Lucy Moore started what she called Messy Church near Portsmouth, England in 2004. It’s a great idea – gather a group of parents, kids and everyone else who wants to come along for some good old fashioned hands-on crafts, cooking, and worship.
We ate cake at church this Sunday. I think many churches did; it’s always nice to celebrate birthdays with cake, and this Sunday was Pentecost after all. But at my church, we also celebrated our saint’s day. So, as good Presbyterians, we baked and thought about history.
“Take a look around. The gender inequality that you see is in your mind. So are the cultural beliefs about gender.” Cordelia Fine
When Cordelia Fine’s book Delusions of Gender: The Real Science behind Sex Differences came out last fall, there was a lot of media flutter. And so there should have been. Fine’s is a necessary book.
I am sure that you have heard about the Toronto family that is keeping the sex of their 4-month baby a secret. It seems that the story is popping up everywhere. And people are taking sides.
I had a beautiful moment this past week. I was talking with a family about an upcoming funeral, through ideas for hymns, scripture readings and the rest. Their elderly mother had died, and the three adult offspring and I were working together to compile a service that reflected her faith. One of them mentioned that their mother used to recite scripture with them at bedtime, and together they started to remember it aloud.
Last week, I mentioned Stephen Cherry’s book Barefoot Disciple, and I want to share a bit more about it this week. The book itself came into my hands quite serendipitously. I had read a blurb about it while preparing my Lenten reading list, and at that stage, had entered in on my Goodreads account as a book I wanted to read. Then, of course, I forgot about it.
Twice recently I’ve flubbed the question. On two separate occasions, interested, intelligent and childless friends have asked me how I fill my time with a two year old. As if it might be difficult. Or, perhaps more to the point, boring.
As the Record’s London correspondent, I suppose it would be remiss to ignore the royal wedding. It would also be a little tricky, given the household were I spent my time.
I am writing this late on Saturday night, after a long day. It’s been a day of preparation, and lots of it. Up early to get some dough made, then kids to breakfast, and off grocery shopping early, hoping to avoid the crowds. Not too many bumps along the way, not too much extraneous chocolate in the shopping basket. All well.
I saw you on the Tube today with all those suitcases. You looked tired. I think you just got here – you had that look. I remember it from my own face, too. Maybe you didn’t sleep on the plane; maybe you are just overwhelmed by all the noise, all the faces. I smiled a bit when our eyes met, but I think I just made you feel awkward and a bit defensive, so I looked back to my book.
I didn’t go to work that one day last week so I wasn’t on the train that afternoon. I would have been there, sitting and waiting, but I had decided to work from home instead. But when I got to the station the next morning, I saw the signs.
My table has been messy with baking this afternoon. They say that Lenten Sundays are feast days, and so I obliged. Though it’s not just Lent that got me feasting. It’s really Purim.
It is proving to be a difficult Lent. The news is so full of upheaval and suffering. Devastation. Desolation. World events before which we fall silent.
We want to respond, despite our distance, but we don’t know what to do. We don’t even know how to grasp all this suffering. Our imaginations seem poor. But we want to respond.
Part of my job description is to throw parties. No joke. I am to provide social activities for our congregation. So, as I mentioned in last week’s post, I threw a party last Saturday in the church hall.
The Spouse was ranting this morning at breakfast. Okay, an exaggeration, that. No one at our breakfast this morning could muster the energy required for a rant. We’ve just had a very full weekend. Friday was Beangirl’s first Photo Day at school, and, in the evening, I had a Kirk Session meeting. Saturday was spent at church, enjoying a rather chaotic and happy afternoon of messy crafts and games with the Sunday School children. Then yesterday…
When I started this blog, I was thinking about the on-going lived theology of living with little ones. I wanted to look at parenting as an experiment in the best possible sense: living out your beliefs with those you love.
Well, in the midst of the experimenting this past week, I got laughed at.
“Look at the streets of Cairo; this is what hope looks like.”
Ahdaf Soueif, author of the Booker prize nominated novel The Map of Love.
Okay, it’s time for a friendly neighbourhood survey from the Messy Table. Let’s talk tables.
What’s your table like?
On Monday morning I went to ask God for a sign and found the cathedral locked. I’m trying hard to read this as a sign to look for God in other places than cathedrals, and not to stop looking for God.
Vancouver Poet, Adrienne Smith
I was washing the dishes when I heard the speech. There’s something about the hands-in-suds pose, isn’t there? I do a lot of listening at the sink. The radio murmurs on during the clatter of dinner prep or in the quiet in the afternoon, but when I run the hot water tap and pile in the plates and the ears turn on. Of course, speech is the same speech everyone else has been talking about this past week – US President Barack Obama’s speech at last Wednesday’s memorial service in Tucson, honouring the victims of the January 8th shooting.