Today:
Second in our series on Jesus’ “I am” sayings from John’s gospel: “I am the Light of the world.” Rev John Izzard will be preaching and leading us in Communion.
On the premises this week:
Monday 2.00-3.15 Bowls Wednesday 2-4 Nellie’s
Tuesday The Ark Saturday 11.30-2 Party in church
Praying for our streets:
This week in our 5-week cycle we are praying for The Bramleys, Alvington Manor View (including the new houses) and Fox Place. You might like to have a walk, perhaps with a friend from church.
Cleaning:
We have been looking for a new cleaner to take over from Sam Godley. We thought we had it all sorted, but the new person has had to withdraw. So do you know of anyone who would be interested in the work? It involves 2 hours a week.
JESUS SAID, “I AM…”
Here are seven “I am” statements from John’s Gospel. For each one, put the letter of the picture which illustrates it.
I Am the Bread…
I was thinking about this last week, when it was our theme. There are times when bread is very special: Communion, for example, or when Lesley makes a summer pudding. But mostly it’s an ordinary, everyday thing – but as an example of a staple food, necessary and life-sustaining.
Jesus is indeed like that: we are conscious at times of a very special presence, but we have to remember that this presence is also an everyday, every moment experience, and necessary to sustain our life as his followers. – Martin
Remembering
Another piece by Jeff Lucas, contributed by Ruth. It has been edited a bit, but it speaks movingly of dementia, and then looks at our forgetfulness before God.
According to God, it’s not good for men and women to be alone.
And that means dementia is very bad indeed, because utter aloneness is what it spawns. Dementia is a bullying kidnapper, relentlessly shoving the sufferer into solitary confinement, where the most beloved friends and family morph into strangers.
Dementia dumps those it strikes into a surreal, frightening world, where even the comforting landscape of home turns into an unrecognisable wilderness. This is life in a strange land, an emotional exile, with only thicker fog on the horizon.
Someone that I loved was so smitten. She gave birth to me, but couldn’t always recall my name. She would ask the same question, not twice an hour, but sometimes three times a minute. Cruelly, there were times when she realised exactly what was happening to her. The fog lifted briefly and her eyes cleared. The snake relaxed its stranglehold, just for a while. She apologised tearfully because she knew that her treks to the wilderness were hard on us. She would cling onto me for dear life, trembling and bowed before this dementia thug. She thanked me for being kind, and told me over and over again how much she loved me, desperate to say it before the mist descended on the moors of her mind once more. Her gratitude brought a strange pain, because I knew too well how I’d bristled with impatience and tut-tutted over endless repeats.
But then the sun would disappear again for God knows how long. Sometimes it feels like a horrible creature hijacks the dementia victim, disguising itself as them. But there is stealth and cunning too: dementia entwines itself around the worst aspects of the personality. It sneers at dignity and tramples on it: grey haired, Jesus-loving ladies, once sweet, holy Sunday School teachers, snarl and spew vile expletives.
So I was shocked to discover that I too am smitten with dementia. Before God’s wholeness, I am demented. Decades ago, Michael Griffiths penned a pithy, prophetic book about the church, called Cinderella with Amnesia. That’s what the church is: a beautiful bride in the making, but one with frequent memory lapses. How often do we ask the same old hackneyed questions, and insist on treading tired, well-worn pathways of sin, always hearing, never learning, seemingly oblivious to the pain that we cause him. The incontinence of our sin must surely wrinkle his nostrils, as once again we soil ourselves.
Consider demented Israel. Over and over again, despite miraculous sea-crossings and manna falling from heaven, hers was the repeated malady described in just two words: they forgot. Desperate that they remember, God gave them feasts and festivals, circumcision and ceremony.
Nothing’s changed. That’s why Jesus’ parting gift to his friends was a remembrance meal. So today, let’s think clearly, learn from our failures, and by grace, live beautifully.
And let’s spare a thought and a prayer for the humans who are carers. Do not think that they are strong, just because they act as if they are. Let’s tread gently around our elders, and never write them off as codgers.
And next time we sip bread and wine, and, for a while, we remember clearly, let’s be grateful for the Great Carer of us all. We cast our cares on him, because he cares for us. Thank God, He remembers our sins no more, but never forgets us sinners.
