My act of worship

Diary
Wednesday
Got up. Made porage and sandwiches. Dressed. Took children to school. Went to Sainsburys. Came home. Resisted temptation to leave shopping on kitchen floor and unpacked bag after bag after bag of shopping. Listened to the Archers. Walked the dog. Fetched children from school. Cooked dinner. Took son to football training. Fetched son from football training. Watched TV. Came to bed. Fell in gratefully, relieved to have got through another day. Thank God.

Thank God for his gift of the Holy Spirit who alone gave me the courage to get out of bed this morning.
Thank God that he enabled me to quash the unknowable fears that overtake my mind at the prospect of a trip to the supermarket.
Thank Jesus that his name, silently mouthed in the frozen foods aisle, is a refuge from terror which threatens.
Thank God for the wonder of his creation and the dog whose need for exercise forces me to step out of myself.
Thank God today for the violets, fragile delicate blooms, not intimidated by more powerful neighbours and hard winter conditions. Against the odds, they return renewed and beautiful, time after time, a triumph of hope over reality.
Thank God for the victories of the day, small, insignificant though they appear, they made the difference.

This then is my life at the moment.

So here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life — your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-round life — and place it before God as an offering.Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him.

This then is my offering, my worship.
A litany of fears and anxieties; a shambling, pathetic offering to God.
I stand before him, a shuffling cripple, and say, ‘Take me as I am, I can come no other way.’ Weak and helpless, I can do no more, or no less, than call on him.
And in response he walks beside me, he holds my hand, he carries me. He wipes my tears and understands my fears - fears I don’t even understand myself.
And he is triumphant. He turns my weakness into his strength. He offers hope that things can change.

Then I will go to the altar of God, to God, my joy and my delight. I will praise you with the harp, O God, my God. Why are you downcast, O my soul? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my saviour and my God.


The bits in italics are from the bible, the first from The Message translation, the second from the NIV.

The parable of the builder

A builder was told to go to Swansea and build a new church. He was to spare no expense as it was to be a special church, the best church he could build. To start him off on his task his boss gave him a foundation stone made of pure gold.

When he arrived in Swansea the builder began to gather materials to build the church but instead of going to the usual merchants he trawled scrapyards, junk heaps and rubbish tips for damaged bricks, cracked glass and rotted wood. Other builders in Swansea who’d heard rumours about this new special church laughed at him but he just smiled and kept on collecting the bricks rejected by everyone else.

Then he began to build the church. First he put in place the foundation stone his boss had given him. Then he carefully laid down bricks cementing them together with patience; he glued the glass back together with care; and he repaired the wood with love.

As the church took on its shape the other builders laughed even more because from the outside it looked shabby and marred. But anyone who ventured inside found it to be more magnificent than the cathedrals of old, full of precious stones, diamonds and rubies, emeralds and sapphires, that sparkled and shone in the glow of the foundation stone.

The parable of the black sheep and the shepherd

There was a flock of sheep. Most of them enjoyed life but not all of them were happy.

There was a black sheep. All the other sheep made fun of him because he was different.

An ugly sheep was fed up of being told by the other sheep that he was useless and good for nothing.

A sheep who’d spent most of his life in a pen struggled to fit in with the others. None of them trusted him and wouldn’t let him play with them.

A sheep who had been wounded couldn’t keep up with the other sheep and was always being left behind.

One of the sheep liked to travel from place to place. The other sheep thought he was mad and turned their backs on him whenever he turned up.

The shepherd didn’t give a monkeys about the sad sheep and the rejected sheep; he only cared about the size of his flock.

But one day another shepherd appeared and he knew the black sheep, the ugly sheep, the one who couldn’t fit in, the one who’d been hurt and the one who was only there sometimes and he called them by name.

And they left the flock and followed him to a place where the ground was level and all sheep were accepted.

Zac's psalm of gratitude

Give thanks to the Lord for he is good.

His love endures forever.

His grace is more than we need.

He has saved us and promises us life eternal.

His love for us is unconditional, undeserving though we are.

He doesn’t ask or expect us to measure up to his standards

but with patience and understanding

he helps us through the struggles on our daily journey.

His love endures forever.

Give thanks to the Lord

for Jesus, his son;

for the inspiration of John Smith and the ministry of Sean Stillman

through whom the community of Zac’s Place came into being;

for us, the ragamuffins, walking miracles testifying to the goodness of God.

His love endures forever.

Give thanks to the Lord

for today, for the miracle of each new day,

for sunshine and for rain,

for the food we are going to eat,

for tea and biscuits,

for the wonder of new life,

for the best smile in Swansea,

for this our family and for on-going friendship.

His love endures forever.

Give thanks to the Lord

who has chosen us and shown us his vision,

whose promises can be trusted,

who gives us our talents and the calling in which to use them,

who has provided us with a courageous spirit

that helps us to be open to new experiences,

who grants us peace during the hard times,

who makes his will known to us,

and who gives us the strength to accept that will.

His love endures forever.

Give thanks to the Lord, the bringer of peace.

We are new creations, new once and for always.

We are recovering and recovered

and one day our recovery will be complete.

For this we thank you, Lord.

His love endures forever.

We eagerly anticipate the rest of the exciting journey

that will see your promises and plans for us fulfilled.

For freedom of choice, for individuality,

for a reason to go on living, we thank you, Lord,

His love endures forever.

Because you won’t take a day off from caring, we give you thanks.

Because you will blow away the smoke and all that blurs our senses,

we thank you Lord.

His love endures forever.

One Night

Naomi

Oh Elimelech, what have I done? I have sent the girl to … to prostitute herself. For what else is it if she lies at a man’s feet and asks to share his bed? What would Mahlon say if he were here? But he’s not; like you he’s dead and gone and that is why we have to resort to these measures. How could God take you all from us? Why, God, why did you do it? Was it something I did? So bad that you chose to punish me by taking my husband and my sons? Oh Elimelech, I wish you were here now.

But have I done wrong again? By telling Ruth to go to Boaz have I sinned again? But what was I to do? We have nothing. It is by Boaz’s generosity that we are managing to live. He is a good man, honest and true. Unlike your cousin, who, I know, is our closest kinsman-redeemer. I hear nothing but bad about him in the town. Would you have Ruth tied up in marriage with him? Pah.

She will be all right with Boaz. She will be safe; he is not a man to take advantage of her. I would never forgive myself if I had sent her to your cousin and he had abused her. Every day I thank God for her and I am sorry it has come to this, to begging for help. But is it begging? We are only asking for what is lawful and expected. But it is much to ask of a man, to put his own estate at risk, his own name.

Yet Ruth is a prize worth having. She is a foreigner it’s true, and from Moab at that, but I have seen the way young men watch her as she walks down the road. She keeps her eyes averted and does nothing to draw attention to herself but still they watch and admire her. She will make him a good wife and bear him many children. If he will redeem our land.

Oh, Elimelech, have I done right?

Ruth

I cannot sleep. How can I when I lie, unbeknownst to him, at the feet of a man? If I did not know that Naomi is a good woman I would question her instructions. But I love her as my own mother. She would not send me into wrongdoing.

But to dress in my best clothes, to wash and perfume my body and then to lie next to a man – who is little more than a stranger to me – is alien to me. It goes against everything I have ever learned. But I trust Naomi. She knows what she is doing.

And Boaz is a good man. He has treated us well; he has been generous and kind. I need not fear him.

But yet, he is a man. Who is to say how a man may behave in any situation? He may wake and be angry. He may forbid me to glean in his fields. Or he may wake and not recognise me; he may think I am a prostitute for his pleasure. Oh Naomi, what have you sent me into?

But Boaz is a good man. I know that. I have heard them in the town talk of him with respect and he has treated me well. I do not need to be afraid.

But he is a man of wealth and position. He can take his choice of women to have as a wife. Why would he agree to marry me, a Moabite, a stranger? Are the laws of this land so binding that he would be obliged? And if he married me because he was forced to, what kind of marriage would that be? A marriage without love would be hard to bear.

And yet if that is what I must do to provide a home and a future for us then so be it. I will do it for Naomi.

And marriage to Boaz would not be too hard I am sure; he has shown himself to be gentle and honest.

I pray that morning comes soon and I will know what the future may hold. Mahlon, if you watch over me, keep close to me tonight.

Boaz

My God, she is so beautiful. When I woke to find her at my feet my heart raced. Would that morning come quickly so that I may know my fate. I cannot bear to see such a one as this married to that oaf of a cousin of mine; yet I must do what is right. I must choose my words carefully when I approach him.

People have said to me in the past, ‘Boaz, isn’t it time you took a wife? Think of your family name.’ And I’m sure some of the same people will say the same thing to me if God grants my request and I marry this girl.

So young, so loving, so good to Naomi. And so beautiful. What care I if she is from Moab? I have seen her work and humble herself – even to this, to lying at my feet and asking for marriage. How much must that have cost her? Her nobility of spirit becomes her well.

No! I must restrain myself from reaching out to stroke her hair. I can smell her perfume and feel the warmth of her body. I hear her soft breathing. I long to hold her close.

But am I an old fool? Would I be so willing to be Naomi’s kinsman redeemer if her daughter-in-law were ugly and vain? Am I just another whose head has been turned by a pretty girl? I cannot fool myself that she comes to me out of love – except for Naomi.

But maybe she will grow to love me. She is the one I have been waiting for. I think I knew that from the first moment I saw her.

God of my fathers, if this be your will let me be a good husband to Ruth and a good son-in-law to Naomi.

Morning cannot come soon enough.

Zac’s psalm

God, I am miserable and broken-hearted.
I want to get drunk.
My thoughts are racing.
I feel frustrated, confused and anxious.
I’m knackered and impatient.
Bollocks! I’m lost!

I want to find understanding
but I’m apathetic and skint.
I’m pondering, searching, wondering
where God is.

I’m hopeful … and sorrowful.
Have you forgiven me yet, God?
Where did it all go wrong?
Get me out of here!

Prove that you can make things real;
Prove that you are God.

Can you stop all war?
Can you take away all illness?
Can you give me back my Dad?
Can you make my little girl better?
Can your make your people as one?
Can you stop your church making people feel guilty?
Can you tell your church to accept everybody as they are?What right have we got to judge each other?

Sometimes it feels you’re there;
other times it doesn’t.
Sometimes I hear you clearly;
other times I don’t.

Which truth is truth?
Show me the way.
Jesus is the way.

I’m sorry, God.
Help me to forgive myself and others.
Thank you for your love and acceptance.
Thank you for not taking away my toys.

You’re not Santa Claus: what can I do for you, God?
Help me to do the right thing.
Help me to do what you want
rather than what I want.

Thank you for being there when I needed you;
thank you for my beautiful sunflower.
Give me peace, God.
Please answer my prayers.

Bathsheba: harlot or innocent?

Harlot
My husband is dead.

Is there nothing the king will not do for me?

They say he died a hero’s death, at the head of his troops; they say I can be proud of him. Proud of him? Proud of that fool? Who preferred the company of his men to mine. Who has been oblivious to my needs. Others have noticed my loneliness. Many men have tried to seduce me with their sympathy and false words, but I had eyes for one prize only.

I will, of course, mourn my loss as a grieving widow should but when the due time has passed the king will take me as his own – his preferred – wife, and my child –our child – his son – for surely this is a son I carry in my womb – we will take our place at his side.

You look surprised. Surely you do not believe – as I feel sure the king does – that this story is of his making? As if a mere man can outwit or stand against the plans of woman. Was it coincidence did you think that the King should chance to see me bathing? Did you imagine that I had not watched him for long nights until I was sure that he would be on the roof when I took my bath? And did I not choose the perfect place where the light of the moon reflected giving my skin a honeyed glow, and my silhouette was crisp against the wall? As I brushed my hair, didn’t each long slow stroke draw him ever closer into my web?

Of course I resisted. When he sent for me I tarried and played the coy maiden. See, how easy it is with a sweep of my shawl to become demure. ‘What am I that your Lord should honour me thus?’ And when I succumbed - finally - and we fell into his bed, I sighed and moaned and said those things that men like to hear before I allowed my desire to be sated. Always allowing him to think that he is in control. That is the secret.

The king, of course, thought he could resolve the situation; he could solve ‘the problem’ by having Uriah brought home on a pretext. I hadn’t expected him to come up with that idea but Uriah was easily persuaded that a good soldier would not enjoy the pleasure of his wife while his men continued to suffer hardship on the battleground. The stupid fool. He could have saved his life he had but known.

But now the King has walked on the dark side. And only he and I know. He is mine. Our futures are linked irrevocably. And my child will be raised in the royal household as befits the king’s own, and I will teach him the ways of the world that he must understand so he can make real my - his - dream. For it will be to the child of mine that the kingdom of David will pass.

Innocent
My husband is dead. My husband is dead. Even though I am told it over and over again I cannot believe it. They say he died a hero’s death, on the front line. And I fear …

He was a fine warrior; so how then did he find himself at the front with no defence? He wouldn’t have been there unless he’d been ordered and who could have issued that order?

You are surprised. You don’t expect me to mourn for my husband? He may not have been the best but he was gentle and good. He deserved better. Better than this death. Better than me.

I see you look at me with doubtful eyes; you know the secrets of my heart; I cannot be false with you. So surely you will believe me when I say I mourn for his loss. And I am so fearful.
Fearful for what will become of me, of us, now that he is dead. Will I be left widowed and my unborn child shamed? Will he – the father of my child – help us? Or has he already done as much as he thinks needed?

But they say he is man after God’s own heart. Surely a man, a king such as he would not risk the damage to his soul, the price that playing with the life of another would cost. Yet are we not both guilty of breaking the laws laid down by God? If he would break one law, why baulk at another?

If I had known that first evening when he sent for me what would be the result … would I still have gone? For surely I was flattered by the attention of a man such as he. And my husband has given me little enough attention over the years. You know how lonely I have been. While he has been the perfect soldier, always thinking first of his men and later of me.

But he, he seemed to understand my yearning for a touch, to feel another’s skin upon my own. He who had brought a giant to his feet now knelt at my feet and stroked them, his fingers long and tender. He whispered and smiled at my shyness, bringing his hand up to raise my chin so that I was looking into his eyes, and seeing in them my own longing reflected back at me.

It wasn’t his good looks that softened my heart though doubtless many will say it was. No, it was the words that he spoke. Words of pure golden nectar that touched me deep in my soul. And the songs he sang as I sat back, eyes closed just so I could listen with my everything. So that when we finally lay together, just the touch of his fingertips alighted in me a flame of love so powerful that nothing or nobody could have kept us apart. Where I had been numb I was alive. I shiver with longing even now as I recall those precious moments when he and I were as one.

But now the shiver turns to one of fear and dread as I remember my dead husband and my unborn child. And I weep.

The wood for the trees

I used to keep God in a box. Well, actually it was a tin, a Golden Virginia tobacco tin that my grandfather gave me. I kept the tin on the bookshelf in my bedroom next to Five Get Lost at Sea. Every night before I went to sleep, I’d take down the tin, open it and talk to God.
Then, one day, I caught chickenpox. I soon discovered how boring it was staying in and it made me wonder if God got bored in my tobacco tin so I put him in the pocket of my jacket with my Polos instead. That way he came everywhere I went and, as I kept my jacket in my wardrobe, I could still talk to him at night. He stopped smelling of tobacco and started smelling of mints.

But one day I was getting ready to go out and I couldn’t find my jacket. I said, ‘Mum, have you seen my denim jacket?’
She said, ‘That old thing? You’re getting too big for that. I thought I’d get you a new one for your birthday.’
‘But where is it?’ I said.
‘Oh, some people were collecting for starving children in Ethiopia so I gave it to them,’ she said.
‘What good’s my jacket to starving children? And how could you do that without asking me?’
‘Haven’t you got any homework to do?’ my mother said.

I found out which shop it had gone to and I went to get it back but they must have packed it up and sent it already because it wasn’t there. I was upset at first but then I thought God would probably be more use to a starving child than to me ‘cos I had plenty to eat and he was good at making food go round. And after a while I got used to it, not talking to God, I mean. I missed our chats at first but then I met Kevin and I forgot about God.

Then not that long ago I got friendly with a girl called Sue. One day we were having hot chocolate in Verdi’s when she suddenly looked at me, all intently. I thought I must have cream on my nose and I went to wipe it but she said, ‘I’ve got to ask you – have you met Jesus?’

I was about to say that I used to know his dad when she said, ‘only I’d love you to come to our church and I could introduce you to Jesus.’

I thought I might as well go so I did and Sue introduced me to lots of people but none of them was called Jesus. I thought perhaps he was using a different name so as not to stand out, so I sniffed a few just in case. But no-one smelled familiar.

I was a bit disappointed because I’d been looking forward to meeting Jesus, but I kept on going because they were nice people and I didn’t want to hurt Sue’s feelings. Then one day, the man at the front was talking about God being omnipresent. He said that means he’s everywhere, ‘in the sky, in the trees, in the clouds, in the wind,’ he said. ‘Mmm,’ I thought, and the next day I went for a walk around the cliffs. And, do you know, he was right. God was there. I could see him in the brightness of the sunlight; could hear him in the crashing of the waves; taste him in the salt of the spray; smell him in the coconut gorse; feel him in the wind on my face. He’d put poetry in my soul. It was bad poetry, but it was a start.

I was so excited, I couldn’t wait to tell Sue. I phoned her when I got home. ‘Sue, I’ve met God round the cliffs.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ she said.
‘And he smells of coconut.’
‘Oh,’ she said.

I kept going to church but I used to sit there feeling smug. All these people who’ve got it wrong I’d think. I wanted to tell them God wasn’t in church but round the cliffs, I could show them the exact spot, but I thought that was being a bit cheeky as I was a relative newcomer so I just sat there and hugged my secret to myself. It was a bit like having God in my tin again, just for me.

Then one day, a few weeks ago, I was in a meeting, and listening to someone speaking. Actually I was half listening because I was looking around at the same time. At the other side of the room I could see a man with a beard. He was making coffee for someone who’d just arrived late. Standing next to him was a man with a shaved head and lots of tattoos; I’d seen him deal gently with a drunk. Sitting at one side was a woman. You can see from her face that her life hasn’t been easy but her eyes were shining. Near her was another woman. Her eyes were closed but her skin that only months ago had been furrowed was smooth. Across from them were two lads who, despite having their own troubles, help others in charity shops. And then there was the man whose wife is seriously ill. And the girl whose intelligence and thoughtfulness can stay hidden unless it’s looked for. And the woman who doesn’t often speak but when she does, you want to listen. And the man and his dog who share everything. And the woman who’s come into the warm to sleep. Then I caught the eye of the speaker and he’s grinning as he talks over the snoring.

And suddenly I realised. I’d been looking so hard I couldn’t see.

God was in church, just as real-ly as he is out on the cliffs. And maybe he does smell of coconut or tobacco or mints - or alcohol.