Defending My Hope

When God decided I should emerge from my shadowy existence as a secret disciple, he must have had a plan, because he always does. Two sermons set me on the inevitable path to the Kirk Session (though they assure me that one blog – possibly even this one – will be enough to see me recalled). One, on the woman who had the issue of blood, convicted me that being healed is not enough, that we have to tell it abroad; and the second one, on the need for readiness to defend our hope in Christ. 

I have not shut up since. Compelled to defend the cause, or to share my hope, I have landed in all manner of trouble. At least part of the reason for that has been my own approach. 

In that, I am like the church as a whole. We love Christ, and in our zeal to share that with those around us, we sometimes forget that the messenger is much less apt to be shot if she considers the mode of delivery a little more carefully. 

Given that my chosen mission field was digital from the get-go, there were always going to be three principal difficulties. First of all, my audience is very mixed. On one hand there are the Christians who, for the most part, see what I’m doing and say little or nothing. Their silence may indicate approval, or the very opposite; I don’t know. On the other hand, there are the all-too-vocal unbelievers who wish I’d be quiet and keep my faith in fairy tales to myself. Secondly, online ministry of the sort I have embarked upon is lonely and prone to snap judgement from among the brethren. More traditional Christians think it folly to be engaging with atheists on social media, and some have made it clear that they see my dol a-mach as troublemaking. And thirdly, if you are using digital media for writing your views, people can misunderstand tone and intention. That’s why, I imagine, I have been variously accused of having a ‘Messiah complex’, being ‘bitter and cold’ and portraying myself as ‘the perfect, grieving widow who found God’.

You see the problem? It’s all too easy to lose people. If they dislike you, or your manner, or even just their idea of you, the psychological shutters come crashing down and you have no chance of reaching them. 

So, I have an image problem. There is an entire group of people – most of whom have never met me – entirely persuaded that I am a repellent Bible thumper, an unreasonable Sabbatarian and a smug, self-righteous hater. I must bear at least some of the responsibility for this because, without doubt, I have misrepresented my Saviour at times by being unloving and too swift to speak. If we look at any of Christ’s encounters with ordinary people in the Bible, or with leaders, for that matter, there are precious few words from him. 

We, on the other hand, seek to show him forth by jabbering endlessly. Fill the silence at all costs – isn’t that how we roll? Unfortunately, my heart is not fathomless, like the Lord’s: it is mean and brittle, and goes out only to those who are easy to love, and so much of what I think, say and write is devoid of the costly perfume that Christ pours out on me without measure. I set out to share his boundless grace, but end by keeping it meanly to myself and spilling out judgement and condemnation.

Or, at least, that’s how it seems to people who are only seeing me. There is too little of Christ in the way that I deal with unbelievers and I have, consequently, forced them to see him through the prism of me, rather than the other way around.  To say that I have misrepresented him is the understatement of the century. 

The endless words from me have been an attempt to fill the void that ought to be filled up with Christlikeness. I have to speak and write and speak some more so that the avalanche of words will persuade people that I am a Christian, and that he has begun a good work in me. Of course I believe that he has, but I shouldn’t have to say it: my life ought to be sufficient witness.

I could stand silent in the presence of doubters, as my Lord did, if I was able to reflect him back at them. For a long time, I thought I was doing that with this blog, but I am increasingly aware of speaking into darkness and being answered with silence and hardness of heart.

I think, perhaps, for a little while, it may be wise to sanctify God in my heart and ready myself to give the defence of the reason for my unquenchable hope, but only when it’s asked for. When people ask, you know that they have seen something in you without having to be told.

I have never – not once – been asked for that defence.

Reputation or Character?

Many years ago, the post office at Achmore briefly became a crime scene. Over a period of time, small sums of money had been disappearing and, as is bound to happen in such cases, people were beginning to regard one another with suspicion. This is an unhealthy state of affairs in a small community, and so a plan was hatched.

Two people lay in wait on a given night, hoping to apprehend the light-fingered culprit.

Imagine their shock, then, when he turned out not to be light-fingered – or, more accurately, not to be in possession of any fingers at all.

‘How sad’, you say, ‘what all that inbreeding can cause’.

You misunderstand me: he had a long tail and whiskers.

‘Yes, Achmore’, you nod sadly.

You’re still not getting it: he was a rat; a felonious rodent with a penchant for bent accounting. When his little stash was discovered, the money was even arranged according to denomination. 

Still, isn’t everything in this part of the world?

History doesn’t record the relief this discovery must have occasioned. We are far too ready to regard our fellows with suspicion, and they in their turn to think badly of us. That the real culprit turned out to be a rat must surely have been welcome news all round.

I was thinking about false accusations recently, and the harm they – and gossip – can inflict. It is the instinct of every person to protect their own good name, and to lash out at those who would defame it. That drive is no less present in the Christian, but there is a very particular reason why we have to fight it.

In surrendering your life to Christ you are giving him control of everything. You are acknowledging his complete ownership of all that you are, and all that you have.

Including your reputation.

That’s his too. Remember Job? Joseph? King David? All three saw their good names sullied without cause. David was exiled, Joseph imprisoned, and Job had the particular pain of being doubted by his friends. Surely – as Eliphaz believed – a Christian who suffers loss of reputation must certainly have offended God deeply.

That’s a logical stance for the world to take. They cannot distinguish between character and reputation. And, of course, they refuse to accept that their view of the matter is not final. It is a state of affairs as old as time (or very nearly). Read the Book of Psalms for repeated exhortations that God not allow his servant to be put to shame by the enemy.

Inevitably, these petitions conclude in the same way: remembering God’s faithfulness and praiseworthy name.

The key to bearing trial, whether bereavement slander, or scandal, is to place yourself back where you belong: in God’s hands. See his strength actually perfected in your own weakness. 

These are not just nice words: I have lived them.

Sadly, I have also failed to live them. The unregenerate part of me wants to defend myself against liars. These efforts tend, however, to be fruitless – not because I am wrong, but because my appeal fails in the courts of men. 

The courts of men are built on the very street in which truth is fallen.

We have all, therefore, to seek after the weakness of which Paul boasted, ‘for when I am weak, then am I strong’. God owns my reputation; it is not mine to defend.

Can a Christian be slandered and wronged with impunity, then? Yes. And no. It all depends whose verdict you value. We can, it would appear, be subject to all the vilest jibes and condemnation of the world. Christians may even – as Job was – be judged wrongly by the brethren.

However, we can also stand fast in the love of Christ and pray as he did. If our reputation is God’s then, the awful truth is that our enemies are much to be pitied, for they really know not what they do.

Because He Loved Us First

When the bombs fell on Buckingham Palace in 1940, Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother said that she was glad because it meant that she and the King could finally ‘look the East End in the eye’. Many people have laughed at this statement, believing it to be illustrative of just how out of touch the royal family is. People who had almost nothing, losing everything they owned in one night were not experiencing the same war as the privileged Windsors with their untold wealth and multiple palatial residences. If one castle gets totalled, move to another: that is not poverty.

We seem to believe that empathy can only stem from our having actually experienced something. Until the monarch has to live in a high-rise flat with no food in the fridge and no money to feed the meter, she cannot begin to understand the plight of her poorest subjects.

Empathy, though, is like faith – it shouldn’t require evidence. Nothing breaks my heart more than homelessness, though I have mercifully never been in that position myself. Surely the essence of the empathetic heart is being able to find the common point of experience. The Queen Mother was not suggesting that her domestic situation was the same as that of the Eastenders; she was saying, however, that both knew what it was to have their homes threatened and even breached. One was much larger and grander, yes, but home nonetheless.

And, just the same, when I saw our Queen sitting all by herself at the funeral of her husband, I could finally understand how a blone from Lewis and the monarch of a kingdom might have something in common.

When the time came for the mourners to file into the church on the day of my husband’s funeral, a church officer approached me and asked, ‘are you alone?’ I felt his words like a knife to my heart. Yes indeed, I thought, quite alone. My best friend, my helpmeet, my companion in life, has gone on without me, and I have to navigate this path as best I can with no hand to hold.

I don’t imagine the pain of losing a spouse is any less when you are a world leader. Perhaps, indeed, the pain is greater still for one whose life is so public. She must now find a way in which to do everything she used to do, but always conscious of the absence where Prince Philip used to be. It is likely – though by no means certain – that her reunion with him will come much more quickly than mine with Donnie. When I was first widowed, I used to envy elderly women in my position, because I thought they wouldn’t have to experience so much of life without their husbands.

Now, though, I know it makes no difference. Jesus knew he would raise Lazarus from the dead, but he still wept with the family. His tears were not merely for their pain, but for the human condition – for the fall that has brought us to a place of death. Inevitably, whether we are exalted in the land or humble, we gather at the graveside and mourn for what the great leveller has removed.

Jesus – the Queen’s Saviour and mine – was displaying empathy. He was shedding tears for mankind, for the sin that brought death into our experience. Although he was about to raise Lazarus from the dead, death would eventually claim him a second time.

Of course, the depth of Jesus’ empathy was what led him to finally surrender himself on the cross. So moved was the Lord’s heart by what we have inflicted upon ourselves, that he did not merely weep with the bereaved: he gave himself to death in our place.

Christ became man and walked this Earth. He was born into the humblest of surroundings. As a man, he had no home to call his own, no regular income, no insurance policies. The King of Kings was a vagrant.

But that isn’t what made him the most empathetic man who ever lived.

Before God sent his Son into the world, there was compassion, and there was empathy for our plight. Do we castigate God because he has never had his home destroyed, or lost his spouse? Would it be fair to tell him that he cannot understand our pain? Of course not, because he is the very model of what empathy means. If I may put it like this, he carried empathy to its ultimate conclusion.

If we are followers of Christ, then, shouldn’t empathy be part of our character? There are things I have not suffered, practices I do not approve, walks I have not had to take . . . but when I see my fellow man in their midst, where is my heart? Do I rush to judgement, to vitriol and condemnation, or do I say, ‘there but for God’s grace go I’.

Christ came alongside all manner of sin and suffering. That was empathy. And we are capable of it, it is expected of us, because he loved us first.

More than a Destination

About ten years ago, I found myself on a small, open boat, bound for Kitchener’s Island. Before you consult the Landranger Taobh Siar map, stop, you maw – it’s in Egypt. While we were making our way, a smaller boat still came alongside us and we were joined by three tall, dignified figures. These men and women were Nubians – indigenous people of southern Egypt – and they were there to sell their beads and trinkets to the day-trippers.

They are a displaced people whose ancient culture was no defence against the march of ‘progress’ – moved aside for the Aswan Dam, they grieve to this day for the loss of ancestral lands. And many eke out a living hawking crafts to rich, white tourists making their way to an island no longer known by its native name.

I wonder what they would make of other age-old civilisations actively choosing that life. Little did they think that, among the pasty-faced travellers who bought bracelets from them that afternoon, were people whose own way of life is being willingly subsumed by the great god of tourism.

People here in the Western Isles talk about tourism in reverential tones, as though it is some sort of moral good. Whenever the prospect of other kinds of economic development is raised – wind turbines being the obvious contemporary example – there is much swooning and tutting and cries of, ‘what will it do to tourism?’ For reasons I cannot fathom, almost everything we do here in the islands has got to be measured against that particular yardstick, as though, like some hideous aping of Brigadoon, we only exist when seen through the eyes of others.

The tedious Sunday issue is the same. Those who like the six-day uniqueness of Lewis and Harris are told that they are selfish, backward and ‘what must tourists think?’.

Well, with all due respect to them – and speaking as an occasional tourist myself – I don’t see why we should actually care. If they are going to visit, they should be pleased to find that we haven’t conformed to some mass-market idea of ‘Hebridean-ness’, but continue to uphold our own traditional values and way of life. Besides, surely we are more than just a destination.

Aren’t we a living community?

In order to go on being a living community, I contend that we have to look to agricultural metaphors – cherish our roots, and encourage our young shoots to grow. That, for those of you with a more literal turn of mind, means protecting our heritage, and nurturing our younger generation.

One of the great white hopes of our recent past has been the advent of community land ownership. It has taken its place alongside apple pie and motherhood (and flipping tourism for some) in the annals of all that is good and positive. I’m not persuaded, however, that it’s the panacea some would claim. The system of crofting tenure in its current form has really meant that the Gàidhealtachd has been wresting land from private control, only to watch the open market in holiday homes and tourist development turn us back into an off-season wilderness. If the tinkers could only see how we have moved from maligning and distrusting them to positively encouraging itinerant wanderers into our midst, the irony would probably knock them off their feet. Anyone with the necessary cash can buy a croft tenancy – or several – and turn these acres over to chalets, glamping pods or gypsy caravans, and there is not one single thing the landowner (community or otherwise) can do about it.

There is, of course, room for tourism in the Western Isles economy. We have many good quality, hotels, bed and breakfasts and guest houses; we have some high-end self-catering, and some good camping facilities. In the years to come, Stornoway’s port development will ensure that we are much better equipped to welcome cruise ship traffic. I recently lunched in a local hotel, where ours was one of only three tables occupied at the peak period. Obviously, local people are not enough to keep the doors of such businesses open. Summer visitors will undoubtedly swell the numbers and fill the tills, which can only be good for the hotelier and the conscientious people he employs.

I understand, too, that people want to come and witness the beauty and the heritage of our islands for themselves. That said, I object to the attitude that manifested last summer amongst some would-be visitors, on being told that locals were reticent about the reopening of our ports in the midst of a pandemic. ‘You can’t stop us’, some (a minority, I would hope) said, ‘the islands don’t belong to you’.

That’s told the land buyout brigade, eh?

Well, no, of course the islands don’t belong to us. What any born and bred islander will tell you, though, is that we belong to them. Lewis is much more than a lovely place to live for the native Leòdhasach; it holds us to itself in ways that I cannot begin to describe. Ask the Leòdhasach abroad to explain his cianalas, and he can’t, but it is the flip-side of loving the place that grew you.

However, that love has to express itself in practical ways for the Leòdhasach (other islands are available) at home. We have to be mindful of the fact that this IS a community. People who live here all the year round want to enjoy a little summer freedom, and not to have to constantly jostle with visitors because our entire economy has been given over to tourism. Equally, we have to provide for those who do come, and we have to allow that there will always be an industry that caters to them.

So, what’s the answer? Well, think of those other two indigenous plants, Gaelic and crofting. In fact, think of economic development in general. What have they all got in common?

Regulation. There is no regulatory body for tourism, though. Indeed, there is no real definition of ‘tourism’. That’s why, despite the extravagant claims made on its behalf, it is actually quite hard to pin down in any assessment of our islands’ or our country’s GDP. There is tension between tourism and Gaelic, tourism and land use, tourism and almost every form of economic development.

Yet, it grows unchecked, like a falasgair on tinder-dry mòinteach.

Three Years a Knave?

For three years, it’s leather, I’m told. Still, I can’t see balaich an Trust presenting me with a designer Italian handbag. I am much more likely to get a bròg.

(Yes, just the one).

Facebook has had a lot to say about the Stornoway Trust this last wee while, none of it very nice and most of it the product of fevered imagination. The fantasy version of the organisation that seems to preoccupy a small number of the electorate doesn’t actually exist in the real world beyond social media. Still, when you are largely unaware that there IS a real world beyond social media, that point is liable to be lost on you.

The most recent thing that Facebook had to say about the Trust was this morning, when it reminded me that, on this day three years ago, I was elected to serve a six-year sentence term. After a thoroughly unpleasant campaign, it felt like a dubious reward. Yes, I had entered the fray willingly, but I had not – given the low stakes – expected that people would target me so viciously. Again, this was social media, and not the real world. Indeed, the real world looked on aghast and many, I suspect, voted for me simply in order to show their solidarity with common decency against mob rule.

In any service that we give, it’s important to reflect upon why we’re doing it. The halfway point of my term gives me pause for consideration: is this how I wish to spend a sizeable portion of my time; and if so, why?

Well, the reason I stood in the first place is the same reason that I remain. I believed that I could contribute something to the running of the Trust – not as a maverick grandstanding for social media approval, but as one part of a team. Trustees function within the Trust as individuals, but outwardly as part of a homogenous entity.

We are – and many will love this comparison – like the tinker encampments of old; free to quarrel amongst ourselves, but always  presenting a united front to the world. A lot of our meetings are spent debating and disagreeing, but consensus must eventually be achieved and that, then, becomes Trust policy. On Trust policy, and Trust action arising from it, we speak as one: Trustees and staff are a single body with no prospect of divide and conquer. Anything else would be wrong.

It is this that some more vociferous elements in the community cannot accept. They try to raise individual trustees up on a pedestal, folk heroes for the masses, who have been elected to stir the pot and (hilariously) ‘sort things out’.

No one person could – or should – sort anything. It is a team effort. If you want to be that kind of hero, I’d suggest you look elsewhere to win your spurs.

What the Trust needs and, in large part, has been successful in attracting, is reasonable, committed people with a desire to put something back into their communities. Those who crave drama and dissent do no justice either to the historic organisation of which they seek to become a part, nor to the wonderful community it encompasses.

More concerning, however, than the pedestal-building, is the bullying.

During my three years, I have witnessed some disgusting displays by members of the public. One recently suggested that I simply cannot handle dissenting voices; he rapidly thought better of his comment and removed it, because he knows as well as I do that I could name and shame those who have been guilty of quite reprehensible conduct. No, correction, I probably couldn’t shame them because what they have said is so abhorrent that I believe them to be beyond the reach of shame. I can handle disagreement and, for that matter, abuse for I’ve received plenty. It shouldn’t be a question of ability to take it, though, should it?

Is this how we want to treat people in public life? Is this the side of our community that we want to show forth?Do we seriously want to make public service an endurance test where we try to break spirits and destroy reputations?  I think that everyone deserves better than the low mud-slinging melee that social media has become in the hands of the few.

The problem, however, is not with the Trust. In three years, I have learned a great deal, and I have – I hope – forged lasting friendships with people that I respect and admire. It has been absorbing and rewarding. Yes, I have much still to learn, but that’s the exciting thing about it. We deal with such a varied portfolio of activity that you never know what a day will bring.

That sounds like a ringing endorsement, doesn’t it? Yet, I cannot in all conscience recommend to anyone that they seek a seat on the Stornoway Trust. Or the Comhairle. Or Bòrd na Gàidhlig. Or the Crofting Commission.

Or any public office that the Facebook bullies have in their sights.

We can say what we like about wanting better representation and talk a good game about more women and more young people . . . but the bullying has to be addressed. I wonder how many decent, capable people are put off making a contribution to their communities because of this rot at the heart of things.

Three years on, I cannot say that the standard of discourse on social media Is better. Indeed, I think it’s far worse. They have learnt nothing. 

Nonetheless, let’s strive for something a little higher than personal attack; let’s bring back respect and honesty – and the ability to disagree with grace. Anything less demeans us all.

Love Letters Straight From My Heart

It has been quite a long time since I wrote anything even approaching a love letter. These days, my bag is more complaining emails and sarcastic texts. But it’s not a skill I plan to lose. So, today, I want to flex my writing arm in tribute to love: love so perfect and so  immeasurable that I think, folks, we’ve got to give it a capital ‘l’.

Love. 

I could tell you about how I met my husband. It would write itself, a blog about the best man I ever knew. And I could reminisce about how, weeks before he died, there were still flowers for me on Valentine’s Day. 

But I have a better love story for you even than that. Oh, and, if you don’t know this other love of mine, you could be forgiven for thinking he’s a bit of a villain. After all, he brought myself and my husband together. He knew we’d be happy. In fact, he saw to it.

And then he split us up.

What a cruel, heartless thing to do. We weren’t old: I was in my late thirties, Donnie was in his early fifties. Our twelfth wedding anniversary was a few months away. Because of his work, we had already been denied a lot of time together. And then, it was over.

All because of Love.

That’s right. Because. Not in spite of love, not denying or ignoring love, but precisely because of it. 

God so loved the world that he gave his only son. These are words as familiar as ‘I love you’ and they mean the same – only more so. The harrowing, hellish, suffering death of Jesus on that cross is God’s love letter to a broken world. Do you think it meant nothing to him, to be separated from his beloved, perfect Son, for my sin and for yours? 

God IS love. He didn’t invent it or create it – he embodies and defines it. What is not patterned on him is not really love, but a pale imitation.

He gave us those three little words that mean so much, that changed the course of not one life but countless thousands forever: 

‘It. Is. Finished.’

My heavenly Father’s love for me deserves a response. It is worthy of acknowledgment. Of all the love letters ever written, his is the only one that was designed to be shared. God wants me to pass it on. And I can do no more than to tell it to you in terms you’ll understand. 

We’re human and, being human, we experience love – if we’re that fortunate – in its various forms. When you find happiness with a life partner, however, it brings a special kind of fulfilment. I had that with Donnie and he, I believe, felt the same.

So, you see, it was real love. The kind that used to make me think I could never live without him.

What stopped me from falling into an abyss of despair, then ? How can I look back on what I had and not feel bitter that it has been taken away?

I must be an amazing person, no?

No. Those who know me are scratching their heads, going, ‘no, that’s definitely not it’ – and they’re right. 

It’s that all this is done in love. Real love. God gave his only, perfect son for me. Does it seem likely he would do anything to gratuitously hurt a person he loves that much? Of course not; God is love. 

A life lived in Christ is a life of love. Even though it may seem that he is inflicting pain, in fact, it is the very opposite. I would not willingly sacrifice the things or the people that he would have me give up, and so, in love, he gently removes them himself.

I love the Lord because he first loved me. And he has gone on loving me. God’s love is not the fragile emotion that we humans sometimes share – it is active, and it follows a set trajectory which ends in perfection. He doesn’t waver, or doubt, or forsake.

So, don’t pity me for my loss: envy me so much for my gain that you do everything you can to secure that love for yourself.

With God, every day is a celebration of real love.

Are you ready, boots?

Everybody has their ‘thing’ and for me it’s shoes. I love them in their infinite variety and yes, that includes boring shoes as well as more    unusual styles. There are glittery unicorn flats and lightning bolt-heeled boots, but on the very next shelf is a pair of brown brogues (and blue ones and red ones and silver . . .). Even my wellies are yellow and covered with bees. Aye, okay, the boring, functional shoes are very much in the minority.

Really, however, I could manage with fewer pairs. In fact, being strictly accurate, I could get by with one. This is especially true at the moment when slippers are what I mostly reach for.

The Bible talks about shoes too. Yes, it repeatedly mentions sandals but I’ve never really got on with them (and I’m sure they’d say the same about me). What I’m referring to is the verse in Ephesians, in the ‘whole armour of God’ passage: ‘as shoes for your feet, having put on the readiness given by the gospel of peace. 

Go looking for commentaries or sermons on this and they will undoubtedly talk about the soldiers, who needed footwear that enabled them to go into battle, secure in the knowledge that it would also permit them to stand their ground when that was necessary. It’s a good analogy for the Christian life, which seems to involve a perplexing mixture of being sent, and of remaining still. I have a whole wardrobe – okay, who am I kidding, room – full of shoes for every different occasion. There are walking boots, wellies and trainers for those times when I have to haul the dog over some bumpy Lewissian terrain; I have any amount of what you might term ‘smart’ (also ‘wacky’ if you’re rude and lacking in taste) shoes for work or socialising; and I have slippers (multiple pairs) for staying still.

But spiritually speaking, there is only one thing your feet need – the one-size fits all, suited to any occasion word of God.

Since curtailment of my outgoing ways became a necessity, I find myself speaking to God more frequently. Indeed, I read his word more assiduously. 

‘Weird’, you might think. After all, I’m not going anywhere; I’m not going out and meeting people much (or at all, officer). Apart from councillors appearing at my window with drams from time to time, and the odd plumber or electrician, no one comes to my home. So, why the increased contact with God?

‘Ah’, the sceptics will say, ‘it’s to assuage the loneliness. Faith is a crutch, a comfort blanket – she just can’t face the fact that she is completely on her own’.

No, that isn’t it. I am putting on the readiness, (as opposed to the agony or the style). You see, living our lives differently isn’t an absence of anything. This is God’s will for me now. For the moment, I don’t have to rush between work and church and meetings and home, with no white space at all in the diary, but plenty white noise.

That was the crutch, that was the comfort blanket. Rush, rush, rush. Barely coming to rest in one place before flying off to another. Always in fabulous shoes, of course.

Now I have time. I am not fitting God in around other commitments. Instead of exhaustedly going through the motions, showing up at church and Sunday School with black circles under my eyes and a short fuse under the bonnet (it’s a car metaphor; I have long since eschewed hats), I am spending quality hours in worship. 

Circumstances will change eventually, of course but that is the wonder of God’s word: the same gospel that is today like slippers for my feet can become boots in which to march, to climb or to fight. The readiness is not in me, but in him.

I can rest on that, knowing his word prepares me for all that he has planned.

Godness Without Goodness

Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Well, the answer to that rather depends on who you ask. Robert Burns, I think, was steering us towards a negative answer. The prophet, Isaiah, on the other hand, urged us to ‘remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old’.

At the turn of the year, it is natural, however, to  reminisce. That other gobby spideag, Scarlett O’ Hara used to advise against such things, warning that the past would drag at your heart until eventually looking back would be all you could do. Normally I’d agree with her, but New Year is a special case. We stand on the threshold of 2021 and, however this twelve-month has served us, it’s hard to resist a last glimpse before finally taking our leave.

The world is in visible chaos. This pandemic drives home a truth that has been with us since our fall in Adam: we are not in control. It may be more apparent to us at this moment in time but it is, actually, no more true than it was last year, last century or last millennium. God has told us this repeatedly. He has told us gently and kindly, he has roared it at us, he has written it in fire and cloud across his beautiful Creation. That is, the same Creation we fractured when we first tried to take his place.

As those who commit wrongs often do, we failed – collectively and individually- to accept the guilt of that presumption. Instead, humankind has wasted all its time and effort trying to prove that God doesn’t exist and, if he does, he’s to blame for wars and childhood cancer, while man furnishes the peace treaties and the cures. 

We fail consistently to go to our Father and repent of this age-old struggle to wrest his godness from him and confer it upon ourselves. 

As a race, humanity lacks humility.

For me, 2020 was a fresh beginning. I came to terms with a lot of things, and put others into their rightful places. Because of the new way of living, I rediscovered the joy of home, and the manifold blessings of this life that my Father ordained for me. 

Another privilege I have enjoyed is peace. That is, the settled peace that permits me to take a step back from my own experience. I view it, if not with a dispassionate eye, then certainly with a perspective that comes from the Lord. If people say things about me that are unjust or untrue, what is that to me? My reputation with God is crucial; he sees and he knows. We may protest our goodness and our kindness, but if our actions witness to the contrary, that is recorded. It is simply a question of deciding whose opinion of me matters and I will take the courts of the Lord ahead of the court of public – or social media – opinion any day of the week.

I cannot say that I deserve the blessings he has poured down upon my head this year. In a period of uncertainty and grief for many, God has been more present than ever, and much more giving than I have any right to expect. Though I cannot say exactly how, I feel that I have turned a corner and that I am ready for a fresh beginning in 2021. Never really having been conscious of particular weakness or vulnerability, it is strange to acknowledge that I feel much stronger and more like my ‘old self’.

She is an old acquaintance that I don’t want to forget: Catriona Murray, Donnie’s wife. There is nothing about those years I would wish to blot from memory. I can survey them with happiness for the life well-lived that joined to mine for a time. Now, I am someone else. A germ of that same Catriona went into making this present incarnation, but I am renewed and refined by all that has happened since I held my husband’s hand for the last time. 

And because of these experiences, I ponder the resurrection of believers and see the same mind, the same creative hand at work. God can take us and make us into something else. Catriona the wife and Catriona the widow are the same person, and yet, not.  

He is working in his people, the world over, right at this very moment. Look at your loved ones – little children, old ladies and everyone in between: if they belong to him, he is remaking them in his own image once more. Perhaps he will have to bend them, and pummel them and change them almost beyond recognition, but he is conforming them to the original pattern of perfection.

We try to take his godness from him, and to possess it for ourselves. But, if we would only recognise his goodness and submit to it in Christ, 2021 could be a year of renewal and blessing for all.

Remember how he told you?

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m a slow learner when it comes to trusting my well-being to Jesus. Consistently faithful, wise, good and loving though he is, I can’t help trying to wrest control back for myself. 

Though I would never say that I doubt, my very actions suggest otherwise.

See, we all have pretty fixed ideas of how things ‘should’ turn out. We even do it in our prayers, telling God what’s wrong and suggesting our preferred solutions. When his answer is ‘no’, ‘not now’ or ‘not that way’ we sometimes fail to recognise it as an answer at all.

The disciples had their own preconceived ideas of how the redemptive plan should unfold. Nowhere in their thinking did a dead Saviour feature. That one event which dashed all their hopes in Jesus was actually the defining work of the Messiah – and yet, it momentarily killed the dream.

The angels guarding the empty tomb put things straight with these simple words:

‘Remember how he told you.’

We have, in all things to fall back on him; on his trustworthiness and on his wisdom. What he says, is or will be. No doubt. He has told us so, and we have only to hold fast to that.

These 24 blogs on the life of Christ began with the Angel visiting Mary, and ended at chapter 24 with the Ascension. 

Only, of course, his life did not end there. It goes on still, with him seated at the right hand of God. Trust that fact.

Trust that your life also began with him, and stretches onwards with his, through eternity. If, that is, you belong to him.

Do you? His is the only name under heaven by which we must be saved.

Remember how he told you?

And their voices prevailed

I like getting my own way of at all possible. In that, I’m probably no different to the majority of the population. We can all be single-minded in our pursuit of what we desire, and the fact is that when I get my way, it may be that someone else’s hopes are simultaneously dashed. As I triumph, there is potentially another who weeps. 

That is why, in pursuing our aims in life, we need to be very careful about the impact realising these can have on others. We need to be sure that slavish attachment to our own opinions are not the means of doing great harm. 

I think, for example, of the people who wish to remove the Bible and Christian teaching from school life. They say they wish children to have a choice, and not to be brainwashed . . . but see the means of achieving this as being to excise all information about God from their young people’s experience. 

They know this is illogical, but they want it anyway. People who are doggedly pursuing a goal will justify it to themselves any way they can. 

When Jesus was brought before Pilate, the charges against him were found to be without foundation. Nevertheless, the crowd bayed for his life to be forfeit. They did not want to hear Pilate’s logic; they wanted Jesus dead.

And what did Pilate do? ‘He delivered Jesus over to their will’.

Look at the devastation our will can wreak. In that moment, they insisted on getting what they wanted – and what they wanted was to see God himself hanging on a cross. 

Of course, they chose to free Barabbas instead. I wonder if he witnessed the crucifixion of Christ, and if he marvelled at the innocent man dying in his place. 

And I wonder what the people who had demanded this did next, I wonder what they thought. Luke’s narrative only describes their collective behaviour. Every mob, though, is made up of individual souls, and each one is capable of being reached by Christ. Did any leave the scene broken by what they had done? Were there contrite hearts in that assembly?

We saw in the previous chapter how Jesus freely surrendered his own will to God. Where would the human race be if he had insisted on his own way, so that the cup of death would pass from him? 

If Jesus who is perfect had been so consumed with being right that he had insisted on his own way in everything, we would be a hopeless race indeed.

But Jesus, in his perfection, submitted to the Father’s will. God’s will is that none shall perish.

What is so good about your own way when it opposes eternal life?