Pembrokeshire Coast Path : Part 3

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"I arise today through a mighty strength
the strong name of the Trinity
through belief in the threeness
through the confession of the oneness
of the creator of creation.”

This prayer from the Hymn of St Patrick has given me courage on many mornings when I’ve felt a bit overwhelmed by particular challenges ahead of me.  I have decided to make it my morning prayer each day that I am able to walk.  Trinity Sunday is approaching and I find myself at this magical interface between Sea, Land and Sky where so much lives and moves and has its being.  I love the smell of the sea, I love the flight and cry of the sea birds, the feel of the wind, sun, rain, the soft grass and hard rocks beneath my feet, the delicate colours and shapes of the cliff top flowers.  Ramsey Island looks majestic and in the Sound the currents are racing and roaring through ‘The Bitches’.

I also adopt a through-the-day prayer:

“Be thou my vision O Lord of my heart
Naught be all else to me save that thou art
Thou my best thought in the day and the night
Both waking and sleeping, Thy presence my light.”

A vision of beauty and strength, and so easy to believe in, being where I find myself now.

My feet are now dully painful and I am walking fast.  It’s time to make a decision: do I take an easy day today by stopping at St David’s, giving myself time to look around and time to recover?  I defer the decision because I now reach the spot where “the Age of the Saints” begins to leave its evidence.  St Non was the mother of St David and he was born nearby during a great storm in AD 462.  The present Chapel of St Non was built in 1934 near the site of the original one, which in turn was near a holy well.  This well was renowned for its healing properties, especially for eye diseases.  The little chapel, built in the Celtic style, is cool and peaceful.  I light a candle and say prayers musing on the fact that the God I meet in here is the same God of the cliffs, the winds and the seas.  Later, I decide that I prefer that little building to St David’s Cathedral which is nice but full of tourists and tour parties.  In the Cathedral I don’t seem to find that ‘heart’ that I did with my little candle in St Non’s – but it’s a lovely building nonetheless and the ruins of the Bishop’s Palace are even grander!  I shop and picnic in a little park.  In the chemists I discover some ‘miracle’ blister plasters, which is just as well as the little devils are worse than ever after my rest.  I continue on to the delightful port of Solva and a delicious cream tea.  Suddenly I think to myself, “I could have spent two weeks just doing this – lazing in the sun and feeding my face – why am I not normal?”  But even the idea of the (relatively) easy day has gone out the window as I feel myself driven onwards.  I wash my feet in the sink in the café toilet and apply the plasters – no difference at all – what did I expect? I suppose there are miracles and then there are MIRACLES. 

Now the path becomes really cruel: up and down and up and down.  I am doing my exaggerated limp again but it’s still agony and putting a strain on my right thigh.  I confide in an elderly couple coming the other way.  “I swear by Vaseline,” said the man, “rub some Vaseline on them by all means.”  The wind is really blowing up now.  Eventually I flop down on the campsite behind the storm beach at Newgale.  I hobble to the shop to see if they sell alternative footwear.  I’m beginning to dream about a pair of sandals.  I make some supper and a wonderful woman from a neighbouring caravan brings me a cup of tea in a 50’s cup.

Facing up to my feelings: I am still enjoying the scenery and the variety of the weather and the challenge.  Its ironic: in a sense blisters are so superficial and trivial – the rest of me is slightly fatigued but fine really, considering the distance and terrain covered – and yet they are so awful and insidious.  I desperately want to complete this walk and I’m annoyed.  I’ve met other walkers and they haven’t had blisters.  If only my other boots had been all right.  The pain is always there and makes everything difficult but at the same time I’m not beaten and my spirits are constantly being raised.  Today I have eaten: beans & sausage, orange, banana, the rest of the hobnobs, a loaf of bread with ham, yoghurt, apple, cream tea, tomato soup, spaghetti & coronation chicken.

I had gone to bed at 10 pm but now wake at 1 am because my blisters are fighting back in angry mood.  In the dark I search my pack for penknife and disinfectant swabs.  Piercing them and releasing the pressure eases the pain slightly.  I’m going to have to pack it in.  No doubt I could carry on in the morning but I’ll only pay for it in increasing measure at night and this is no fun.  In neighbouring tents there are five fresh and fit looking men, who are doing a small part of the walk over three days.  In the morning I tell them that I’m going to take it easy.  (“Shall I give up?  Take a day or two off to recover and not worry if I don’t have time to finish?  I might as well enjoy myself!”)  I clean and treat my feet with all bar one of the ‘miracle’ plasters, then sit around and quickly get bored.  “This is not a good place for a day off.”  I buy some Vaseline and cover the friction points of my feet and then try my boots on laced very loose now.  “Not too bad – I’ll go for it, a little way at least.”  I set off from Newgale along the beach.  There are the Scousers again, very friendly, but then it’s their last day so they can afford to feel elated.  One of them has blisters too.  At the end of the beach I scramble up to regain the cliff top path.  It’s cloudy and cool but pleasant.  Amazingly my feet seem to have found a new lease of life. 

At Norton Haven I pass my neighbours of last night – all five of them chatting up an attractive blonde woman – like bees round a honey pot.  They look surprised to see me and I fancy the blonde casts me a wistful look as I stride past.  (I hope they tell her of my earlier pain and I imagine her secret admiration of a real man!).  I stride boldly to the top of the headland where all of a sudden a new blister bursts.  I just can’t believe it.  I really could cry like a baby.  However, I use my last futile ‘miracle’ patch and continue to Broad Haven.  Here I walk straight into a surf shop and lash out £50 on a pair of ‘Reef’ hi-performance sandals, not counting the cost.  Immediately I find another new lease of life and relish walking with the fresh air blowing on my toes.  My boots are heavy and I feel it in the increased weight of my pack but that means nothing to me – I can cope with everything as long as the little demons down at ground level stay asleep.  I picnic at Little Haven – one time coal port, now picturesque holiday village – then on through a change in scenery: the path along the cliff top is wooded, the ground is level and follows the contour, the undergrowth has recently been cut.  Everything seems suddenly to be in my favour.  As I had descended into Broad Haven I had prayed for the ‘exorcism’ of my blisters.  Was all this an answer?

It’s a good push on to St Brides along a lovely coastline.  By the time I get there and visit the little church my feet are complaining again somewhat.  I push myself on a bit further, pausing to watch the gannets give a fine display of diving and fishing skills over Musslewick bay, before eventually stopping to camp at East Hook Farm.  I feel very proud of myself but still wonder how much longer I can go on.

Next Episode

Inside Story

“Do you believe in Father Christmas?”  I thought I had settled that one long ago – but now I’m not so sure!

Christmas has been a long time coming in our house.  Or, looking at it another way, I’m not sure Christmas ever really finished last time.  ‘The Snowman’ was weaving his magic amongst us every day for the first half of the year.  In the height of summer ‘Wow – that’s what I call Christmas’ took over – ever smiling presenters Carl and Katie (aided by Bump and Super Ted) reeling off a string of Christmas Favourites – first thing every morning.  The Christmas Tree has been out of sight but never really out of mind, and we eventually gave in to repeated requests and got it out a couple of weeks ago.  Strangely, that prompted a dramatic loss of festive interest (sudden arrival giving the lie to expectation, I suppose) but things are picking up again now.  Imogen is waiting for it to snow so that she too can go ‘walking in the air’ and she is always on the look out for Santa.

Not that she has to look too far.  She has her very own Santa outfit and, even when she’s not wearing it, the correct answer to ‘What’s Father Christmas doing?’ is to state exactly what Imogen is doing at that moment, “Eating his breakfast” or “Sitting on his potty”!

It’s not that a child of nearly 3 does not have some grasp on reality, but it’s fair to say that imagination and ‘reality’ have, as yet, no clearly defined boundary.  FC is a great character and part of a wonderful story and I suppose he offers a role that anyone can ‘inhabit’, if they wish.

I’ve even quite enjoyed accompanying Imogen and Jemima into Santa’s grotto – you could actually see the half-made toys on his workbench – but there was something I found disconcerting and eventually I worked out what it was.  It was the attempt to go beyond an understated enactment of the story.  The attempt to impress on the children that this particular ‘Santa’ was watching them, that their presents were in his keeping and if they were good he would visit the house and deliver them to the waiting stockings.  I don’t know if I can get my feeling across, but there was an attempt to literalise the story, which threatened to undercut its real nature as a story.  The only (eventual) outcome is for the beauty of the myth and such truth as it possesses to sink in the cold grey waters of hard and disappointing fact.

For me this raises questions about the other Christmas Story – what we often call the ‘true meaning’ of Christmas.  Is that one (just) for the children?  Within it, where does the boundary between imagination and ‘reality’ lie and in what sense is the relationship between the two an important one?  Are they correct who would strenuously assert it all as historical fact or is that just to deny many people the power of the story, which, as inspiring story, can perhaps change the facts of our lives?

Then again there’s the third Christmas Story – the story in the ads.  It says “Spend your money like this, buy into this image and your home will be full of all the happiness and harmony that you could wish for.”

I said that Santa is part of a wonderful story – it is rather a simplistic one though – be good and be rewarded, be naughty and you won’t.  The ‘real’ Christmas story has far more in it, enough to make us question and ponder for a lifetime.

Facts are important, sometimes they are vital.  But I don’t think the human spirit is sustained by fact.  What we need is poetry, imagination and good role models – no, that sounds too mundane – we need to have our imaginations fired up with a vision of the shape our lives could take, if we are to live fully in response to the grace of God.

Pembrokeshire Coast Path : Part 2

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I cook my pasta in stream water, not having much left in my bottle, and eat it with sardines in tomato sauce – slightly more interesting than last night’s meal but that’s not saying much.  I edge closer to the fire as the embers start to cool.  After a bit of a dismal start it had been a great day.   Now I have only the fire, the sea and the seals for company.  The waves are rolling in and I watch a lobster-pot buoy which keeps riding in on successive waves but is always pulled up short by its rope, making it look like a surfer ‘without enough bottle’.  I eventually go to sleep feeling very self-satisfied at my self-sufficiency and self-congratulating that where some would be easily scared, I was sleeping out on this desolate headland – without any fear.

That was at 10 pm.  At 10.30 I am awake again.  Why?  I’m dog-tired, but something has woken me!  What?  What was that noise?  Silence.  There it is again - indefinable and therefore sinister.  In a tent you feel vulnerable.  Every noise is magnified.  You can’t see and you have no protection.  “It was nothing” I tell myself.  But I’m not convinced ….  There had been ravens on the path just before I stopped.  Some birds sing sweetly and lighten your spirit.  Ravens give a rasping croak!  Dark and sinister, they live in the tower of London where people have been locked up and beheaded in the shadows.  Earlier, in Fishguard, I had read about countless ships wrecked on these very shores.  I remembered the ghost of Sandwood Bay in Scotland – a restless spirit from another such wreck ……  When my brother and I had camped out in the same tent in our garden as children, similar thoughts had sent us immediately running to the house and diving under familiar covers.  Now no such option presents itself.  “Some are easily scared but not me”!  I repeat my night prayer, “I will lie down and sleep in peace for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety”, and try to pull the presence of God around me like a cloak …

I wake again at 2 am to hear the amplified pounding of the high tide waves only 6 feet below and 30 ft away from my tent.  Then at 4.30 I am relieved by first light and get up at 6.15, reviving the fire and cooking my porridge.  In a crevice nearby, the stream forms a perfect natural shower, but it’s rather cold and I decide I can put that off a bit longer.  I break camp at 7.40.  It has been a good campsite despite the irrational fears.  As I walk away I look down on the site from a different angle and see the mouth of a cave 20 yards from where I’d slept.

The weather is dry but dull and rather chilly.  The sea is getting ‘bigger’.  Strumble Head proves to be very rough walking and my blisters start to introduce themselves again, modestly at first but nevertheless in that sinister way they have which promises an unpleasant future.  My Dad always used to quote from somewhere “Little leopards become big leopards and big leopards kill”!  I stop to admire the lighthouse with its little access footbridge down below me, then I press on hoping to reach a second breakfast at the Pwllderi Youth Hostel.  This has a spectacular and exposed location, high up over a little bay and looking south-west along an imposing rampart of cliffs.  Unfortunately it’s shut.  No bacon, eggs, sausage, beans and no chance to stock up on provisions.  I’m down on my reserves and soon have to consume my ‘fruit & nut’ and last two Twix bars.  I pass two women who are spending 8 days walking the north section from Marloe.  I feel a bit disheartened and start running out of energy again, but make it, emptily and painfully, to Trefin and order Soup & Roll, whole dressed crab salad with chips.  I eat every scrap and then all the butter and sauces before stocking up at the shop and eating further a packet of yoghurt nuts and raisins and a third of a packet of chocolate hobnobs.

Now the attention turns fully from stomach to feet.  Agony!  As I set off, I seem to be walking in boots that are full of broken glass.  Should I give up now?  At least take a day off?  I put these questions aside and press on, but only to find myself overtaken by an elderly woman and man with a dicky leg.  I try to admire the scenery, which is lovely, and take an interest in the little ports like Porth-gain with its relics of a short lived industrial past and Aber Eiddy with its quarry ruins.  Nevertheless the pain gets worse and suddenly I get an excruciating tearing sensation on my heel.  I find that by walking with an exaggerated limp I get on okay, however, the man with the dicky leg, on returning the other way, gives me a look as though I’m trying to be funny.  Finally, I get my boots off and survey the desolation that was once a pair of feet – right heel split and at least one blister on each left toe.  I sit for a while and think.  Then I tape up my heel, loosen my boot laces and press on.  I start to pass the remains of Iron Age forts and feel as though I’m picking up a bit. 

I arrive at St David’s head at 7 pm.  Despite the pain I must have covered 20 miles in the day.  I nearly decide to walk on to the campsite, which is a mile further, but as soon as I step through the ancient earthwork beyond which is the very end of the peninsular, I’m transported out of time to become the Iron Age chieftain secure in his fort!  I pitch my tent in the stone-circle of one of the ancient dwellings.  I dig with a stone to make a fireplace then collect heather twigs and wild pony droppings for fuel.  Barefoot and un ‘packed’ now, I feel free and invigorated.  Lacking much water, I have to use the pasta water to make my tea and then use the tea bag to wash the pots and grass to dry them, but I feel very satisfied and a banana baked (in its skin) amongst the glowing dung is a real treat.

It’s been overcast all day.  One of those days when you find it hard to imagine there ever really was a blue sky and a sun.  But as I lie back and wonder whether, after three days, I should now change my socks, I notice a line across the sky just above the western horizon.  When I look again there is a thin band of blue.  Then suddenly the clouds are racing across the sky and the late evening sun, appearing all at once, seems to pour liquid gold down the hillside and across the headland and the sea.  I am reminded that “God has poured his love into our hearts by his Holy Spirit” and I clamber up onto the rocks to see from every angle the view across to Ramsey island and the surrounding flotilla of islets, sitting peaceful among the hammering waves.

I get up at 6 am on Thursday.  The morning is fresh, the sea is calm and the promise is of a glorious day.  There was another strange noise in the night but it is identified now as a breaking tent peg loop – no Iron Age visitations after all.  I breakfast in a sunny nook, watching a gannet diving for its own meal, then I break camp and set off at 7.50 am.  I pass the wild ponies.  They seem to eye me cautiously.  Perhaps they caught a whiff of my fire and identified the fuel.  I pass quickly on to Whitesands, feet tender but manageable.  Yesterday I felt in danger of hypothermia, now it is sunstroke that I have to guard against.    Walking alongside Ramsey Sound and revelling in the beauty of weather and scenery, I catch up with four Scousers and strike up a conversation with their rearguard.  The one at the front: “Watch out he’s from the Social, I knew they’d catch up with us.” “Hey! Don’t tell him where I live”.  Immediately I’m transported back to the non-stop humour of the year I spent in West Everton.

Next Episode

Out of the comfort zone

The lady in the tea shop said how cute Imogen looked asleep on my knee “she must be exhausted poor thing, but isn’t it sweet to see them so peaceful.” (punctuated with one or two cooing noises).

Imogen wasn’t asleep.  She had only put her head down seconds before her admirer appeared from the kitchen.  From my angle I could see that her eyes weren’t even shut.  I knew that at any moment she might pop up again and resume her demand for crisps.  But for some reason I hadn’t the heart to shatter the woman’s illusion.

I suppose it was because she was so caught up in it.  She had sold herself a particular heart warming vision and why should I relieve her of it?  I even began to feel anticipatory guilt lest Imogen should do it for me.

Is it just that I am not a ‘straight talking Yorkshireman’ or have we all been in similar situations – far less trivial ones perhaps?  It’s not necessarily that we tell any lies but just that full honesty becomes somehow inconvenient or uncomfortable or maybe just avoidable.

I think that this is one of the key problems with the Church.  We claim to talk about ‘Truth’ but where does Honesty fit into the scheme of things?  People are required to be nice to each other and to avoid conflict, not to ‘upset the apple-cart’, but where does that get us?  Ironically, in a lot of churches the only thing that is said with real response-provoking passion is the phrase “I usually sit in this pew?”  And there we sit with the eternal platitudes slipping over us!

It is a trap that all clergy are drawn towards – becoming publicly bland and ineffectual – and who could blame us – see what happens to those who speak honestly of their views when those views transgress too far from what is acceptable.

Of course, an organisation which wants to maintain its position and stability at all costs has to treat creative spirits in this way.  But it must be clear by now that all the church can maintain this way is its gradual decline into irrelevance – if that hasn’t happened already.

So next time someone says to me “God answered my prayer” I’ll say, “What does is mean to say that when he didn’t answer the prayers of the parent whose child has died after suffering who knows what horrors?” 

Or will I?          We’ll see.

Pembrokeshire Coast Path : Part I

I know I’ve mentioned my walk in Pembrokeshire more than once, and it was a few years ago now, but I recently unearthed my diary of the walk and, magazine material being as hard to come by as it is, I thought why not serialise it for the faithful readers!

“I’m going to walk the Pembrokeshire Coast Path”.  That’s what I had decided and that’s what I had been telling people who asked where my next holiday was going to be.  South Wales sounded a bit anti-climactic after Ecuador and Madagascar but I fancied a different kind of challenge and this one was 186 miles of official route and an overall ascent the equivalent of Everest, carrying a tent, cooking equipment and as little clothing and food as possible on my back.  To walk the coast path was my aim.  Perhaps to state, so confidently, that I would was a little presumptuous.

I set off from Poppit Sands car park at 3 pm on the first of June (1998), walking the route from north to south.  The first leg was 14 miles over a most strenuous part of the path.  I had trained well in the previous weeks, doing progressively longer distances with a heavier pack, but, my favourite boots had more or less collapsed on me the previous Monday and I am wearing a rather heavy and inflexible pair that I haven’t put on for two years.  Also, despite all the walking I have done in the previous 5 years, it was over 10 years since I had done significant walking on a number of consecutive days.  Nevertheless, I am in buoyant mood as I stride out between the banks of bluebells and foxgloves on a bright and sunny day.  Stonechats “chat” beside the path and in the distance a pair of buzzards soar on the thermals that rise above the interface where the sea meets the cliffs with their dramatic folds and fissures of rock.

I stop at a farm to fill my water bottle.  I sense the farmer is keen for me to stay the night there on his camping field (£1 a night).  He says it is 6 hours walk to the next campsite, but I have only just started and I know I can do it quicker than that.  However, I didn’t reckon on his dog adding to the argument in a rather more direct manner.  Having not noticed it steal up behind me, the agonising pain of his fangs in the back of my calf makes me shout out in surprise and pain.  Luckily he didn’t break the skin, but the cynical smile on the animals face as he backs away from me makes me hope it isn’t an omen of things to come!

That is soon forgotten as I push on and drink in the heady views – the purity of the sea air and the intense and tranquil blue of the ocean; the mass of wild flowers that I’d heard such rave reviews of – I wasn’t going to be disappointed.  I only pass one other walker until I get within strollers’ reach of Newport.  I walk along the sands and ford the river, my bare feet appreciating the soothing coolness of water and soft mud but then complaining about the sharp stones that have to be crossed to reach the boat club jetty.  I find a pleasant campsite – the only campsite – but with a good congregation of midges – cook my spaghetti and tuna, take a short stroll and go to bed.  I feel fit and eager to get going again the next morning.  My training has obviously paid off and I feel I could eat this walk for breakfast!  I relish the fact that my home for the next ten days would be my little tent and this rugged path together with the sea, the cliffs and the soaring skies.  I pray that this would also be a pilgrimage for me.  

I awake at 4.30 am to the patter of rain.  I enjoy the rain when I am snug in my down sleeping bag in my ‘storm master’ tent, but the rain gets harder and so does sleep.  By 7.30 am, when my superfluous watch alarm goes off, it is pouring down.  I ‘lie-in’ till 8.15 thinking “is this dismal watery world going to be my home for the next 9 days?”   Cancelling my plan of cooking porridge, I make for the campsite shop to purchase toast and tea.  A woman of 45 ish is there who is walking solo from south to north.  She has got there in 9 days.

The rain always eases just after you’ve packed all your gear away.  I set off at 9.40 feeling comfortable in my swimming shorts and waterproof jacket.  The long wet grass soon soaked boots and socks and I have the first intimations of blisters on the outsides of my little toes.  Oh dear!  Despite this and the weather there is plenty of interest: the ruined Celtic chapel of St Brynach; Dinas “island” with the seabird colony on Needle Rock; and some fellow walkers.  Three men of pensionable age hoping to do the route in 14 days using Bed & Breakfasts.  “It’s getting to me” one of them confides.  I share the news of my nascent blisters to show solidarity and try to cheer him.  “It’s not blisters for me” he says, “it’s my back!”  I look at his pack and his stooping posture and I fear there’s not much I can say.  Admiring his courage, I hope things get better for him and not worse.  The path continues down and up and down again.  Two pieces of toast isn’t really a breakfast, I discover, and start to top up on chocolate bars and bananas.  I stop briefly to watch a fisherman checking his lobster pots and to watch intrepid canoeists out on the growing swell.  A two-person canoe had capsized.  They would have been in real trouble but under the guidance of their instructor the four single canoes form a raft over which the canoe can be lifted and emptied and refloated and from which the displaced persons can re-embark to try once more.

Lower Fishguard was the setting for the film version of Dylan Thomas’ “Under Milk Wood”.  A chapel is being converted into a very des. res.  But I’m now seriously “out of petrol” so at the Sea View Hotel I tuck into a full English Breakfast.  I’m well and truly tired now, but mercifully the blisters that threatened seem to have quietened down again.  In the afternoon I see the lobster fisherman again.  He’s wearing bright orange leggings in an open boat with a pulley suspended over the side.  As he performs the well-worn routines of pulling in his pots, emptying them, sorting the catch, re-baiting and then casting them off as he motors away, he reminds me of the fisherman of Sua in Ecuador.  There they didn’t have outboards but worked long nets from dug out canoes and all the family came to the beach to unload and sort the catch by the light of oil lamps, however, the spirit of the two seems to be the same.

Now I am going back to basics.  At the tiny remote bay of Porthsych near Strumble Head I stamp just enough level ground out of the undergrowth and pitch my tent.  I then uphold some well worn family traditions: scouring the small pebble storm beach I collect the necessary wood to construct myself a bench and find a foam-filled fibreglass block to make a table; with more drift wood and dry bramble shoots I light a fire (it took more than one match but I had no fire lighters).  Then, careful not to dry my boots too close to the fire, I settle down to sing to the seals!  Four or five are already congregating just off the beach and are bobbing on the waves, full of curiosity.  My Dad always said that they come closer when you sing to them.  I guess that depends …!

Next Episode

Funny at the Time

Have you ever had that sinking feeling, whilst telling a story to a group of people who are totally unmoved?  You can well remember how your sides were splitting as were those of whoever was with you at the time.  But now the light of day seems horribly cold and you realise that you just ‘had to be there’ and no amount of explaining can really get people into the spirit.  Your story dies a death and you rather wish that you could too.

On the other hand we sometimes find ourselves in completely the opposite scenario – tears running down the face as an experience is re-lived along with friends.  Then as the laughter dies away someone will acknowledge the grimmer reality that “of course it wasn’t funny at the time!”

Over recent months I have preached a number of sermons on the theme ‘What is the Bible?’  Two points in particular are very important to remember.

First, is that each of the writings that make up the Bible was written at a particular time (remembering that the Bible is not really a single book but a library of books).  This has many implications for us and means, in particular, that entering into the spirit of the Bible’s message involves more than just reading it at face value.  We have to try and understand something of the situation at the time it was written, what the influences were and what the author was trying to convey – not always easy.

Secondly, as we read the scriptures more intelligently, we find within them the process of their own transformation.  Some parts of the Bible are funny, though since we tend to read it with our ‘serious hat on’ we may miss this.  Other parts of the Bible seem nonsensical or even offensive (divine instruction to destroy whole nations including women, children and animals for instance). Supremely, Jesus says “You have heard that it was said ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth’ But I say to you … turn the other cheek.”  Even that doesn’t give a final answer for every situation, but it shows the tradition behind the scriptures reflecting on itself and seeking transformation, to increasingly witness to the fullness of God’s life for every generation.

As we read the Bible in this way, I think we find it a much more fascinating and relevant book.  We also find that we have both the freedom and the responsibility to bring the transforming power of its message to bear on every part of life.

One man and his dog

Welcome to the September edition of the Parish Magazine.  As I write we’re not long back from our holiday – 8 nights in Bideford, North Devon (Clovelly, Woolacombe, Westward Ho! etc) a night on the edge of Dartmoor (in my Uncle’s house, so not as bad as it sounds) and 5 nights at my sister’s home in Twickenham.  We managed to get good weather too, so a good time was had by all (except perhaps for adjacent guests in the hotel who may have been wakened by crying in the night!) 

I thought I would share with you my version of a story I was told while we were away:

Having just died, a man was amazed to find his dog, which had died a couple of years before him, standing with its front paws on his chest and licking his face.  He was overjoyed and having revelled for a while in the happy reunion, he picked himself up off the path and they set off together to see what they would find.

After a little while they came to some pearly gates attended by an angel dressed in white.

Very nervously, the man asked if he could enter.

“Of course you can,” laughed the angel, “come right in.”

The man heaved a huge sigh of relief, whistled his dog and started in.

The angel coughed lightly and said, “Just one thing, Sir, the dog must stay outside.  You’re very welcome but I’m afraid it’s got to go.”

There was a long moment while the man looked at his four-legged friend and the dog looked at him, turning its head beguilingly to one side.  Finally the man’s mind was made up:

“If he’s not coming in then neither am I!”

“On your own head be it.” called the angel, “Think carefully about where you might find yourself …”  but man and beast were already on their way.

After a long but strangely pleasant walk they came to a place where the path broadened out.  A wooden gate had broken off its hinges and stood permanently opened wide.  There were some farm buildings and the familiar smell of cattle.  As they wandered into the yard a human face appeared that seemed to be that of a farmer.  She carried a tray on which were a mug of tea and an old ice cream tub full of cold water which she plonked down in front of the travellers.

“Hello!” she said with a beaming smile.  “Welcome.  Make yourselves at home and stay as long as you like.”

Man and dog somehow knew that they would do just that.  But the man, being a man, had one thing that he wanted to clear up first. 

“What’s this place called?” he asked.

“Oh, this is heaven.” said the woman, “Why?  Isn’t it quite what you expected?”

“Oh!  Well …” stammered the man, “I don’t know.  But the thing is … we passed another place on the way, you know, pearly gates and angels and so forth and I presumed …”

“Lot’s of people think that,” said the woman, “but the fact is, you won’t find anything like heaven in there.  We tried to get them closed down at one point but now we realise that they are actually quite useful.”

“Useful?” queried the man.

“Yes,” she said, “they weed out all the travellers who are willing to forsake their friends.”