A Never-Ending Story: Beginning, Middle and End?

Forrest Church claimed that ”religion is our human response to being alive and having to die”.

We human beings are meaning makers. One way we try to make sense of it all, to find meaning, is through story. Religion at it’s best is about telling stories. Our personal stories and our stories about we as a people.

Our lives are made up of all kinds of stories, that tell us who we are. We connect with one another through the telling of these stories. We all have our stories and we love to hear stories. Stories come in a variety of form too. Poetry is often a kind of story. A good poet will see something and tell us a story through the art of poetry.

Here is wonderful example by Billy Collins, on the art of storytelling through poetry, “Aristotle”.

“Aristotle” by Billy Collins

This is the beginning.
Almost anything can happen.
This is where you find
the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,
the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page.
Think of an egg, the letter A,
a woman ironing on a bare stage
as the heavy curtain rises.
This is the very beginning.
The first-person narrator introduces himself,
tells us about his lineage.
The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings.
Here the climbers are studying a map
or pulling on their long woolen socks.
This is early on, years before the Ark, dawn.
The profile of an animal is being smeared
on the wall of a cave,
and you have not yet learned to crawl.
This is the opening, the gambit,
a pawn moving forward an inch.
This is your first night with her,
your first night without her.
This is the first part
where the wheels begin to turn,
where the elevator begins its ascent,
before the doors lurch apart.

This is the middle.
Things have had time to get complicated,
messy, really. Nothing is simple anymore.
Cities have sprouted up along the rivers
teeming with people at cross-purposes—
a million schemes, a million wild looks.
Disappointment unshoulders his knapsack
here and pitches his ragged tent.
This is the sticky part where the plot congeals,
where the action suddenly reverses
or swerves off in an outrageous direction.
Here the narrator devotes a long paragraph
to why Miriam does not want Edward's child.
Someone hides a letter under a pillow.
Here the aria rises to a pitch,
a song of betrayal, salted with revenge.
And the climbing party is stuck on a ledge
halfway up the mountain.
This is the bridge, the painful modulation.
This is the thick of things.
So much is crowded into the middle—
the guitars of Spain, piles of ripe avocados,
Russian uniforms, noisy parties,
lakeside kisses, arguments heard through a wall—
too much to name, too much to think about.

And this is the end,
the car running out of road,
the river losing its name in an ocean,
the long nose of the photographed horse
touching the white electronic line.
This is the colophon, the last elephant in the parade,
the empty wheelchair,
and pigeons floating down in the evening.
Here the stage is littered with bodies,
the narrator leads the characters to their cells,
and the climbers are in their graves.
t is me hitting the period
and you closing the book.
It is Sylvia Plath in the kitchen
and St. Clement with an anchor around his neck.
This is the final bit
thinning away to nothing.
This is the end, according to Aristotle,
what we have all been waiting for,
what everything comes down to,
the destination we cannot help imagining,
a streak of light in the sky,
a hat on a peg, and outside the cabin, falling leaves.

Way, way before the Jospeh Campbell outlined the eleven stages of the “Heroes Journey” and the wonderful Kurt Vonnegut illustrated the shape of stories, with practical beauty and humour, it was Aristotle who formulated the notion that a story must have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Now of course we clever people who live today would say, well obviously. That said what goes without saying today, had to be said by someone in the first place and then repeated over and over again, just like any good story. The best stories are not heard the once, they are repeated again and again and again.

Phil Cousineau believes that stories save our souls. In “The Oldest Story in the World: A Mosaic of Meditations on the Secret Strength of Stories” he observed that this much he knew:

"Every day we have at least one gut-check moment. Every day we are asked, 'Do you want to hear a story?' A hundred times a day our deeper life awaits our signal that, yes, we are listening. Whether we are camped around a fire on the Comanche Moon trail, sitting in the literary salons of Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas on the Rue des Fleurs in Paris, craning our necks during a Hollywood studio script meeting, cosseting our children by reading out loud to them from the great round of Harry Potter adventures, or trading old baseball stories in the stands with old teammates, we are responding to the blue longing in our restless souls to be carried away by the kind of story that makes life worth living.”

Our lives are made up of stories. This is what we do. We tell and we listen to stories. As the poet Muriel Rukeyser remarked 'The world is made up of stories, not atoms.'

Stories are not fact, they are not history, they are “Mythos”. They reveal a deeper universal “truth” that all people can connect to regardless of time and place. Mythos reveals a deeper “truth” about the human condition and nature of reality. They help us engage in the conversational nature of existence. A story is a deep conversation with life that enables us to connect more deeply to the meaning in life. Even good history is really about the telling of stories, it is not just prosaic fact. History comes alive by the telling of the stories within the events

Stories and story-telling have been distilling wisdom throughout the generations and I have no doubt that this will continue on into eternity. Yes, a good story has a beginning, a middle and end, Aristotle revealed this truth. The absolute truth is that as story ends, it goes on, it begins again. As Limahl sang it’s a “Neverending Story”.

Here is a never-ending story. It is taken from “Concentration and Compassion: More Stories from the World’s Spiritual Traditions” by my friend and retired colleague Rev Bill Darlison. It goes by the title

“The Endless Story”

In the Far East there was a great king called Calapha who had no work to do. Every day, and all day long, he sat on soft cushions and listened to stories. And no matter what the story was about, he never grew tired of hearing it, even though it was very long. “There is only one fault that I find with your story,” he often said: ‘It is too short.’

All the story-tellers in the world were invited to his palace, and some of them told tales that were very long indeed. But the king was always sad when a story was ended.

At last he sent word into every city and town and country place, offering a prize to anyone who should tell him and endless tale. He said, ‘To the man that will tell me a story which shall last forever, I will give Zaidee, my fairest daughter, for his wife; and I will make him my heir, and he shall be king after me.’

But this was not all. He added a very hard condition. “If any man shall try to tell such a story, and then fail, he shall have his head cut off.’

Zaidee was very pretty, and there were many young men in that country who were willing to do anything to win her. But none of them wanted to lose their heads, and so only a few tried for the prize.

One young man invented a story that lasted three months, but at the end of that time, he could think of nothing more. His fate was a warning to others, and it was a long time before another story-teller was so rash as to try the king’s patience.

But one day a stranger from the South came into the palace.
‘Great king,’ he said, ‘is it true that you offer a prize to the man who can tell a story that has no end?’
‘It is true,; said the king.
‘And shall this man have your fairest daughter for his wife, and shall he be your heir?’
‘Yes, if he succeeds,’ said the king. ‘But if he fails, he shall lose his head.’
‘Very well, then,’ said the stranger. ‘I have a pleasant story about locusts which I would like to relate.’
‘Tell it’ said the king. ‘I will listen to you.’
The story teller began his tale. ‘Once upon a time a certain king seized upon all the corn in his country, and stored it away in a strong granary. But a storm of locusts came over the land and saw where the grain had been put. After searching for many days they found on the east side of the granary a crevice that was just large enough for one locust to pass through at a time. So one locust went in and carried away a grain of corn; then another locust went in and carried away a grain of corn; then another locust went in and carried away a grain of corn.’
Day after day, week after week, the man kept on saying, ‘Then another locust went in and carried away a grain of corn.’
A month passed; a year passed. At the end of two years, the king said, ‘How much longer will the locust be going in and carrying away corn?’
‘O king! Said the story-teller, ‘they have as yet cleared only one small corner; and there are millions more grains of corn in the granary.’
‘Stop, Stop!’ cried the king, ‘You will drive me mad. I can listen to it no longer. Take my daughter; be my heir; rule my kingdom. But do not let me hear another word about those horrible locusts!’
And so the strange story-teller married Princess Zaidee, and he lived happily ever after in the land for many years. But his father-in-law, the king, had had enough of the endless stories.

One of my great pleasures is listening to people’s stories. I mentioned last week that I listened to 105 year old man tell his story. It was a beautiful experience as he spoke so eloquently, for 45 minutes, about his 70 years of recovery. He talked about many trials and tribulations as well as loves and joys he had experienced in such a long life. He spoke mainly about love and forgiveness. There seemed not a hint of regret and or pity in his voice. He shone like a light and had the most amazing skin. If you could manufacture what he had as a beauty company you would make a fortune. You cannot though. The feeling I got was of a man still looking forward to whatever story he still had to live. His story will one day end, but not just yet.

I was invited to share my story the other day. Afterwards a young man approached me and said he had heard my story before, even though we had ever met. As he listened to me he said he had heard my story before. Here was three years later a new person to recovery and heard my story from my moth. Apparently what he had heard had stayed with him and eventually prompted him to act. We came together that day and he heard and connected with it. I could have wept, but instead I just simply smiled.

Here is a classic parable from the New Testament on “Love and Forgiveness”, from Luke’s Gospel Chapter 15 vv 11-32

The Parable of the Prodigal and His Brother

11 Then Jesus[a] said, “There was a man who had two sons. 12 The younger of them said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of the wealth that will belong to me.’ So he divided his assets between them. 13 A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and traveled to a distant region, and there he squandered his wealth in dissolute living. 14 When he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that region, and he began to be in need. 15 So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that region, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs. 16 He would gladly have filled his stomach[b] with the pods that the pigs were eating, and no one gave him anything. 17 But when he came to his senses he said, ‘How many of my father’s hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! 18 I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; 19 I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.” ’ 20 So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. 21 Then the son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’[c] 22 But the father said to his slaves, ‘Quickly, bring out a robe—the best one—and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. 23 And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate, 24 for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!’ And they began to celebrate.

25 “Now his elder son was in the field, and as he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing. 26 He called one of the slaves and asked what was going on. 27 He replied, ‘Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf because he has got him back safe and sound.’ 28 Then he became angry and refused to go in. His father came out and began to plead with him. 29 But he answered his father, ‘Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command, yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. 30 But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your assets with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!’ 31 Then the father[d] said to him, ‘Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. 32 But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.’ ”

The great sages like Jesus and the Buddha excelled in storytelling. They knew how to relate to and reach people, that a story could open them up, that it could put flesh on the word. Shaman and elders of other traditions shared this wisdom, as they told their tales around the campfires and gatherings. They drew their listeners to deeper visions of life with imagery and symbolism. The storyteller has always been with us and is with us today. Today everyone is a story teller. On social media we have our stories, they are designed to be shared. Like all classic tales, these stories are an interesting mixture of the good and bad, the negative and the positive, the light and dark.

The old stories were not just entertainment, they were trying to teach something about the nature of humanity and life itself, they had a kind of morality about them, an ethic a meaning,. Some say that today this narrative has almost disappeared.

Post-modernism would claim that today there is no longer one narrative. The French philosopher Jean-Francois Lyotard has defined post-modernism as ‘the death of metanarrative’. He claimed that we no longer have nor need the big stories ‘that tell us who we are, where we come from, and what we are called to do.’

Personally, I am not convinced by this argument as I do see universal qualities in all these tales. Whether it’s the one I hear from friends and family, or the one I see on the big screen, or the one I read in some ancient text. The stories may be told in different ways but they still connect us with one another through time and space. They do more than connect us though, they heal us, they renew us and spur us on to greater things. Regardless of when they were first told and by who they still have the capacity to tell us who we are, where we come from and what we are called to do.

Here's a favourite story from my favourite character, someone I can relate to.

“One afternoon, Nasruddin and his friend were sitting in a cafe, drinking tea and talking about life and love. His friend asked: ‘How come you never married?’

‘Well,’ said Nasruddin, ‘to tell you the truth, I spent my youth looking for the perfect woman. In Cairo I met a beautiful and intelligent woman, but she was unkind. Then in Baghdad, I met a woman who was a wonderful and generous soul, but we had no common interests. One woman after another would seem just right, but there would always be something missing. Then one day, I met her; beautiful, intelligent, generous and kind. We had very much in common. In fact, she was perfect!’

‘So, what happened?’ asked Nasruddin’s friend, ‘Why didn’t you marry her?’

Nasruddin sipped his tea reflectively. ‘Well,’ he replied, ‘it’s really the sad story of my life…. It seemed that she was looking for the perfect man…’ “

I love Nasruddin, the holy fool. You will find characters like him in most cultures. Through humour they reveal deep truths, ones that are too often hidden.

Humour is something that helps us through the great trials of life. Many of the great stories have laughter and humour within them. Sadly humour can be absent in the spiritual life, it ought not to be. There is something lacking in a spirituality that takes itself too seriously. The spiritual life can at times be perceived as an arid and serious world, utterly devoid of humour and lightness. Many of us look at the spiritual, the religious life, as if were a dose of rather distasteful medicine. We may well see the benefits of it, but aren’t sure we would like the way it tastes. We are frightened that it might actually reduce our experience of life. We can easily become too intense and earnest in our approach to spirituality; by doing so we can view laughter as sacrilegious and end up apologising for the freedom that it can breed. We should never apologise for experiencing joy and laughter. The spiritual life needs humour. There is humour in the ancient tales, so surely there is a place for it in our age. There is always room for Divine humour. “Life is too serious to be taken too seriously.”

As we come towards the end of this adventure in story I wonder what your story is. What is the story that speaks to you and of you? Where do you find yourself, what gives you the permission to simply be? What is your favourite story. Here is one of mine:

It comes from "Have a Little Faith" by Mitch Albom.

“A man seeks employment on a farm. He hands his letter of recommendation to his new employer. It reads simply, `He sleeps in a storm.’

The owner is desperate for help, so he hires the man.

Several week pass, and suddenly, in the middle of the night, a powerful storm rips through the valley.
Awakened by the swirling rain and howling wind, the owner leaps out of bed. He calls for his new hired hand, but the man is sleeping soundly.

So he dashes off to the barn. He sees, to his amazement, that the animals are secure with plenty of feed. He runs out to the field. He sees the bales of wheat have been bound and are wrapped in tarpaulins. He races to the silo. The doors are latched, and the grain is dry.

And then he understands.

`He sleeps in a storm.’

My friends, if we tend to the things that are important in life, if we are right with those we love and behave in line with our [beliefs], our lives will not be cursed with the aching throb of unfulfilled business. Our words will always be sincere, our embraces will be tight. We will never wallow in the agony of `I could have, I should have.’ We can sleep in a storm.

And when it’s time, our good-byes will be complete.”

In “Crow and Weasel” Barry Lopez said

“The stories people tell have a way of taking care of them. If stories come to you, care for them. And learn to give them away where they are needed. Sometimes a person needs a story more than food to stay alive. That is why we put these stories in each other’s memory. This is how people care for themselves.”

I will continue to listen to the stories and when they come to me I will nurture them, I will take care of them and I will continue to give them away, we all need them. I ask that you do the same, because by doing so we will better take care of ourselves.

I will continue telling the tale and I will listen as you tell yours. For the story goes on and on. The story is never ending.

So I will leave you with a question to ponder. What is your story? What is the story that speaks to you and of you?

Please find below a video devotion based on the material in this "Blogspot"

Do Not Regret the Road Not Taken

Unitarian college, the students and tutors have a lot to answer for. No, I don’t just mean Peter the ministry student who is currently with us or Janine who was with us in the recent past. I am speaking of something completely different. Three years ago I was invited to attended “Ministry in the Making” as part of the leadership team. Molly accompanied me of course. She worked her magic and they insist that she is always there. She is becoming something akin to “The Guru’s Cat”. I am allowed to accompany her it seems. It has been a great experience for all, but has led to one or two ongoing problems. One of the tutors and some of the students turned Molly into someone who thinks she can take cuddly toys. It has cost me a few quid over the years. When we first went they encouraged her to take one of the toys that are there in the chapel for “Send a Child to Hucklow”. This developed into a habit whenever we went into shops. She no longer does so, but she will pick up anything that is on the streets of Altrincham and bring it home. She shares more than black and white markings with magpies it would seem. Invariably when I take her for a walk she comes home with all sorts. The other day she took a toy octopus that was in the doorway of a charity shop. I had to go back later with a donation, not that anyone would have known. Taking Molly for a walk can be very interesting indeed. She never regrets the path we choose and nor do I. it is never dull.

The other morning, while we were out walking, I received a voice message from a friend who had watched my last YouTube devotion, titled “A Blizzard of Blossom: Beauty Awakens the Soul to Act”. It had moved them greatly. One of the things they shared with me was very pertinent to the lives of themself, Oliver and myself. They spoke of Oliver’s poem and how he had been “taken” to a place of grief”. It was the word “taken” that really spoke to my friend. They themselves had been taken on a quest whilst on retreat. Their spiritual teacher used the word “taken”, in the context of taking your seat in meditation, a willingness to create a spaciousness and to be taken where ever we might need to go. They continued that knowing that they are not in control brings a sense of relief that the journey is about being available to being taken, wherever that may lead.

This all got me thinking about how we are often taken or perhaps take journey’s throughout our lives. To take and or be taken has multiple meanings in our lives. We take a walk, a nap, a drink. We take exams and bus rides. We take our medicines and we take a joke or not. We are taken too in so many different ways. It is the journeys that we take and do not take, or perhaps are taken on or not taken on that got me thinking. My friend talked about being taken on a spiritual journey by simply taking their seat in meditation. This sounds like an act of surrender, but not passively so. It is they who choose to take their seat in meditation. I get a strong sense that they are not regretting going on this journey.

This got me thinking about the journeys we take and do not take throughout our lives. I also wonder how much we choose these journeys and how much we are taken on them. Who knows. I wonder what regret we experience about the journeys we take and do not take. How do we discern the journey we take or get taken on? Does it actually matter? Is it about taking or not taking the right road? Or is it actually about how we take or are taken on our journey? Maybe it is not so much about the path we follow, but the path we make. The mark we make on life. This is beautifully illustrated in following by Antonio Machado from “The Soul Is Here for Its Own Joy” translated by Robert Bly.

You walking, your footprints are
the road, and nothing else;
there is no road, walker,
you make the road by walking.
By walking you make the road,
and when you look backward,
you see the path that you
never will step on again.
Walker, there is no road,
only wind-trails in the sea.

Now of course taking or not taking a road reminds me of one of the best known poems of the 20th century “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost. The poem is often celebrated as being a triumph of personal freedom and autonomy, of taking the most difficult path and this making all the difference. It is often mistakenly called “The Road Less Travelled” named after one of its lines, “and I took the road less travelled by and it’s made all the difference. I noticed Nick reading from “The Road Less Travelled” by M. Scott Peck during “Living the Questions” the other evening. A wonderful book, although its title is referencing a common misunderstanding of the poem.

The truth about the poem is that it is was written for a fellow poet friend of Frost’s called Edward Thomas. Frost it seems was taking (The proverbial) out his friend. He was gently mocking his friend. It seems that Thomas was an indecisive man and when he and Frost were out walking Thomas would always look back at the end of the day and regret which ever path they didn’t follow. He seemed to ruin is own enjoyment. Maybe his was the first example of what people today name “FOMO” (Fear of Missing Out). Frost himself experienced some regret as the poem has been taken so very seriously and yet its intention was one of light hearted humour. Even the final line and sigh were meant to be mocking his friend who would over dramatize his regret of the journey they had taken. What Frost was suggesting is that it didn’t matter which path they took. Frost and his wife when out walking would often toss a coin when meeting such forks in the road. They would follow which ever way the coin suggested. They enjoyed the walk. That was the point.

Anyway here is the poem

“The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

It seems we have been reading this poem wrongly ever since and it has made no real difference.

So perhaps there is a different lesson to learn about the roads we take or are taken on. The paths we tread or choose to follow. Maybe it’s not that important what path we take or don’t take. Maybe what really matters is how we travel and who we travel with. Maybe what matters is to accept the invitation and make the most of what we take and who we meet and opportunities that come our way. What matters the most I suspect is not to live in and by regret for whatever path we do or do not take. We make the road as we walk on, which ever way we turn.

Again to repeat those words by Antonio Machado

You walking, your footprints are
the road, and nothing else;
there is no road, walker,
you make the road by walking.
By walking you make the road,
and when you look backward,
you see the path that you
never will step on again.
Walker, there is no road,
only wind-trails in the sea.

Do not regret the road you have taken, instead take what is offered before you. Keep on taking the next step, even if you have got it wrong a thousand times before. As Rumi wrote:

“Come, come, whoever you are. Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving. It doesn't matter. Ours is not a caravan of despair. come, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times. Come, yet again , come , come.”

Jelaluddin Rumi

I love the line that is sometimes edited out of this verse, “It doesn’t matter, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times.” Who amongst us has not fallen short of what they had hoped to be, who hasn’t broken their vows so many times? Who does not live with regret for the things they have done in life, or failed to have done in life? I know I have. Only Frank Sinatra it seems lived without regret, well along with Edif Piaf and Robbie Williams. We must not though let the regret destroy us and ruin the journey we will continue to take, as it did for Robert Frost’s friend Edwards Thomas.

Regret is an interesting word, it is in itself a lament, from the Old French word ‘regreter”, meaning “one who bewails the dead,” which comes from a Germanic root meaning “to greet.” As Mark Nepo has said of regret “We always face these two phases of regret: to bewail what is dead and gone, and, if we can move through that grief, to greet the chance to do things differently as we move on.”

Nepo notes something of real value here, it is a lesson from grief. Yes, regret is a lament for what has gone, what has died, but if we greet it fully with love we can learn from the past and do things differently in the future. The response to regret is both of life and death. The choice is ours. By the way this is the one choice we have in life. We do not choose what happens to us but we can choose how we respond to what happens to us. This is the one ultimate freedom, that is open to all of us.

To quote Viktor Frankl:

“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of human freedoms - to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.”

So our response to regret is ours. We can either choose life or death. We can close in and shut down or we can create with love.

This freedom cannot be taken from us. We can choose life and continue on, instead of constantly lamenting the path we have taken or the one we haven’t..

There are two interesting examples of responses to regret within the New Testament. They are found within the Easter story, following Jesus’s betrayal. Luke’s (Ch22 vv 60-62) Gospel depicts Peter regretting his betrayal of Jesus. He wept bitterly for his fear based denial and yet how did he respond. Well it was on Peter that the earlier Christian Church was built. For Peter Hope was once again born. Matthew (Ch 27 vv 3-5) depicts a very different response to regret that of Judas Iscariot.

I have regrets about some of roads I have taken, as well as those I have allowed others to take me down too. No doubt I will make many more mistakes later on. I cannot afford to live in such regret. To spend my days agonising over it, as Edward Thomas did. This is oh so life denying. It will stop me building, creating and sharing something as I journey on. We have the freedom to make something of the journey we are on. Even if that is just sharing some wisdom from our own journey.

Last week I had privilege of being invited to listen to a man speak of his powerful journey. It was on Zoom as he was in America. He was 105 years old and he talked so eloquently and beautifully about his 70 years of recovery. He spoke for about 45 minutes. He talked about many trials and tribulations as well as loves and joys he had experienced in such a long life. He spoke mainly about love and forgiveness. There seemed not a hint of regret and or pity in his voice. He shone like a light and had the most amazing skin. If you could manufacture what he had as a beauty company you would make a fortune. You cannot though. He did not seem to regret the path he had taken or the one he had not taken.

So, let’s not sigh about the road we have and have not taken. Let’s not die in regret, let’s instead live in possibility. Let’s journey on in love, begin again in love, even if we have fallen short a thousand times. We need not be paralysed lamenting the past, nor do we need to close the door on it. Let us instead move through the grief of regret and greet the future with its possibility of what might yet be.

Let us keep on making the road, by taking the next step forward and share it with whom ever wishes to journey with us.

Please find below a video devotion based on the material in this "Blogspot"

A Blizzard of Blossom: Beauty Awakens the Soul to Act

I was watching the cherry blossom falling the other day. It was blowing in the wind around the wind telephone, designed to connect the living with those at the other side of the breath of life. There is a message on the telephone quoting Bob Dylan, “the answer is blowing in the wind”. I saw pink snowing blowing so beautifully around the gardens, while Molly was zooming around, sniffing all the new life. It looked so beautiful, it awakened the heart of my mind and got me thinking about the things we see, in our ordinary lives, when we lift up our eyes, our vision, when we live in hope, not expectation or optimism. When we are inspired by beauty. When my eyes are open and my mind isn't trapped in some disappointment from the past, my own or that done by others, or when I am not blinded by some fear of what might or might not be. When the eyes of eyes are awake I feel so alive and I have vision. I see what is so easy to miss.

As I watched it all I was reminded of this lovely poem “Vision” by May Thielgaard Watts

"Vision" by May Thielgaard Watts

To-day there have been lovely things
I never saw before;
Sunlight through a jar of marmalade;
A blue gate;
A rainbow
In soapsuds on dishwater;
Candlelight on butter;
The crinkled smile of a little girl
Who had new shoes with tassels;
A chickadee on a thorn-apple;
Empurpled mud under a willow,
Where white geese slept;
White ruffled curtains sifting moonlight
On the scrubbed kitchen floor;
The under side of a white-oak leaf;
Ruts in the road at sunset;
An egg yolk in a blue bowl.
My love kissed my eyes last night.

What a beautiful poem, isn't it lovely. When we live in heart, in courage, in love, we can see these signs of hope everywhere. It comes in the little things, that I think of and share upon awakening each morning. Such beauty compels me to act. It is vital to keep our senses open, despite our fears and worries, despite what troubles us. We must keep our senses open, in order to see things. In order to blessed by beauty and to act from it.

“Beauty awakens the soul to act”, said Dante. Well this is exactly what happened to the local poet and friend of the congregations Oliver James Lomax the other day, as he sat in the chapel gardens and wrote the poem which follows. He said he was looking at one of the Cherry Blossom trees in the chapel garden, and noticed “a blizzard of blossom falling from it, dancing in the low wind, it looked like it was almost shedding its memory. It transported me back to the day my Nan passed away from vascular dementia, there was a blossom tree just like it outside the Palliative Care Ward, also rather joyously, there was also a small boy trying to catch Pokemon in the corridor as I left her for the last time. This poem sits between those two images, a moment that brought a little peace and hope to my grief.”

Here’s the poem. I am sorry you can’t hear it in Oliver’s voice:

“To The Boy Catching Pokémon On The Palliative Care Ward” by Oliver James Lomax

The day nan died
the blossom tree was a blizzard

of gentle data
a white drift of unkept names

shifting like a small god
in the hospital garden.

Mine is, a god of flux
today he is a boy

catching Pokémon in the corridor
his hand consecrates the air

drawing a circle in time
where nothing consents to remain.

I watch from the threshold
of what has already gone,

how often will I
cast into the invisible?

For that glamour and strength
for the colour of her being,

drag the unseen closer
as if it might answer.

The blossom keeps falling
into itself, onto itself

a paper rain blinding the page
where the light

I’m trying to capture and name
cannot remain.

Beauty awakened Oliver’s soul to act and he shared this poem as a result of the awakening.

I just love how the beauty of the falling blossom, blowing up in the wind like a pink blizzard, took Oliver back to a time in his life and awakened something in him, something that brought healing to his soul, but also inspired his soul to act and write there and then. By the end of the day he sent me his poem. His poem inspired the service this devotion is based on, as did so many other things and people. The beauty in many forms inspired our souls to act. The answer was most certainly blowing in the wind that day.

I was awakened by beauty that day. I found myself engaged in several rather beautiful conversations. One was with the beautifully pregnant Rose our choir leader. She told me that she and her husband often see me walking around with Molly. It is an image that makes them both smile. Sometimes stopping to talk, but often just passing by, as I spend my days “farting around” as Kurt Vonneghut described it. It was a beautiful evening singing that night, as we prepare for a concert. I had another beautiful conversation with Alex the Flower man who was concerned about a mutual friend. I passed on his concern and the friend was grateful for this. I had several delightful conversations with people going through their ordinary lives that day. It reminded me of the following beautiful words of Walt Whitman:

“I have perceiv’d that to be with those I like is enough,

To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough,
To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing,
Laughing flesh is enough,
To pass among them or touch any one, or rest my arm
Ever so lightly around his or her neck for a moment,
What is this
Then?
I do not ask any more delight, I swim in it as in a sea.”

To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, Laughing flesh is certainly enough to awaken my soul. All this beauty whether natural or human has awakened my soul to act in more loving and open ways and thus pour out my own love on the world in which I live and breathe and move and have my being. It is a powerful antidote to the ugliness and violence that is going on in this our shared world too. Those forces that separate person from person and fails to recognise our shared humanity. It is easy to get caught up in the Hobbesian nightmare. The truth is that this world is both beautiful and ugly. The problem comes from when we fail to see and be moved by beauty and become overwhelmed by the ugly destructiveness that is part of life. Our souls will be inspired to act by something, better it be beauty.

On Tuesday morning Nick posted a video a blizzard of Cherry Blossom blowing up in the wind and it and all that I had experienced in the last couple of days inspired me to begin to write. I found myself caught up in the “Creative Interchange”. It reminded me of some wisdom from Matthew Fox:

“The universe is in the habit of making beauty. There are flowers and songs, snowflakes and smiles, acts of great courage, laughter between friends, a job well done, the smell of fresh baked bread. Beauty is everywhere”

I had enjoyed the smell of fresh baked goods that morning as I walked into Altrincham. It reminded me of Molly and her sniffing all the new life this spring. Her nose seems more alive as each day passes, it energises her. As J. Ruth Gendler claims “Beauty is an energy, not an image, and that energy can go anywhere; that energy takes on an image, a form, many images, many forms.” Beauty energises and awakens the soul to act; beauty awakens the soul of me in so many indescribable ways and it compels me to act in such a way as to pour out that beauty within on to all I engage with.



Beauty inspired Oliver to write the other day while sitting in the garden; it inspired him to give back to the world, despite experiencing current suffering and being taken back to a place of pain, grief and guilt. The beauty of the blossom blizzard inspired his soul to act.

Beauty manifests itself in so many ways in the world in which we live and breathe and move. It awakens all our senses and thus feeds and nourishes our souls; it awakens our souls and it fills our hearts to overflowing. We not only drink from the well of beauty, we also fill it too. Beauty truly is about the heart, about filling the heart to overflowing. In "Beauty: The Invisible Embrace" John O’Donohue wrote:

"The heart is the place where beauty arrives; here is where it can be felt, recognized and shared. If there was no heart, beauty could never reach us. Through the heart, beauty can pervade every cell of the body and fill us. To use a word that feels like it sounds: this is the thrill of beauty through us. Perhaps this is why we sometimes feel the absence of beauty in our lives; we have allowed the prism to become dull and darkened; though the light is near, it cannot enter to have its inlay of beauty diffused. Sometimes absence is merely arrested appearance. Compassion and attention keep the prism clear so that beauty may illuminate our life. Prayer of course is the supreme way we lift our limited selves towards the light, and ask it to shine into us. "

Beauty not only awakens the soul, but also fills the heart to overflowing, it certainly compels me to pour my heart out on the world in loving ways. In fact perhaps true beauty, certainly in a human sense, is to act morally. As John O’Donohue has pointed out Plato believed that Love was born of beauty and that it tapped into our basic human drive and desire for Good, that it was not a private or self-indulgent act of pleasure and that “the ability to love beauty has created all the good things that exist for gods and men’. He quotes Pseudo Dionysius the Aeropagite who said, "For beauty is the cause of harmony, of sympathy, of community. Beauty unites all things and is the source of all things. It is the great creating cause which bestirs the world and holds all things in existence by the longing inside them to have beauty. And there it is ahead of all as…the Beloved…toward which all things move, since it is the longing for beauty which actually brings them into being."

It is beauty that awakens our souls and inspires us to act lovingly in the world, to pour out our love on the world. How do we do this you may well ask? Well, I believe it begins with our neighbour the very people we interact with on a daily basis. As it has with me once again these last few days

It brings to my mind a passage from Matthew’s Gospel (Ch 26 vv 6-13). It is a much debated primarily because it has been used by some as a justification for tolerating poverty. I believe that to focus on this is to fail to recognise the central message of Matthews Gospel, the abundant blessing of love.

6 Now while Jesus was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper,* 7a woman came to him with an alabaster jar of very costly ointment, and she poured it on his head as he sat at the table. 8But when the disciples saw it, they were angry and said, ‘Why this waste? 9For this ointment could have been sold for a large sum, and the money given to the poor.’10But Jesus, aware of this, said to them, ‘Why do you trouble the woman? She has performed a good service for me. 11For you always have the poor with you, but you will not always have me. 12By pouring this ointment on my body she has prepared me for burial. 13Truly I tell you, wherever this good news* is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.’

The power in this story is in its recognition of abundant love. The woman loves and cares for Jesus. She anoints him with oil because she loves him dearly. It truly is an act of loving, nay gracious abandonment. This is in complete contrast to the grumpy disciples who are definitely of the glass half empty brigade. At least they are consistent though as they appear this way throughout the Gospels. The woman though is overflowing with love and wants to anoint those she loves with this. This is beauty in action. This is a soul awakened by beauty and inspired to act lovingly. Her heart is over flowing with love and she wants to pour out this love onto Jesus who will soon no longer be with her or the disciples.

Just as Oliver’s poem did; just as Nick’s video did; just as Rose’s conversation did; just as Alex asking about a friend did; just as Molly sniffing around as the pink blossom blew did; just as we all can do. We can all pour out this attentive love on one another and all life. We can offer care and attention to each and everyone around us. In so doing we will help create beauty all around us. All we need to do is pay attention open our hearts to beauty and act from it.

This brings to mind the following little anecdote by William McNamara:

“I once lived near a mansion where only one of the many gardeners employed had succeeded with every one of the roses. I asked him the secret of his success. He told me that the other gardeners treated all the roses not unwisely, but too generally. They treated them all in precisely the same way; whereas he himself watched each rosebush separately, and followed out for each plant its special need for soil, manure, sun, air, water, support and shelter.”

Beauty is all around us. We are surrounded by it. If we open ourselves to it, it will fill our hearts, awaken our souls and lead us to act lovingly and morally. This is beauty in action. If we create beauty with our own hands we will touch each individual soul we meet and they will grow and flower to their own full potential. We are here to enjoy the beauty that we are surrounded by and to pour out the beauty that lays within us and thus bring it to fruition in the world around us.

As Desmond Tutu has said:

“We were made to enjoy music, to enjoy beautiful sunsets, to enjoy looking at the billows of a sea and to be thrilled with a rose that is bedecked with dew…Human beings are actually created for the transcendent, for the sublime, for the beautiful, for the truthful…and all of us are given the task of trying to make this world a little more hospitable to these beautiful things.”

Let beauty awake for beauty's sake. Awake from slumber and awake from dreams. Let beauty awake from deep within us, Let beauty pour from us and be lavished upon our world.

May we be caught up in the blizzard of beauty, may we be blown in such a wind.

Please find below a video devotion based on the material in this "blogspot"

“Dedication: It’s What You Give Your Heart To”

I’m, going to begin with a mini biography of the life of Pablo Casals. Have you heard of him?

Well Pablo Casals was born in Vendrell, Spain to a Puerto Rican mother. He was thought to be the greatest cellist who ever lived. His recordings of the Bach Cello Suites, made between 1936 and 1939, are considered unsurpassed even to this day.

Casals’ prodigious musical talent became evident early. By the age of four he could play the violin, piano, and flute, having being taught in church. At the age of eleven he heard the cello for the first time and decided to dedicate himself to that instrument, By the age of fourteen he gave a solo recital in Barcelona. By the age of nineteen he was on the faculty of the renowned Municipal School of Music in Barcelona and was principal cellist of the Barcelona Opera House. He gained international acclaim in a career of such length that he performed throughout the world and to all the great heads of state and other dignitaries.

Yet even having attained such unquestionable mastery of his instrument, throughout his entire life Casals maintained a disciplined regimen of practicing for five or six hours every day. On the day he died, at the age of 96, he had already put in several hours practicing his scales. A few years earlier, when he was 93, a friend asked him why, after all he had achieved, he was still practicing as hard as ever. To which Casals replied “Because, I think I’m making progress.”

It takes dedication, it takes love, to keep on progressing.

Such labours of love.

Molly is a very patient little dog. She doesn’t ask for too much. Yes, attention and a few treats and a few run arounds in a day. She didn’t get too much of an opportunity to do so last Sunday. She spent the day travelling with me back and forth to Urmston and back to Altrincham. This will be pretty similar whilst trying to avoid the marathon. Last week included the two usual Sunday services, then an AGM back at Urmston, before returning home and then the Mayor’s quiz and entertainment evening. Molly had a couple of hours in the afternoon to rest. She loyally sat through it all. Knowing when she could play and seek attention and when she has to sit quietly in her bed. She is most certainly dedicated to her role and fulfils it without complaint. Well not too much. She does have a way to tell me when enough is enough and it is time to move on. She is usually correct.

You may recall that in the last devotion I spoke about both Philia love and Agape Love, how both are vital to friendship and spiritual community, all community actually. These loves empower folk to give of themselves for something more than themselves. It empowers them in love and service. It inspires dedication.

Last Sunday after the Altrincham service two long term members of the congregation Aled and Carolyn Jones were honoured with the Presidents Award. This is a new award given by the outgoing president of our General Assembly. It is given to people who have given years of dedicated service to their congregation, community and District. Awarded to unsung folk who are not really recognised on a national level. Well after the service Professor Geoff Levermore came to present the award to them both. An award they were initially unwilling to accept, as they felt they hadn’t earned it. Awards given for years of dedication. Work inspired by love. Truly labours of love.

Following the service I returned to Urmston for our Annual General Meeting. An important meeting as we explored ways to move forward as a congregation. Attended by people with a spirit of loving dedication for the community. At the end of the meeting we discussed what we would do to dedicate something in the memory of Derek Brown who had served the congregation with love, loyalty and humour for decades. He was the heart and soul of the community in many ways and now he has gone there is a big hole left behind. He had taken on the role after his father in law Robert became ill. He could not have been more dedicated. He also loved Molly and would sit with her every Sunday. We decided that we would dedicate our school hall to Derek and name it “The Derek Brown Memorial Hall”. It seems a fitting tribute to a man who had lovingly laboured for the community for several decades. An example of loving dedication for us all to follow.

I love serving both communities, the wider community actually. I have fallen in love with it once again in recent months, after a difficult year. It is a labour of love. What I love the most is that they don’t expect perfection from either me their minister or from one another. As I so often say we are the church, we are the chapel, we are the community where everything goes wrong. Now despite this and maybe because of this they are a places of dedication, of welcome, of acceptance and most of all love. I think sometimes people are a little surprised by the informality. I hope that they sense the care and concern, I believe that they do. I hope that they feel the warmth and the friendliness. I will always remember something that Margaret Darbyshire, a member from Urmston who died a few years ago, once said to me when she had been coming for a couple of years, “this is a church like no other I have ever been to, but I like it, it is how a church should be.” She came to Queens Road almost by mistake by accident, she is not the first and hope she won’t be the last to do so. She stayed because as she said it was what she had been looking for all of her life.

Nothing works perfectly, something always seems to go wrong, I don’t think we have ever had a Sunday where everything has gone smoothly, or there has not been a seeming disaster at some point in the week. We are perfectly imperfect communities. The things we get wrong, our mistakes aren’t the most important parts of us. What matters more is what is at the heart of us; what matters the most is kindness and compassion. This is what I have witnessed and continue to witness more and more over the years. I have felt it oh so powerfully in recent months as both congregations have struggled with challenges and yet we have found ways through, found solutions, solutions born from love and dedication. It has touched me deeply, in those places that really count.

There is such love and deep dedication in these two communities. People show their love by blessing them with their presence. They are made holy by becoming sanctified by loving dedication. What I see is love in action, love alive in common humanity, love in tangible form. Here’s a little verse on that by Susan Karlson

“Love In Tangible Form” by Susan Karlson

Looking at the overflowing cup,
Seeing from another perspective,
Witnessing life in all its fullness,
We share from a place of hope and dedication
And put our love into tangible form.

As I mentioned earlier Derek took on the responsibility of becoming chairman at Queens Road after his father in law Robert became too ill to continue. He was a man who had served with similar dedication. He also played the old organ there for many years. Above the organ is a plaque dedicated to Robert Haslem. The plaque reads “A labour of love”. This seems appropriate, as such dedication is most certainly done from love.

“Labour of Love” is an interesting phrase. I think I first became aware of it in the late 1980’s. It was a song by the Scottish group “Hue and Cry”. The phrase comes from translations of the King James version of the Bible, that was no doubt influenced by Shakespeare’s “Loves Labour Lost”, although he never actually used the phrase. It is to be found though in two verses in Thessalonians and Hebrews. It is the verse in Hebrews 6:10, that speaks to me: “For God is not unrighteous to forget your work and labour of love, which ye have shewed toward his name, in that ye have ministered to the saints, and do minister.”

Ministry for me is a labour of love. That said I am not the only person who ministers, we minister as a community of people. To minister literally means to serve, something I often want to remind those of a political persuasion about at times. They are here to serve we the people.

I see examples of these labours of love all around, people serving from love, people ministering in their own ways, adding what they can to make the flavour and substance of the community, the ministrone of ministry. Ministrone and minister both mean to serve. So many dedicate themselves to this love. It touches my heart. How they dedicate themselves, engage in labours of love, not only for themselves but to ensure that we are here to offer a free religious community, to those who seek.

People give their heart in love in many ways. There are so many labours of love. People dedicate themselves in so many ways and bless life in so many ways.

Dedication is how we show our love through blessing the lives we touch and the places we visit with our loving presence. Places are made holy when we sanctify them with loving dedication.

“Dedications” is one of those words that has changed in meaning over time. It comes from an old French word “dedicacion which meant “concecration of a church or chapel”, coming from the Latin word “dedicare” meaning to concecrate, proclaim, affirm or set aside. It later came to mean to give yourself to a purpose. I witness such dedication in the communities I serve. We carry that love into our world, that is the purpose of my blessing each and every Sunday at the end of worship. For if we live in dedication to love and life we begin to bless all life, we make the ground at our feet holy ground as we consecrate it with our loving presence.

To me this is the true meaning of church, a place of transformation, a place where we recognise the sacred uniqueness of ourselves and one another, that we recognise the blessings that we are and the blessings in life and where we learn to out into the world and bless it with our sacred uniqueness. The world awaits our blessing, for it surely needs it.

If we live in dedication to love and life we begin to bless all life, we make the ground at our feet holy ground as we consecrate it with our loving presence. Like Moses in Exodus who is told to “shake of his shoes” for he is standing on holy ground, in the presence of “I am”.

We can all hear the call of the Holy from deep within us and from all around us, we can all bless life with our holy presence. All we have to do is live with dedication, to consecrate the ground at our feet and the people who we meet, all we have to do is live with dedication and become the blessing that we have all been searching for. In so doing we will find ourselves instantly in the “Promised Land”

To live in dedication all we have to do is shake off our shoes and live our lives recognising that this truly is a holy place. Sacred living, holiness, dedication is about being fully alive. Holiness is a life fully lived, a life where we truly pay attention.

All we have to do to awaken the holy is to truly pay attention to the world and the people around us and truly inhabit the space in which we live and breathe and share our being. All we have to do is come to believe that we all walk on holy ground. All we have to do is wholly live our lives. All we have to do is live our lives in dedication to the holiest of holy purposes, to live in love. To love one another and to serve life in whatever way we can.

Please find below a video devotion based on the material in this "blogspot"

The language of friendship: The language of love

I’m sure you’ve heard me badly misquote good old Moses many times “Choose Life, Blessings and Curses”. The phrase says to me that in life you don’t get the good without the bad and the bad without the good, you get life though and we are here to live it. The blessing is in being here and being alive.

I am enjoying the blessing of spring time. I am loving the colour of the blossoms and the songs of the birds. It is a delight, especially for my eyes and my ears. That said it isn’t all blessings. There is a negative to all this new life and it is one also for my eyes and my ears. My eyes and ears, my nose and my throat are being badly affected by the pollen. It is my ears that are frustrating me as I am not hearing people when they speak as well as I would like.

I can still hear the birds though and their beautiful spring songs. The birds are telling many things.

Another favourite phrase of mine is “a little bird told me”. I loved it as a child; there was something enchanting about it. I love it equally as an adult. It is a cute way of relaying information about people, sharing good news, like birthdays or small achievements. Little birds telling me things is basically half of my life; I spend half my life listening to folk tell me stories, sharing and caring. Lots of little birds have been whispering in my ear recently. It seems that my purpose in life is primarily to be a friend, to live as a friend to many. I suspect that my primary role as a minister of religion is to be a good friend, this I am discovering is what it means to live spiritually alive. Maybe this is the whole of the spiritual life, the love that we are supposed to live by. Maybe we are here to be friends to one another sharing and caring, telling our tales. I love funny little phrases, and I love language, how it changes, how it develops. It speaks so much about time and place, past, present and even future.

You can tell a lot about a culture by its language. The English language has many words for different types of rain, probably because it rains a lot. Iceland has about forty words for snow and the ancient Greeks had at least six words for love. These were “Eros”, primarily romantic, sexual or passionate desire. “Philia” which was a deep bond that was formed through friendship and or comradeship. Think of the city of Philadelphia, the city of “brotherly love. Another was “Storge” which was a kind of familial love. “Ludus” which was a kind of playful or flirtatious love. “Pragma” or longstanding love. This was a form of mature love that developed over long-term relationships, say between married couples. “Agape” love, this was a love without prejudice, a selfless love, some call it religious love. Finally, “Philautia”, self-love. This had a light and shadow side. Its shadow manifested in Narcissism, but its light was seen as vital in order to offer all the other forms of love in a healthy way.

Two of these forms of love seem to be vital to living in spiritual community with others. These being “Philia” and “Agape”. As I’ve been wandering around walking and talking with folk in recent times these are the two forms I’ve been experiencing. I feel that these loves are at the heart of true friendship. We need these loves right now, as we live through these difficult and sometime disturbing times, as we look at our wider world. “Agape” and “Philia” love are the two types that I am often aware of when I live with my senses open to those I interact with. These two types that truly bring the blessings and curses of choosing life. They are vital to living spiritually alive.

I engaged in all kinds of conversations with folk at our recent General Assembly meetings. It was lovely catching up with old friends. People tell me many things. Yes, they share their many and varied troubles, but also share other wonderful stories too. I am blessed by what people choose to share with me. One thing I particularly enjoyed this year was a conversation I was invited to participate in with other regular writers for “The Inquirer”, our denominational magazine. We were asked to talk about how we write, what inspires us, our whole process as well as questions about the things we ought to be exploring. It was really an attempt to encourage others to give writing a go. It was interesting listening to the other contributors and comparing their processes with my own. We are so different. They seem far more deliberate and structured, whereas my inspirations seems to blow in the wind. A bit like this conversation really. There is structure and purpose though, it is perhaps just less obvious than others. I see everything that I create as a kind of conversation between friends and for friends, some of whom I am yet to meet and yet perhaps already know and are known. Speaking and hearing the language of love.

During the “Inquirer Panel” there was an interesting conversation about the use of Artificial Intelligence (AI). Something none of us felt we would want to use in our own work. I am not against the use of AI in terms of discovering information. It also seems to help people who have limited writing skills or lack confidence in this area. I know it has helped friends of mine to build confidence. So, like most things AI has its place. It just doesn’t have a place in my creativity. I want to speak through the spirit, the language of the heart. A conversation based on love. It seems to me that A.I. is a soulless product. When I read things created by it, it does not touch my soul at least.

Language and words used in my line of work ought to be formed by love and creativity, of that spirit, formed from agapeic and philia love. They should be about creativity and connection. I recently had a powerful experience around forgiveness, a beautiful example of how Agape can work its magic in bringing repair to “Philia Love” and restoring a once broken friendship. I recently reacquainted myself with someone I was close to many years ago. I had once said something that had unintentionally hurt them. I was speaking from a place of arrogance and perhaps hubris, getting a bit too big for my boots, to use another wonderful old phrase. The words I used were not personal, but they hurt the person. It broke a friendship. One that no matter what I said and did seemed like it would never be healed. Well recently it has been. It just took some humility and truth speaking. It took the practice of Agapeic love to heal a friendship and rekindle a form of damaged Philia Love. It was a lovely experience and led to the most amazing and moving conversation as we shared loving words. We both levelled our pride, gave something of ourselves, recognised one another’s humanity and rekindled a friendship. Agapeic love healed a relationship, it reformed a Philia love.

The reconciliation brought to my mind the following from John’s Gospel Ch21 vv 15-19

15 When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my lambs.” 16 A second time he said to him, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Tend my sheep.” 17 He said to him the third time, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, “Do you love me?” And he said to him, “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep. 18 Very truly, I tell you, when you were younger, you used to fasten your own belt and to go wherever you wished. But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you and take you where you do not wish to go.” 19 (He said this to indicate the kind of death by which he would glorify God.) After this he said to him, “Follow me.”

This conversation between Jesus and Peter comes later in the Gospel, after the “Resurrection” It is a fascinating piece, mirroring Peter’s denial of Jesus three times. What is interesting to me is the use of the word “Love”. The first two times when Jesus asks Peter if he loves him, he is using the word Agape, while Peter responds with the word Philia. On the third occasion Jesus then reverts to the word Philia. Now both words are used interchangeably in John’s account and much has been discussed by theologians as to the meaning of this passage. To me it is about reconciliation, forgiveness and moving forward as Jesus is asking Peter to take care of his “sheep, lambs”, his people and what he is prepared to sacrifice. For me it is about how vital both forms of love are to living spiritually alive in this world. If I have learnt anything, it is that I need to live by both Philia love and Agape love in order to live alive in this world, to choose life. In so doing the Kin-dom of Love, begins to be brought to life.

We all need “Philia” love, for we are relational beings. Everyone needs friends, to experience that deep loving care that is not connected by blood, by family and romantic feelings, a love for those we share our time and space with. This is the love that spiritual community is built upon, actually all forms of community.

Aristotle said, “What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies.”

Emerson wrote, “Let us approach our friend with an audacious trust in the truth of his heart.”

A friend is someone you can trust, you can rely upon, someone who will be there for you. I have been blessed with such friendships throughout my life. Some have been there for decades and others for shorter periods of time, but we have touched one another’s lives in deep and meaningful ways. We have laughed and we have cried together. We have enjoyed some wild and crazy times together and we have grieved as we have lost one of our number. I have lost a lot of friends over the years, far too many. Each loss breaks my heart; each loss takes a little piece of my heart. Love hurts. It was the first anniversary of the loss of one my oldest and dearest friends this week. The very next day I heard of the loss of another mutual friend. Gone far too soon.

A friend helps you become a better person, certainly my friends have helped me to do so, they have spurred me on by their example and encouragement and occasional criticism. This was a central claim of Aristotle’s “Ethics” who envisioned an escalating competition in goodness. He suggested that people try to do their best so as to be valued and respected by their friends thus inspiring them to do likewise. This is the power of “Philia” Love.

Friendship is a key component of Buddhism. This is illustrated in the following tale:

One day while the Buddha was out walking with his attendant Ananda, Ananda declared, “Teacher, to have companions and comrades on the great way is so amazing! I have come to realize that friendship is fully half of an authentic spiritual life.” They continued walking in silence when eventually the Buddha responded. “No, dear one. Without companions and comrades, no one can live into the deep, finding the true harmonies of life, to achieve authentic wisdom. To say it simply, friendship is the whole of the spiritual life.”

Could this be true? Is friendship the whole of the spiritual life?

Jesus said to his disciples, in John’s Gospel “I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything.” To me this is what a true relationship with God is about, friendship. Something that we are meant to mirror in our lives. This if you like is the Kin-dom coming alive in our lives. We gain knowledge of the spiritual life through living in such an intimate relationship with God, with life and with one another.

I’m with the Buddha and Jesus; I believe that friendship is the whole of the spiritual life. In fact, to live spiritually is to truly be a friend to life. This is how knowledge is truly revealed. This is the kin-dom of love, coming alive in our lives. This is how we make our lives a scared space. This is how we manifest love in our lives, by being a friend to life. This is what being a part of a spiritual community is about, becoming a friend to life and to all we meet. Friendship is those little birds whispering in my ear, sharing deep concern.

It begins with radical acceptance. It requires Agape Love, to accept those we meet as they are, exactly as they are. This does not mean we don’t point out when someone is in the wrong, no it just means we love and accept them right or wrong. It’s also about raising one another up through our example. You see by being the best we can be, in loving friendship, we automatically encourage our friends to be the best version of themselves that they too can be.

Friendships are relationships born from love; they speak the language of love. They are mirrors of the spiritual life for they are about both philia and at times agape love.

Life is all about relationships; the spiritual life is all about relationships. Relationships with life, with each other, with ourselves and with God, whatever we understand God to be. And how do relationships develop? Well through conversation, through sharing ourselves with each other, not by losing ourselves, but becoming ourselves through our conversations with the other, lower and upper case. We relate through conversation and thus we grow spiritually, through relationship.

Relationships speak the language love. Friendships being one of the most powerful, deep and meaningful. They must be formed and sustained by both “Philia” and “Agape” Love.

For love will bring us together again.

Please find below a video devotion based on the material in this "blogspot"

Happiness is a spirit that visits us, but how do we speak of it

"So Much Happiness" by Naomi Shihab Nye

"It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness.
With sadness there is something to rub against,
a wound to tend with lotion and cloth.
When the world falls in around you, you have pieces to pick up,
something to hold in your hands, like ticket stubs or change.

"But happiness floats.
It doesn't need you to hold it down.
It doesn't need anything.
Happiness lands on the roof of the next house, singing,
and disappears when it wants to.
You are happy either way.
Even the fact that you once lived in a peaceful tree house
and now live over a quarry of noise and dust
cannot make you unhappy.
Everything has a life of its own,
it too could wake up filled with possibilities
of coffee cake and ripe peaches,
and love even the floor which needs to be swept,
the soiled linens and scratched records. . . .

"Since there is no place large enough
to contain so much happiness,
you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you
into everything you touch. You are not responsible.
You take no credit, as the night sky takes no credit
for the moon, but continues to hold it, and share it,
and in that way, be known.

I was recently asked by a member of the Urmston congregation I serve Mary to explore happiness during our recent “Common Search for Meaning” group. I will be honest with you, I wasn’t quite sure where to begin. How do you talk about happiness? What on earth is this thing we called happiness?

As Naomi Shihab Nye writes 'With sadness there is something to rub against,' It is easy to speak of sadness, it feels embodied, there is a deep weight a heaviness to it. It has a power that feel like it is pushing you down. Sometimes just raising your head can feel impossible when weighed down by sadness. The sadness can feel so locked in that that no happiness can break through.

Happiness is more of a “willow the whisp”, like a little sprite. It seems to come and go almost unbidden, out of your control. All you can do with it, according the Nye at least, is to simply “shrug, . . . raise your hands . . . take no credit. . . .”

Happiness seems to lack a body, a weight, it is hard to put your finger on, it is not a static state of being. It seems impossible to name and or even talk about. It seems to go against the very grain of our modern materialistic age. How do we talk about happiness?

I am reminded here of something I once read by Henri Nouwen on why it so much easier to speak of our troubles than of joy and happiness. It seems it is not only a British thing. He wrote of his university days:

"I vividly remember how one of my university teachers spoke for a whole year about anxiety in human life. He discussed in great detail the thoughts of Kierkegaard, Sartre, Heidegger, and Camus and gave an impressive exposé of the anatomy of fear. One day, during the last month of the course, a few students found the courage to interrupt him and ask him to speak a little about joy before the course was over. At first he was taken aback. But then he promised to give it a try. The next class he started hesitantly to speak about joy. His words sounded less convincing and penetrating than when he spoke about anxiety and fear. Finally, after two more meetings, he told us that he had run out of ideas about joy and would continue his interrupted train of thought. This event made a deep impression on me, especially since I had such great admiration for my teacher. I kept asking myself why he was unable to teach about joy as eloquently as he had taught about anxiety.

It is the same with happiness. We have no trouble describing our sadness, what is wrong, what sickens us as individuals and as a society. Nouwen observed there are far “more words for sickness than for health, more for abnormal conditions than for normal conditions. When my leg hurts, my head aches, my eyes burn, or my heart stings, I talk about it, often in elaborate ways, but when I am perfectly healthy I have little, if anything, to say about those parts of my body.”

Think about the word resentment. It comes from resentere which literally means to re-feel something. Now when we re-feel something a memory from our past life it doesn’t have to be a painful memory, something that makes us angry and yet the word resentment only has negative connotation. We do not have a word that means to re-feel something that made us happy. There is no specific word for this in the English language.

Now please do not get me wrong. I am not for one moment suggesting that we ought not to talk about our troubles. My word we all have them. Whether that is our personal ones, our health, physical, emotional, mental and or spiritual. Our families, our communities, our wider world. We all live with fears and anxieties and pain brought to our being due to these sufferings. I have plenty myself. In fact sharing our troubles often helps and connects us with one another and through this we may find a freedom that allows happiness to visit once may. We do need to be careful not to become weighed down and enslaved by our struggles though, to the point that this is all that we are.

I was out an about on Monday morning, walking through Altrincham with Molly towards Stamford park. This is how I begin my week probably 9 times out of 10. I left the house with a variety of troubles on my mind. Concerns about the communities I serve. Family issues, folk close to me. Worries about the wider world, both within this country and conflicts in other places. I watched folk as I passed through town and connected. I was also thinking about this subject, how to talk about happiness. I said hello to a few folk and we exchange pleasantries. As I was walking Angela Fowler came into my mind. What a wonderful person she was an example of someone who lived with many struggles in life and yet lived with a sense of joy and happiness in life too. How she was one of those people who was genuinely pleased for others. She had such a wonderful quality about her.

I enjoyed the park, as did Molly. I enjoyed watching those exercising and young parents with babies and pre-school children. I spoke with a few folk and enjoyed the dogs playing together in their delightful way, they were naturally happy. There is something about watching labradors and spaniel’s in particular frolicking in the park. As I got lost in the moment of their play I was visited by that spirit I call happiness.

I walked home smiling with one or two ideas forming. I passed a woman I talk to from time to time. She has a tiny Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. It has had health troubles. It is doing well she tells me and it was a delight to see the happiness on her face as she spoke of her dear sweet dog. As I walked away, I felt that spirit of happiness taking over me. As I reached the crossing, a little later, I heard my name called out. Rosemary Donaldson approached me. She began telling me about what she was doing and then began to speak to me about Angela Fowler, how much she missed her how she had been such an inspiration to her. I told her I had been thinking of her too and we stopped and spoke of Angela for quite some time. As we did, I could feel that spirit of happiness working through us. I walked home with the biggest beaming smile and then got down to some work.

As I did, I thought of seeing and witnessing happiness in folk over the last few days. Observing people lost and absorbed in what they were doing. How in so doing it seems that this spirit of happiness had taken them over. I thought of the Mayor’s Civic Reception I had been invited to last Friday. It was a moving evening, especially listening to people share their stories of struggles and living with M.E. At the same time, I enjoyed experiencing a variety of talented people sharing their artistic gifts. I observed them lost in their work, being visited by that spirit of happiness and sharing it with others. It was strange evening in someways. There were tables full of people in their finery and others sharing gifts and sharing stories. I was happy to be a part of it, although I did experience a little bit of imposter syndrome. I thought to myself, how did I end up here. It made me smile. I felt a sense of happiness.

Here’s another wonderful poem

“HAPPINESS” by Jane Kenyon

There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

I am not sure that happiness is something that we can pursue and catch. The foundation of the American Republic is “Life Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness”. I am not sure that this is the right objective in life. It seems very self-centred and if not achieved fully sets folk up for dissatisfaction and envy. I suspect that if what your aim in life is to feel happy you will rarely achieve it; if one day you do, then your focus will be on holding onto it. I am not convinced that this is possible. Yes, live the good life, the worthy and meaningful life as they great philosophies teach, but happiness ought not to be the aim in itself, only the product of living this way. When I think of Angela, she seems to be an example of this. Yes she had her struggles, but she knew happiness.

I suspect that the key maybe to find ways to savour the experiences of being alive and to share these moments with others. This is certainly when I experience being visited by the spirit of happiness. It is when I feel free and most alive. It certainly has been the last week or so, despite my real worries and concerns.

I live in the real world and the real world concerns me greatly I carry the same worries we all do. I awake each day with same dilemma that E.B. White wrote of “It’s hard to know when to respond to the seductiveness of the world and when to respond to its challenge. If the world were merely seductive, that would be easy. If it were merely challenging, that would be no problem. But I arise in the morning torn between the desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.”

Now I cannot save the world. That does not mean I avoid it. No instead I do what I can, put my whole self into it and in so doing I am visited. by the spirit of happiness. Not constantly, but when I let myself go and give myself fully to it. The spirit visits me and this spirit sets me free.

This makes me happy and this is my best way I know how to speak of it.

I am going to end with a bit of wisdom from Mary Oliver. A moment of happiness that changed her life. Here she describes being visited by that “sprite” of happiness. She puts the experience in such a beautiful way. She savoured this life, despite the very real struggles she faced and she found a way to share what she experienced. As a result, she knew happiness and others experienced it too.

"Once, years ago, I emerged from the woods in the early morning at the end of a walk and — it was the most casual of moments — as I stepped from under the trees into the mild, pouring-down sunlight I experienced a sudden impact, a seizure of happiness. It was not the drowning sort of happiness, rather the floating sort. I made no struggle toward it; it was given. Time seemed to vanish. Urgency vanished. Any important difference between myself and all other things vanished. I knew that I belonged to the world, and felt comfortably my own containment in the totality. I did not feel that I understood any mystery, not at all; rather that I could be happy and feel blessed within the perplexity — the summer morning, its gentleness, the sense of the great work being done though the grass where I stood scarcely trembled. As I say, it was the most casual of moments, not mystical as the word is usually meant, for there was no vision, or anything extraordinary at all, but only a sudden awareness of the citizenry of all things within one world: leaves, dust, thrushes and finches, men and women. And yet it was a moment I have never forgotten, and upon which I have based many decisions in the years since."

From "Long Life: Essays and Other Writings" by Mary Oliver

Please find below a video devotion based on the material in this "Blogspot"

May We Be Known by the Fruits of Mother Nurture”

The celebration of Mother has a long history. It dates back to the time of ancient Greece and Rome. It is not merely, as some would suggest, a creation of the greeting cards company to make money out of us. The celebrations of mother and motherhood has been with us for many centuries. It is said that Mothering Sunday was about returning home either to family and or the Mother Church. Returning to a place of total acceptance and love, a place where the love within us can grow, a place of nurture.

These days Mothering Sunday has become known as Mother’s Day, following the American tradition that is celebrated in May, and not the middle Sunday of Lent. During the twentieth century and due in no small part to the promotion of Constance Smith Mothering Sunday began to be marked on the fourth Sunday of Lent known as Laetare Sunday, which means “rejoice”. It grew in popularity after the first world war and no doubt was linked to this idea of folk returning home to place of safety, nurture and love.

Mothering Sunday, Mother’s Day, whatever its actual true origins is enshrined in this image of returning home, and this sense of belonging to something more than ourselves. Whether that is actually of children returning to the family home having been working away or of people returning to the mother church, or those returning home after conflict. At its heart it seems to be about returning home to a place of safety; it is about returning home to a place of renewal, of re-birth, not only for ourselves but for others too; it is about returning to a place of love and total acceptance of who we are, exactly as we are, no matter what we have done or where we have been, we are accepted with open loving arms. It’s about returning to that place where love is not only born but nurtured and grown and brought into true being.

Mother’s Day is the celebration of being held and nurtured in the spirit of love. Mother’s Day is about celebrating the spirit of mother. I have been thinking and remembering those folk who have accepted and cared for me; I have been remembering how they nurtured me in my life, how they offered unconditional love, regardless of gender or familial link. It is the care and nurturing love that matters most to me.

Someone dear to me has been unwell in hospital this week. They offered me nurture and care on one of the most heartbreaking days of my life. They gave me that simple and humble bowl of soup and sat me down and let me settle and be. They nurtured and cared for me. I know them by the fruit they gave to me, and it has fed and sustained me for the last 20 years come this November. It is the fruit I have attempted to live by during my own ministry; it is a fruit I will never forget.

Gospel Matthew 7 v 20 “Thus you will know them by their fruits.”

That bowl of soup to me is the ultimate example of the Divine love alive in human form, manifested. This to me is what days like today are about, they are about celebrating this nurturing love and finding ways to bring this love alive through our being. Not perfectly, in fact falteringly, but the heart of what we live by. Now even if those who have shared this love with us are no longer physically with us, we can still hold that love, nurture it with our hearts, our minds our spirits, our souls, held lovingly by the one eternal soul of life. This is the love that I try to live by and hope we can all live by. We need to live by love and accept one another in the way that the mother, or at least the ideal of maternal love does. May we reach toward that, even in fear, may we find the courage to offer one another such love.

Today we celebrate the spirit of mother; today we celebrate and give thanks to those who gave birth to our being, but we do more than that. Today we celebrate those who have nurtured and brought to life the love within us whether they are the ones who gave birth to our bodies or helped nurture and bring to life something within us. Today we celebrate the spirit of mother; today we celebrate those who have nurtured our lives whether in body, in mind, in heart or spirit. This is surely the fruit we would want to be known by.

Today as we celebrate the spirit of mother we acknowledge our responsibility to one another as individuals and a community, to nurture, to bring to life, the love within ourselves, one another and the wider human community. Can we be known by this loving nurturing and life sustaining fruit.

The truth is that we are always known by our fruit and as the old saying goes, it never falls far from the tree. To use a maternal metaphor we are constantly giving birth to something each and every day. We are all a part of the Divine Creation and re-creation it is really important to recognise this. As Annie Dillard wrote “ We are here to witness creation and to abet it…We are here to bring to consciousness the beauty and power that are all around us and to praise the people who are here with us.”

This is nurture, this bringing alive the spirit of mother, this is what we celebrate this day. This is the fruit at the heart of this day.

Mothering Sunday, whatever its actual true origins is enshrined in this image of returning home; it is about returning home to a place of safety and I believe sustenance, whether that be actual physical food or spiritual food; whether that be simnal cake, a bowl of soup or the bread of heaven. It is about love in whatever form it comes. May we be known by that fruit.

They say “There’s No Place Like Home”.

Now this instantly brings up two images into the heart of my mind. One is of Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. In the film she begins by singing of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” a place away from the drudgery, of the mundainity, of life where she could set her free, but at the end she clicks those ruby slippers and says those immortal words. "There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like like home.” Dorothy has been on a spiritual journey and encountered all manner of fascinating friends along the way. She has also fought off enemies who wanted to destroy her. She has experienced and learnt so much, but in the end she just wants to return home.

For many home is the embodiment of safety and acceptance, the heart and the hearth of a loving family. Robert Frost wrote that “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in." Sadly this is not the case for everyone, for many people home and family is not a place of safety at all. In fact it is a place of struggle and suffering.

Home is a tiny word but a powerful one and one so rich in meaning. It is a word that can hold such dreams of possibilities or nightmares of hurt. It is more than a physical place it is an idea, a feeling, a vision. It is something that we carry with us as we journey through life; it is not just something that we seek. For some it is a place that they are fleeing from, a place of repression and not a place of loving possibility. That said whatever it is we are fleeing from in the end we all must return home, just as Dorothy did. “There’s no place like home”

“There’s No Place Like Home” comes from John Howard Payne’s nineteenth century operatta “Clari, or the Maid of Milan”. The full verse reads as follows

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which seek thro' the world, is ne'er met elsewhere.
Home! Home!
Sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home
There's no place like home!

These are the words that Dorothy repeats as she clicks her Ruby slippers and wishes to return to that place of safety.

When I think of Motherhood and or the Mother Church this is what I think of, of returning to a place of sentience of nurture where one feels that they can recharge. A place that is known by those loving fruits.

These do not have to be physical places or people actually. The truth is you need not go anywhere. This place of nurture of sustenance can only really be found in the ground where you find yourself, in fact the truth is what we really need to do is find ourselves at home within our own being. We can enjoy these fruits and share them with others.

If you remember at the beginning of Lent I spoke of not giving things up, but seeing what we can give, nurturing what we have, so as to be in a better place to share our fruits. That we make a place within us that is a welcome to others, to find ways to be better prepared to truly use these gifts, to be of service to the world in which we find ourselves. We just need to nurture that which we already possess and share that fruit. It also teaches me if things get too much I can always do a Dorothy and click my own ruby slippers and be transported to the loving arms of “Warm mother God”. We all need a place of shelter at times when it all goes wrong or seems too much. This is spiritual community to me. That bowl of soup reminds me of it always. If feeds and sustains me every day.

This “Mothering Sunday”, this “Mother’s Day”, may we remember those who have loved and cared for us, those who nurtured us, those who shared their fruit. Those who helped us feel at home. Let us remember this love. May we also find ways to live by that same love, to bring it alive through our human being. May we be known by these fruits, may we become places of welcome, of nurture and love. For our world surely needs that as we need it too.

May we be known by such fruit…

On this day set aside to honour Mother’s let’s remember those who have offered us the unconditional and wholly accepting love of the mother ideal. Those who have offered their unquestioning love to us, those who have offered their nurturing heart and encouraged us to begin again in love. Let us also commit to living this way ourselves to offer this love to all that we meet. To not just tolerate the people we meet as they are, but to love them and accept them, Let’s offer to them the nurturing hand of love. May we be known by these fruits.

I invite you to join with me in prayer

"Prayer for All Who Mother"

We reflect in thanksgiving this day for all those whose lives have nurtured ours.

The life-giving ones
Who heal with their presence
Who listen in sympathy
Who give wise advice ... but only when asked for it.
We are grateful for all those who have mothered us
Who have held us gently in times of sorrow
Who celebrated with us our triumphs -- no matter how small
Who noticed when we changed and grew,
who praised us for taking risks
who took genuine pride in our success,
and who expressed genuine compassion when we did not succeed.
On this day that honours Mothers
let us honour all mothers
men and women alike
who from somewhere in their being
have freely and wholeheartedly given life, and sustenance, and vision to us.
Dear God, Mother-Father of us all,
grant us life-giving ways
strength for birthing,
and a nurturing spirit
that we may take attentive care of our world,
our communities, and those precious beings
entrusted to us by biology, or by destiny, or by friendship, fellowship or fate.
Give us the heart of a mother today.

Amen

Please find below a video devotion based on the material in this "blogspot"