Burning bushes and unfed sheep...

Today began slowly and ended sleepily - so let's hope I can get coherently to the end of this blip. I spent quite a time packing for our getaway, now somewhat compromised by a minor injury to Mr PB's knee - sadly noting my list for Cyprus, for that last holiday that was cancelled the day before we left home, adding some of the garments needed for a holiday in Scotland in autumn. All this in the mild dampness of a grey morning.

But in the afternoon the sun began to appear and I went for a solitary walk in Benmore Gardens. At the moment every turn in the path seems to bring a new vision of a burning bush - some golden, some vibrant red. And whether it was simply having no-one to talk to, or the inspiration of the burning bush image, whatever the reason I began mulling over the sermon I wrote at the weekend. And before I'd finished peching up the hill, I was feeling it needed a rewrite ...

I'm not going to reproduce a sermon here, never fear. But the burden of my thought was the plight of the faithful in churches throughout the land, as they try to come to terms with the changed nature of the services their various churches are providing. Readers of my journal will know that music plays a big part in my life, though few may know that my involvement with music was solely responsible for my being confirmed in my 20s. And as a church musician, married to an organist, I cannot help noticing all the posts on social media from people who are desperate to have singing in church again. Worse, I cannot help noticing the responses their posts tend to elicit.

Trouble is, too many clergy seem to be turning into little ayatollahs, slapping down the silenced singers, stamping on what they seem to see as embryonic revolts. There has been little empathy expressed, little realisation of the huge need of people to have the things that make worship beautiful, transcendent. Many people lack the words to express fully that longing which blurts out "why can't we sing outside/hum with our masks on - and what about Christmas?" They're not staging a revolution; they're crying out for something they barely know how to name. They deserve compassion and tact, not the rule book and a snide joke. The hungry sheep deserve to be fed when they look up.

I'm not going on. That was what was churning in my head as I climbed the hill. But then I was distracted - by more chaffinches than I've ever seen in one place, by red squirrels playing games in the trees and long grass, by the wonderful glimpses of red among the trees. 

Blipping the trees around the pond. Always a special place, and deserted this late afternoon when I noted my last burning bush of the day.

*In no way am I referring to my own situation in Dunoon, where we are blessed in having a sensitive and compassionate rector.