TREAT ... OR TRICK?

Well … the early Christmas trees and festive gift suggestions are now vying for

space with fireworks. Some for Diwali and some for Guy Fawkes. What a

cosmopolitan society we inhabit! And pretty much all the shops and restaurants in Thurrock show evidence of ghoulish-looking pumpkins, bug-eyed monsters and cackling witches in various shades of black and green.

For just a little while Samhain, an ancient Celtic deity and so-called “lord of the

dead” holds sway across the country. Nightmare on Elm Street and all 12 Friday

13ths are showing on TV and lots of little vampires and werewolves are roaming

the streets begging for treats at the door.

It’s that weird time of year again and a peculiar orange and black U.S. festival

takes hold of the public consciousness. Those of us who like “a little bit of a scare”, dress the kids up to go knocking on strangers’ doors for “trick or treat”. Why?

Have we ever stopped to ask ourselves why the day before All Saints Day should

cause us to dabble in unnecessary darkness and fear? When everything else we do encourages us to turn to light and goodness, why would we want to stir up the ancient enemies of death and despair?

Now I love celebrations as much as the next vicar and it’s always good to gather

with friends for a party but I like my treats to centre around love and light and joy.

I know how tricky and deceiving the dark can be but it will never put out the light.

As the Good Book says: “the light shines in the darkness but the darkness has not

understood it.”

Have a bright and happy Halloween. No trick. Your treat!

“Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me—put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you.”

No trick. Your treat!

 

And we complain about the weather … !

I peered out of the grimy glass through the metal grille of my second-storey 

bedroom window onto the corrugated-iron huts of the surrounding shanty-town. 

Wild dogs, pigs and chickens mingled with children and farmers trudging through the mud and negotiating the boulders and craters of the road outside. 

Ludicrously, a satellite dish poked up through the rust of next-door’s hut and the distant call to Muslim prayers mingled with the strident call of a nearby pneumatic drill. Even without the mosquitoes and assorted bugs, it’s not easy to get a good night’s sleep in Kisumu, Kenya’s third city. 

 

I spent Sunday morning preaching in a slum-dwellers church (2 two-hour services virtually back-to-back) that started with a dozen or so congregation and reached around 60 by the time I got up to speak. 

Regular people like you and me – just different coloured skin and a greater aptitude for languages; most Kenyans speak at least three.  

 

My friends ask me if I had “a good holiday”? I tell them it wasn’t a holiday and I cannot describe it as “good”. “Humbling” maybe. Certainly different. No rich fattening desserts. No desserts at all! Rice and lentils most days. Plumbing and 

electrics leaving a lot to be desired. I never used an undamaged toilet anywhere in Kenya and often “showered” from a dribbling tap. 

Many of the church leaders I met made their living in rudimentary farming or from selling clothes and crafts by the roadside. Those who were paid got £30-40 a week. 

 

I hope, by the grace of God, that I made a small difference. I certainly feel I

learned more than I taught. And I’ll certainly think twice before I criticise the state of Thurrock’s roads. Or its garbage collection. Or the condition of its parks. 

 

And so I’m back to my daily creature comforts. Hopefully a wiser and more grateful man. 

If ALPHA met Mills and Boon?

We’ve just started a new ALPHA course at St. Margaret’s. Ever tried it? You might meet a different Jesus … Maybe …

“She catches a glimpse of the Bistro interior in the light that shines out from the windows of the street corner premises. Warm, golden, almost buttery. A bell dings as she opens the door onto a cliché of an Italian restaurant – red and white tablecloths, Italian flags, grainy photographs of Rome and Naples, shelves of spaghetti jars; violin music in the background. A caricature of an Italian waiter greets her – all teeth and slick hair, white shirt and long blue apron.

Oh signorina– so lovely to welcome you to Luigi’s Trattoria. Please, come this

way, your host is already waiting. Ah,we have such an evening for you! A little

bruschetta to start with perhaps?We have some very nice Chianti and already the Bolognese sauce, she is … bubbling in the kitchen. Please, please, take a seat, we are so pleased you should come. Ah, such a Bella Note. You are so welcome …

The chatter of the waiter fades as she sits at the small table in the window and is greeted by her host and captured by the warmth and charm of his welcome. She has never met a man quite like this before. He has strength without aggression, personality without pretension. He listens with his eyes; she feels special, important. Who is he, this lovely passionate man who so captivates her?

Throughout the evening, over the most beautiful meal she has ever enjoyed, she

tells him of her life. And he listens. And says little. A word here. A phrase there.

And eyes that never leave her face yet helping her feel safe, relaxed. Who is he?

All too soon, the coffee is served and they linger over amaretti biscuits. Gently, he reaches out and takes her hand and she sees in his own the mark of the nail.

And finally, she knows Him.”

Jesus ... He’s not who you think …