what does the Spirit do?
what difference does he make?
how do we experience the Spirit?

8pm, St. Mary's Church, Ealing.

What?

Small Chill is this year’s Grace weekend away – a chance to get to know Grace better and chill out

When?

Friday 20 June-Sunday 22 June

Where?

Studland in Dorset – we have booked the event field at Burnbake Campsite (http://www.btinternet.com/~burnbakecampsite/) between Corfe Castle and Studland Village.
There are local B&Bs for non-campers.

How?

Driving from Ealing usually takes two to three hours either driving through Bournemouth and taking the Sandbanks ferry or taking the longer route via Wareham.

Trains run from Waterloo to Wareham every 30 minutes on Fridays and hourly on Sundays back to Waterloo. We can arrange to meet people at Wareham station – 15 minutes drive from Burnbake.

What is there to do?

Chill out ….
Studland beach is a short cycle ride or drive away – a stunning three mile stretch of sand with safe swimming and plenty of space for football, boules, frisbee ….
Corfe Castle and the Steam Railway to Swanage.
Cliff walk to Swanage, with views of Old Harry’s Rocks and the Isle of Wight.
Swanage – a classic seaside town complete with Punch and Judy.
Further afield are Durdle Door and Brownsea Island.

How much will it cost?

£20 per adult for the weekend, including food and limited drink for a BBQ on Saturday night. (This is based on 15 adults joining us for the weekend).
There is no charge for children under 16 except a contribution towards food costs.

If you would like more info contact Richard or Sue through grace.london@btinternet.com. If you are interested in coming a £5 deposit will secure your place. If cost or transport is a concern please come and have a chat.

To celebrate Easter, some of us met for communion and breakfast this morning. As part of the service, we created the following liturgy together;

resurrection turns brokenness into healing and wholeness
resurrection turns war into peace
resurrection turns illness into health
resurrection turns random into meaningful
resurrection turns injustice and suffering into justice and joy
resurrection turns rejection into acceptance
resurrection turns hate and fear into love
resurrection turns incompleteness into completeness.

when jesus comes again people will no longer feel the need to hurt each other
when jesus comes again we won't be constrained by hips and gall stones and colitis and cancer and AIDS
when jesus comes again people will treat each other like god is in everyone
when jesus comes again we will all be alert in the morning
when jesus comes again people will know themselves as they really are, not depressed, but able to change
when jesus comes again people will look up and know god.

According to Radio 4 (and they should know) Good Friday is the most holy day on the Christian church’s calendar.

That got me thinking: what makes any day holy has a lot to do with how much I invest in that day. I know sometimes the sly Spirit of God can take me by surprise when following routine sacraments, but these can just as easily be empty routines as much as close encounters with my Father in heaven.

When I was a teenager – a new Christian – holy week was a busy one for me: Wednesday evening bible study; Maundy Thursday communion; Good Friday morning communion and meditation; Sunday services; and, last but not least, the Easter Monday ramble. I was seen to be investing my time into the right activities and got a lot ‘glory points’ from my peers.

30 years on I spend less hours of the week in church, take communion less often and am seen observing sacraments by fewer of my fellow Christians. That said, I think I invested more of myself when praying while walking the dog on Friday morning than I did throwing back a glass of alcohol free wine at the age of 15.

If I take time out, on any day, in any place, to invest a portion of myself in communing with God, then I think the holiness of that moment, of that place, will suffice for me. Similarly, Holy Communion with friends round a dining room table is of equal value to me than any priest-led sacrament. This is probably due to its immediacy and intimacy.

Don’t get me wrong, organised church worship is precious to me – but it isn’t always there when I need it. Take Holy Saturday for example – this day when Christ’s disciples were in hiding, bemused by the events of the last few days. I can relate to those emotions and investing in a communion with God is as important for me today as it was yesterday or tomorrow.

Perhaps you’d like to join me and light your own metaphorical (or actual) Paschal candle – an expectant vigil in readiness for the celebration of Easter Sunday, stating by faith:

“Christ is risen from the dead;
trampling down death by death;
and upon those in tombs; bestowing life.”

“May the light of Christ, rising in glory,
banish all darkness from our hearts and minds.
The lit candle is now a symbol of Christ,
risen as the light of the world, and come into the midst of the people.”

You can do this when walking the dog, when comforting your child, when washing up. It could be the most holy moment of the weekend.

We first visited Shooting Star Children’s Hospice on Good Friday last year, just after our baby daughter, Lydia, had been diagnosed with a life-limiting condition. Since then, we have stayed on a regular basis for respite care and, one day in the not too distant future, it may be the place where she dies, or at least where we will take her body in between her death and the funeral.

The hospice is an incredible place where the beauty of life and the reality of death exist side by side. Going there always feels both life-giving and daunting, as we watch and wait with our girl, not knowing how many days or weeks or months we may have left with her.

At the hospice, the miracle of life feels tangible. It’s a light and airy building, the colours seem brighter and the joy deeper. Perhaps it’s unsurprising that the preciousness of life is more striking in a context where its fragility is all too real. I am tossed around within this mystery every time I walk down the main corridor. Along this corridor you can find the main rooms of fun: the multi-sensory room with its lights and bubbles and ball pool, the arts and crafts room with all things creative, and the warm-as-a-bath hydrotherapy pool. In the midst of all this is the entrance to the ‘Tranquil Suite’ where families can stay with their children after they’ve died. Every time I walk past this door I wonder how long it will be before we’ll be going in there, how it will feel, what she will look like.

Some days I struggle to walk past this door, I want to go in and wreak havoc in a space which is meant to be tranquil, where the flowers are neatly tended, the cushions nicely plumped and the fine china cups and saucers await to comfort the next grief-stricken family. And I know I am not ready for what is to come.

On other days, I am glad to walk past this door, glad because it reminds me of the preciousness of today, because it puts things into perspective, draws me to slow down, to breathe more deeply, to marvel at living in the middle of this confusing dance between life and death.

So the door feels like a gift, a quiet but vital reminder of the reality of death in the midst of life, there to provoke the whole gamut of emotion which accompanies the journey of grief and from which we run at our peril.

A year on, another Good Friday, and we’re invited to sit again with Mary as she watches and waits through the torment of Jesus’ death and she’s left cradling her dead son in her arms. How did this embrace feels? And who was holding who? Often, when holding Lydia, I have a sense that while it’s me that physically holds her floppy and fitting body, it is really she who holds me, who is the strong one, who is walking on this journey with all the trust and faith which I lack, who wraps me in love and assures me that all will be well, and I aspire to be more like her. I wonder if it will still feel like that one day holding Lydia’s body in the tranquil suite? Today, as we take Jesus’ body down from the cross, and cradle him in our arms, I wonder if we might allow him to hold us, to comfort us, to be for us whatever we need him to be, even just for a moment, to be held....

And you held me – by Janet Morley

and you held me and there were no words
and there was no time and you held me
and there was only wanting and
being held and being filled with wanting
and I was nothing but letting go
and being held
and there were no words and there
needed to be no words
and there was no terror only stillness
and I was wanting nothing and
it was fullness and it was like aching for God
and it was touch and warmth and
darkness and no time and no words and we flowed
and I flowed and I was not empty
and I was given up to the dark and
in the darkness I was not lost
and the wanting was like fullness and I could
hardly hold it and I was held and
you were dark and warm and without time and
without words and you held me

To celebrate Easter morning, we will be sharing breakfast and communion together at 8am on Sunday. You are very welcome to join us; send us an email at the usual address and we'll send you details.