Call to prayer, A reflection in Turkey

Call to prayer
slicing through the cold
bended knee
bended heart
contrite
God, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

 Gems of your earth
Shining bling
catch the eye
catch the heart

God, in your mercy, forgive us
our greed
our delight in sparkle



our ability to ignore the consequential poverty
the ravaged earth
the exploited labour
the left-behind children

Bended knee
bended heart
Call for prayer
Call for justice
slicing through the air

God, in your mercy, shower your truth upon us.

Antalya, Turkey
Friday 11 March
Response to hearing the call to prayer at 11:15 am while waiting in our coach after a visit to a gold and gemstone showroom.

Thank God for church!
This might be read by numerous voices, responsively or by a single voice. Remember to pause and focus on firstly each attribute of the Spirit and secondly each specific gratitude. After each refrain, take time to consider specific people, activities, worship words, prayers, songs, sermons, and other aspects of church for which you are grateful.




Spirit of Community         
Thank you for church that brings strangers together...
Spirit of Truth         
Thank you for messages that open my/our ears and minds...
Spirit of Trust
Thank you for familiar words of prayer that provide solid grounding for yet another day...
Spirit of Comfort        
Thank you for the old melodies that reside in the core of my/our being...
Spirit of Eternity
Thank you for the new lyrics set to old tunes that connect my/our today with the yesterday of others...
Spirit of Delight         
Thank you for the questions of children...
Spirit of Generosity
Thank you for the opportunity to share when all week I/we’ve been looking for ways to get more...
Spirit of New Life
Thank you for the challenge to change, to act, to be someone better...
Spirit of Power
Thank you for others with whom to work for justice and peace, so together we can make a difference in our world...
Spirit of Love
Thank you for this community we call Church that defies death and promises companions along this journey of life....

Shared as a Morning Prayer during the iChurch annual on-line festival:
http://windermere.urc.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/01/WO16-Ana-Gobledale-Thursday-Morning-Prayers.pdf

Photos taken at Box Hill Baptist Church, Melbourne, Australia

Where does God live?

God’s abode

Where do you live, God?

Where can I find you abiding?

I find you in moments of awe – breathing in the odor of lavender

I find you in moments of wonder – looking across the icy waters toward the snow-covered hills

I find you in moments of anxiety—lighting the flame of a devotional candle

I find you in  moments of searching– inspired by a preacher’s words

I find you in moments of connectedness  -- walking over worn steps of an abbey

I find you in moments of delight—dancing a reel on a straw-strewn barn floor

I find you in moments of assurance – singing ancient melodies in worship

I find you in moments of seeking--sitting in prayer in the dark recesses of an ancient cathedral

I find you in moments of risk—witnessing for justice at the feet of power

I find you in moments of sorrow—words of memory flowing over me at a funeral

I find you in moments of insecurity—reciting memorized words of ancient prayers …I shall not want

Where do you live, God?

Where can I find you abiding?

Your house is my house. 

Your world is my world. 

Your being abides in me and my being abides in you.

Open my heart to find you everywhere I find myself.

Written while on retreat at the Windermere Centre of the United Reformed Church in Windermere, Cumbria

Musings on Home

"Home is where the heart is." 
Home is where I lay my head at night.
Home is the hotel midway between here and there.
Home is the household where we have been welcomed as missionaries on deputation.
Home is the terrace house on the curve of Crescent Way.
Home is the cabin constant in summers.
Home is my son's flat in Los Angeles where two kitties greet me.
Home is my daughter-in-law's welcome.
Home is my daughter's new flat in Longmont when I will go and visit.
Home is my son-in-law's hug.
Home is where Tod is. 
Home is where the heart is.

My daughter's musings on "home" as she unpacks boxes and settles in to her new flat got me thinking.  How grateful I am for roots that travel and take hold in fresh soil.

My daughter inspires me.  She writes:
"...how big a part of home and home-making trust is: learning to trust others, learning to trust a place, a community and perhaps most importantly practicing day in and day out trust of oneself. The latter is, certainly for me but perhaps for many of us, one of the hardest parts of making home and being at home. And then trusting or having faith (perhaps in others, perhaps in ourselves, perhaps in something greater than us, the divine, perhaps in all of the above) to share ourselves, our strengths and our vulnerabilities with others. Not because we think they will necessarily be loved, accepted or even agreed with but because it is in this authenticity, in this vulnerable being in the world that allows us to grow into and be our best and truest selves."

Respect for speed & simplicity -- remembering my father

I grew up in the seat of a Morgan -- the Roadster, 4x4 and Super 8. My father's second love, after my Mom, was the English Morgan, its speed and simplicity.  And one of my delights was to slump down on the leather passenger seat with him behind the wheel. The  engine would ignite with thunder and the exhaust pipes tremble.  And we'd be off.  It might be merely a trip to the hardware store or an excursion along winding mountain roads, but it was always an adventure.  My long hair would whip across my face adding thrill to the escapade.  

One of my father's hobbies was making car trades and getting a good deal on a second hand British car. Following our annual trips to Vancouver, Canada, we'd often return home with new wheels. We had Triumphs, a Lotus Cortina, Morris Minors, even a Sunbeam--the first British car to win the Grand Prix! (though our Sunbeam was a tiny coupe).   And then there were the Morgans -- green, white, yellow, 2 seaters, a 4 seater,  left-hand and right-hand drive.  

I remember...squeezing into the front  passenger seat with my good friend Kathy for a weekend excursion accompanying my father on a student retreat in the mountains of California.  That was before the days of compulsory seatbelts...were there even seatbelts?!  The sun set, the shadows lengthened and darkness descended upon us, the world, and the Morgan.  The top was up.  The headlamps shot beams out piercing through the trees lining the road -- we sat too low to see the road ahead; even the bonnet was above our view. Out the side window, only inches, it seemed, above the ground, road surface whizzed past and disappeared into a trail of darkness.  Then...the lights on the dashboard cut out! Kathy and I gasped.  Now my dad, unencumbered by dials, could speed through the night.  The simplicity of raw power bursting through the night -- exhilarating to an eleven year old.  How lucky I was to have such a cool Dad!   (43 years later when I mentioned this memory to my father he explained that he turned off the dashboard lights to minimize glare on the windscreen! Funny thing about a Morgan, you can be going the speed limit and feel like you're about to break the sound barrier!)

I remember... heading out with the family (five of us and a dog) for a holiday, loaded to the gills. The food cooler in front of my mother's feet in the long deep space stretching out in front of the passenger seat.  A large military canvas bag bulging with shoes tied to the wing (front fender), and bags piled on a roof luggage rack.  I sat between my two big brothers in the back seat, sunken deep down into the black leather.  Mitty, our dachshund, sat on my lap.  I think the top was down for my long hair flew uncontrolled around my face blocking any view of the surely dramatic California coastline.  Finally realizing my predicament, my father pulled over and we organized a rubber band for my hair.  

I'm thinking of my father this week, and his transition a year ago into eternal simplicity.

I remember...when my brothers and I were teenagers my father brought us to Great Britain for a whirlwind holiday. Two hightlights of the trip for me were a visit to the Methodist Hall standing proudly opposite Westminster Abbey (proud of my Methodist roots) and visiting the Morgan factory in Malvern.  This visit to the factory of his beloved Morgan was, I think, the highlight for my father.  He wanted us to witness the craftmanship, the love, the tradition, the art, the care.

A full page article about the Morgan appeared recently in the Evening Standard.  http://www.standard.co.uk/lifestyle/london-life/capturing-the-morgan-spirit-and-character-10073537.html

I’d seen an Aero Coupe on the street recently, but wasn’t sure what it was, no recognizable logo – quite sleek and James-Bond-looking – beautiful – simplicity at its finest. http://londonmorgan.co.uk

To top off  the Morgan-memory- lane, here’s a video of the factory, still cutting the bonnet with a pair of shears!  I so well remember the factory visit with Al. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4c9i250pc4  Never knew the fenders are called “wings” – so now my story can be that we tied a bag of shoes to one of the wings for our family road trip.  And so we flew through the night with my Dad at the helm!

The treasure of enough

I believe that one of the most important treasures God entrusts to me is the gift of “enough.”   When I was young I wanted more -- a persistent insistent unquenched desire. I expended energy and precious time in the pursuit of  accumulating earthly things.  But then God gave me the treasure of “enough” -- not wanting more, having enough already, contentment.  Not needing to eat too much food, buy too many shoes, accumulate too many gold stars.  All things in… moderation.  The treasure of “enough.” 

Mystery of matrimony - a daughter marries

The mystery of matrimony

"Who brings this woman to be married?"

We do.

To be married

To be coupled

To be knotted, twisted together

Today tomorrow to death

Joining a heritage of still-married

Great grands through alcoholism and a debilitating stroke 

The hospital bed at living room centre

Year after year

Today tomorrow to death

Grands joined at the soul for six decades

Parents still holding hands

Taking dates

Today tomorrow to death
Others broken unfulfilled
But ever hope soars

Today two slide into one

Yet two stand strong

Different Same

New names

Great and grand shes took his

Swirled into the family of him

Closer, the names coupled

Collide

Integrate

Two join making one

Today a new family births

Overlapping with previous identities

Two souls unite in name in love

Joined today tomorrow to death

The mystery of matrimony

Divine Human

A friend to touch

A lover to hold

A comrade to clasp and stride alongside

Today tomorrow to death

Thandiwe & Darryl Dale-Ferguson -- I love you both and wish you days of joy and years of union.

Reflecting on my daughter's recent wedding while gazing at the sunset's illumination of the interior dome of St. Paul's Cathedral and listening to the voices of Rohan Williams and poet, Wendy Cope, swirl through the vastness.

"Ferguson, MO" written and performed by Mandla Gobledale (Ugly Sweaters)

Walking with Death

"Until we meet again; don't know where, don't know when."

Death accompanies us all.  Waiting silently for acceptance.  Not frightening, except for those who fear shadows.  Peaceful.  I'm grateful for those who show me how to transition from the life we know into this unknowable mystery.  So many names and angles of understanding: eternity, resurrection, dust-to-dust, forever, eternal peace, walking with the ancestors.  Death opens the door for so many possibilities.

I love being alive.  Yet, I do not fear death any more than I fear going to sleep at night.  I just don't like the idea of not waking up.  I will miss my husband, my children, the sunshine, the sound of the city moving around me.

Someone once suggested I live each day as if it were my last.  Good advice.  Remembering this not only helps me try to live a decent life today, it keeps me close to death, close to my humanity.  It helps me remember to write that thank you letter to a good friend, so that I don't go without having let her know how much she has meant to me these past 50 years. It helps me show up when it's important, because there may not be a next time.
 
Walking in the valley of the shadow of death -- a peaceful lush valley abounding in magnificence and life. That's where I plan to stroll today.

Thank you for your prayers and thoughts during my father's last days.  We will celebrate his life at a memorial service on Saturday.

Saying good-bye to my Father

With my father in hospice care at home with my Mom, my thoughts turn to what it has meant to be his daughter, what he has meant to me. As he peacefully "transitions," to use his term, even now he is teaching me, modelling dying well.

My father once said to me, "The only thing we can give you is our faith."  Not the words I was hoping for from my parents as a worldly and wayward teenager.  But words that mean everything to me today.  Both my brothers and I have followed in our father's footsteps and taken vows as Christian ministers; two of us are married to ministers, and one grandchild is recently ordained. Maybe my father didn't just paint prophets!  His faith, a living faith, compelled him to protest Apartheid in the 1950's, to march against racism and injustice throughout the 60's, to proclaim the horrors of war in the 1970's, and to stand at the Bellingham Friday vigil every week for the past 20 years.  I learned what faith means as I accompanied him in my stroller and later held his hand on Market Street in San Francisco, as he introduced me to the numerous ministers, all in their clerics and regalia, standing up against the corrupt and corroded powers of cities, states and nations.  I am so grateful today for this inheritance, the faith of my Father. 


SoSo, who is my dad?  The one who rides the bright yellow Triking three-wheeler!  Who stands vigil each Friday for 20 years at the Bellingham Federal Building holding up the placard-of-the-week.  Who loves to wear his fire-engine-red Doctor of Religion robe. Who attends weekly Kiwanis lunches because he believes groups committed to helping young people are essential to a healthy society.  Who gives his teenage daughter a pin declaring, "Question authority."  Who, in the 1950's and 1960's, teaches his children that love transcends colour, ethnicity and nationality. Who is fascinated with warriors of history, serves in the military, then witnesses as a Veteran for Peace. Who loves chocolate malt balls and hot caramel popcorn and A&W root beer floats.  Who loves Morgans, movies and solitaire.  Who loves Turner and Brubeck and bagpipes. The man

who paints oversize oils of scary prophets and writes lengthy verse.  The man who is a good friend, steady and true. That's my Dad.

One can list accomplishments and pedigree to describe my father: Methodist Minister in Illinois, California, and Washington, Doctor of Religion from Chicago Theological Seminary, Provost at Central YMCA Community College in Chicago, United Methodist Missionary to Poland and Fiji.   But he is so much more: a minister committed to justice, a student committed to living out his learning, a Provost committed to opening doors and windows for disadvantaged urban students, a missionary excited to be on an adventure.

But most importantly he is a husband who has remained devoted to his wife of 60 years, a loving father supportive of three offspring who have surely challenged his trust, if not his love, over the years.


Thank you Al for being my father.

Al died on Monday 3 March 2014, peacefully at home surrounded by his family.

Bethlehem Unwrapped and exposed...God, forgive us

Boxing Day in London...Christmas lights garland through the Picaddilly Arcade. Love is in the air!  Our happy conversation and light footsteps are arrested by an unusual sight in the courtyard of St James' Church.  But I am ahead of myself...

Oh Little Town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie...

Christmas Day lies behind us.  Christ is born!  

Our reflections at church on Christmas morning remind us that Jesus of the 21st century is being born into a homeless family, an oppressed family, a poor family.  But let us not forget the families in Bethlehem, behind the wall.  Let us not forget 21st century Bethlehem completely, leaving it to fend for itself, abandoning its children to find a way in this dark world of sin on their own.  We have illuminated our festive celebrations with hope and light and joy; let us not forget turning our backs on their fears, darkness and despair.  

Today walking through London, enjoying the decorated arcades along Piccadilly, "Bethlehem Unwrapped" arrests us, interrupts our light conversation, and captures our attention.  This “ installation” by Justin Butler, Geof Thomspon, Dean Willars and Deborah Burton casts a long shadow over the St James' Church courtyard, usually a bustling marketplace. Stark, towering, imposing, boldly and brazenly interjecting Israel’s Separation Wall into the London landscape.  Mandela's words remind those who pause, "We know too well that our freedom is incomplete without the freedom of the Palestinians."

We pause.  We look.  We read.

We have not seen the Separation Wall in Bethlehem except in photos.  I have seen the Berlin Wall -- I remember visiting Checkpoint Charlie in my youth, wondering what life on the other side would be like, the side where people were not so free as me.  We have seen the wall down the middle of the doctor's office in Melmoth, South Africa, in the time of apartheid, separating the waiting room for Black Zulus with its rough wooden benches and posters of snake bites from the waiting room for Whites with its soft couches and piles of magazines.  We have seen images of the wall being erected by our own people in the USA to keep out those who "threaten us" from the south. 

Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting light; the hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

Why are we so afraid of one another?  Someone has written "Wailing Wall" -- We hear God wailing with sadness behind it.  The spire of St James rises above the planks. Can we look high enough above our walls of separation?  Dare we hope that the one God of all creation can be loved in peace?  Dare we allow others to use the names they prefer, the images of their own creation, the stories of their own histories?     

 

Let us boldly proclaim one God – Elohim, Allah, Jehovah, Emmanuel.  God by any other name is still God, the mystery we can never fully know or understand, the power that has transformed our lives, the One that can turn hate into love and can teach us to channel power for good.  Is this so difficult?

No ear may hear His coming,
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive Him still,
The dear Christ enters in.

O holy Child of Bethlehem,
Descend to us, we pray;
Cast out our sin and enter in,
Be born in us today.

May we remember, in the words of Abraham Lincoln (as written on the wall), "Do I not destroy my enemies when I make them my friends?"

God, empower us to remember the futility of dividing walls and strengthen us to pull them down, using the timber and stones to build bridges.

Hope Renewed...thank you Mandela!

Today I give thanks for the life and accomplishments of Tata Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela, Father of a nation, beloved by the world.

As we listen to the "live" account of his release and first steps into freedom on Sunday 11 February, 1990, we realize we had not joined the world celebrating that morning, for we lived inside South Africa, at Mfanefile, a "black spot" in the hinterlands of today's KwaZulu Natal. News was heavily censored by the government; often large black blocks of ink would remind us of items prohibited to be shared in print; other times the news would just be missing. We relied on family and friends posting us South African news from The New York Times, which we could share in our Zulu-speaking community.

On that global day of joy, we lived in darkness. Our community's hope had been so severely snatched, we had only one more unbelievable rumour to dismiss as we gathered for church. Yes, we had heard President de Klerk had supposedly removed Mandela from Robben Island. Yes, we had heard new rumours that Mandela was to be set free. Yes, we had heard. But none of us believed. Like Doubting Thomas, "until I can thrust my hand into his wounds," until I can see his face. 

And no one knew what Mandela looked like any more, as no image of him had been seen since 6 June 1986, and then it was only a reprint of a 1964 photo printed in The Weekly Mail.  It had been illegal during his imprisonment to publish his photo. So, we wondered, could we even believe any photos the white press cared to release? And in our rural community which received no newspaper deliveries, not even to the local shop, "living proof" would be long in coming.

When a copy of the 11 February newspaper finally arrives at Mfanefile, it makes the rounds to choruses, cheers and dancing. Hope. Hope restored! Hope that one man's first steps into freedom might set the path for the people of the nation to follow, walking together from the darkness into light. Thank you Tata Mandela for leading the way.

Today my prayers are with the people of South Africa, at Mfanefile and throughout the nation. 

(Ah, the wheels of change move slowly; I just typed in Mfanefile, South Africa, to locate this post, and had to resort to the nearby historically white town, Melmoth, as Mfanefile is not recognized as a real place, even though Mfanefile's population is larger, and its history is longer. )

Retreat

Off the grid, out of touch, not available -- a wonderful and important place to be from time to time.  Possible by unplugging and turning off the phones, but something different happens when we go, go to the ends of the earth. I travelled four hours north by train then 20 minutes south by cab, across the causeway during low tide. Some call it a pilgrimage, but just "going" works for me.  And then once arrived, just "being."  Lots of just being.  Rugged up against the cold island winds.  Drawn to the medieval castle rising overhead on the rock mound beside the sea.  Drawn to the glistening tidal beaches, the flocks of birds, the arches of the ruined priory.  Drawn to the ancient liturgy, the holy meal shared as the sunlight washes over each morning landscape.  Drawn back by the priest, her slender frame crooked with age, her voice lilting through the chapel space. Drawn into new friendship -- sharing stories, laughter, being true.  Walks together, noticing the ripples of sand, the smoothness of stone. Retreat -- going, being, and now the returning.  Daily life takes on a slightly different hue.

Parting with a friend -- Death visits

Jeff died.  Two words that hold everything.  Jeff lived.  Ah, two words that hold everything, too.  Jeff breathed and laughed and loved.  Jeff often thought he knew too much, but often did know so much.  Jeff was a good husband, the best kind, the kind that stays, is faithful, and has eyes for no one but the wife he chose 30 some years ago.  Jeff was a good father, the best kind, the kind that models gentleness and courage, that shows his three magnificent sons that yielding the right of way is okay, that sharing a life with your wife is better than expecting her to support only yours.  Jeff was a dynamic teacher, full of passion, full of creative options and alternative ideas, no moss did this rolling stone gather in his classroom.  Clearing out his office we discovered gadgets for measuring the curve of the earth alongside a wooden antelope from Zimbabwe, where we met.  His dreams had been met, yet he had more. Too soon, this death, too soon. His family, his profession, his home, his golf, his squash playing.  All in their proper place.  All relationships well tended and cultivated. "Inspiring" That's the word his students wrote over and over on the tribute sheets taped to his office door.  Inspiring.  Indeed, Jeff, your life has inspired me.  And your friendship has been true. Thank you.