But it led to resurrection, new life. As we self-isolate, may we not lose heart but see the joy set before us, the new life as church emerges, perhaps looking different, but united as never before.

May we bring glory to Jesus. Amen.