Author: Adrian Clark

Psalm 122:6-9
Pray for peace in Jerusalem.
May all who love this city prosper.
O Jerusalem, may there be peace within your walls
and prosperity in your palaces.
For the sake of my family and friends, I will say,
“May you have peace.”
For the sake of the house of the LORD our God,
I will seek what is best for you, O Jerusalem.

Once again the Middle East is in turmoil, apparently on the brink of war between Israel and Iran. But in fact it has been a bubbling pot of instability for centuries, waxing and waning in seemingly constant strife and violence. But God, in His wisdom, has given us the few verses above. We have a role to play, praying that this city, central to Judaism and God’s people, the Jews, and, spiritually symbolic at least, the Christian faith as well, will enjoy peace. And the God I know and worship answers prayers.

Isaiah 1:18 “Come now, let’s settle this,” says the LORD. “Though your sins are like scarlet, I will make them as white as snow. Though they are red like crimson, I will make them as white as wool.

Over Easter we watched a lamb being born. In a field, weather dry and occasionally sunny, but with a bitingly cold east wind. The mother had already given birth to one lamb, and it was cuddling into mum’s underbelly fur. But this was the second twin, head first, half in, half out. Within a minute or two the rest of it followed and it lay there on the grass, not moving. But then the head popped up and it started to look around. And it was covered in this yellowy-brown slime. Nothing unusual in that, but God popped a thought into my mind – Jesus, the Lamb of God, was born into this cold, hard world. Leaving the comfort of Heaven, and He took upon Himself the ‘slime’ of our sins. What an amazing truth, that the Son of God would submit to all that He did, dying at Calvary, just for you and me. He died so that we could have life with Him one day, taking away our sinful ‘slime’. Why on earth would we want to hang onto it? We don’t have the benefit of a mother ewe who licks it all away, leaving her offspring pure and white. But as that lamb grows it accumulates the dirt of its surroundings – the whiteness doesn’t last. However, we have a loving Heavenly ‘You’ Who forgives our sins, leaving us white for eternity. Wow!

Port Ban at Easter. It’s cold but not frosty. Very little sign of new greenery emerging yet, except for some clumps of daffodils, bravely thrusting their striking yellow against the dull greens and browns of last year’s vegetation. Last night, the sea across to Jura was a strange colour tinted by a green-brown reflection from clouds, themselves illuminated underneath by a sun partially obscured by mists as it dipped away behind Jura’s striking geology. Some hardy campers grace the site with their colourful tents, but the noise and excitement of the season’s heights strangely absent. There seems to be an air of expectancy, a temporal pause, a lack of something in the atmosphere. The creation of a new Spring seems to be waiting. Waiting for some warmer air perhaps? But it will happen. And when it does there will come an explosion of growth. In a few short weeks the trees will be in leaf, grass will need cutting, ferns waist high. Wild flowers will abound.

But on that first Easter Saturday, the world was on hold. Jesus was dead and buried. The Sabbath rituals going ahead. The Jewish leaders satisfied that their problem had been dealt with. But Heaven was looking on, in expectancy. In a few hours the greatest event this world has ever seen, was about to take place. In a spiritual explosion of eternal significance, Jesus came back to life, conquering the grave. Like the Spring soon to come, it was unstoppable. No power on earth could confound God’s master plan.

In this age of global political instability, most put their hope in things settling down to a point where their comfort is undisturbed again. But there will be a next time. And the cycle of mayhem will restart. But the cross, the empty tomb, the risen Jesus – these were once only events that established stability in the universe; the stability of God’s Kingdom. No political mayhem here!

So this Easter Saturday, I’m grateful, grateful for a God Who, by His grace, has given me the opportunity to be part of His plan, and that one day I’ll experience my own Easter Sunday. Hopefully not just a few hours away! But it will come one day, when the final bit of God’s plan for me clicks into place, and the jigsaw of my life is completed. May all of us who have a relationship with Jesus, experience the reality of Easter afresh this year. And as the old chorus says, “And the things of life will grow strangely dim, in the light of His glory and grace.”

How are you getting on with your jigsaws?

Good Friday 2018. I wrote in my prayer diary this morning. “How can the Creator of the Universe do so much for those so little?” This is a question that the secular world cannot grasp or answer, because of denial. Denial of God, denial of our origins, denial of the amazing love and presence of a God Who loves us, without limit. There is no end to God’s love and commitment for us. There is nothing we can do to stop it. We can’t deny it is there. All we can do is accept it, secure in the knowledge that He is always there for us. And how can we respond? The only way is through acceptance of the fact of the Cross at Calvary – where Jesus died so that we can live. Forever. And leave our sins, our struggles, our worries, our fears, our confusions, our sicknesses, right there in His presence. To die on that Cross with Him. And we know how it ends up – Sunday’s coming!

My Bible reading this morning took me to 1 Corinthians 1:18, “The message of the cross is foolish to those who are headed for destruction.” But it’s not foolish to me. The message of the Cross gives me a hope and a future. So this morning, I am sitting here with a grateful heart. Still wondering, “How can the Creator of the Universe do so much for those so little?” But accepting its reality. Perhaps you can too.

A dear friend passed away yesterday, a fine Christian man. By today’s expectations, he wasn’t old, just mid-70’s. But he had been battling, uncomplainingly, with a rare form of blood cancer, for many years. But there came a point, earlier this year, when he felt the battle had to end. But his Godly faith ensured his place in eternity, and the questions we discussed will have all been answered. His worldly suffering is behind him. He is in Heaven now, filled with inexpressible joy. Secure in Jesus’ presence. In my last conversation with David he said, “Christians don’t have to be afraid of death, do they?” And neither was he.

And as my prayers passed to his wife and family, my thoughts turned to his legacy. Everyone I have spoken to have good memories of David. His wit, his charm, his kindness. His willingness to do anything for anyone. His legacy can be seen in his family, the community (all the bulbs he planted in the last year or two are bursting out of the ground in flower, celebrating his selfless hard work), in the memories of the many people who had the privilege of knowing him. Someone said to me today that whenever she and her husband had a conversation with David, he always left them with a smile on their faces. But that was David, enriching all who came into contact with him.

We all leave a legacy after passing over the great divide. In their worldly life, Christians have a hope and future, and they leave a legacy of faith, exampling their trust in their Saviour. They leave memories that challenge the hopelessness of secularism and humanism. In recent weeks, two prominent men have passed away – Billy Graham and Stephen Hawking. Stephen left a legacy of being able to communicate scientific knowledge. Billy, a legacy of being able to communicate the gospel of Jesus Christ. One’s legacy will fade into scientific history, possibly important to man’s knowledge of the world around us, but insignificant and unimportant in God’s world. But Billy’s legacy has enriched the lives of thousands, and has enabled them to put their trust in the Saviour and has given them a hope and a future. His legacy is one of great eternal significance.

David didn’t reach thousands, as far as I am aware, but he has reached many and I pray that his memory will bear fruit, the fruit that lasts, in the lives of those God brought into his life. And I wonder if David right now is looking around Heaven for a place to plant a few bulbs.

1 Peter 2:9 “…for you are a chosen people. You are royal priests, a holy nation, God’s very own possession. As a result, you can show others the goodness of God, for he called you out of the darkness into his wonderful light.” (NLT)

I’m a Priest! I’m not just any old Priest. I’m a Royal Priest. A Priest related to the King. Chosen by Him to be one of His children. And made Holy through Jesus’ redemptive work at Calvary. But what has that to do with being a pilgrim? Well, quite a lot actually. As I tramp my way through this life, along with all my fellow pilgrims, I have a duty to fulfil the next bit in the verse – showing others how good God is.

The world in my locality is a wet and slushy mess of ice crystals, the legacy of a blast of cold air meeting some warmer, moister air over the UK, the temperature and conditions being just right for a massive dump of snow. And it’s piled in heaps everywhere. Cold and wet, slimy and slippery, unwelcoming and unpleasant. A warming band of air is bringing some relief, melting and reducing the ice piles, but it’s a slow process. But that’s a bit like living in this world, populated as it is by a people experiencing the dump of darkness; of disease, grief, strife; relationships gone cold, sin abounding. I need to be diligent in facing into my responsibilities as a Priest of the High King, bringing the warmth of the goodness of God into the icy lives of those around me, who are heading for a lost eternity. Helping them to emerge from the dark places of their souls, praying that God’s love will melt their hearts, bringing His light to their lives.

Many years ago we used to sing a song based on this verse. Here are the lyrics:

For you are a chosen generation,

A royal priesthood, a holy nation,

A peculiar people,

That you should show forth the praises of Him.

Who has called you out of darkness,

Out of darkness,

Out of darkness,

Into His marvellous light,

Into His marvellous light.

 

I’m so thankful that someone put that verse to music – it’s been with me for over thirty years. Never forgotten!

 

This has been a hard winter. Cold and ice in quantities not seen for many years. And today another few more inches of snow, blowing in a strong East wind, bringing drifts up to several feet deep in places. Our resident Westie, with his short legs, has quickly become disillusioned with this icy layer, and seems to have lost his appetite for his usual shenanigans. So our routines are disrupted. Activities and plans have had to be postponed and rescheduled. But this morning, before I lapsed into musings on the injustices of life, heading for a negative, downward spiral, I read the first verse of Colossians 3. Since you have been raised to new life with Christ, set your sights on the realities of Heaven, where Christ sits in the place of honour at God’s right hand. The realities of heaven. Much more fruitful to muse on that! The snowy environment soon becomes an annoying nuisance, but Heaven? No cold, icy blasts there. No flurries of frozen water penetrating to where it is least welcome. No Heavenly Met Office, warning of a red zone of danger, spreading doom and gloom through the media outlets.

But we have a different perspective. We can lift our spiritual and physical eyes up off the slushy ruts of living in this fallen world, and instead focus on Jesus, and our eternal home. Where our Saviour is preparing a mansion for us. What will it be like? No-one knows for sure. But it will be more like Eden than Edinburgh. Speaking of which, let’s be like the penguins at Edinburgh Zoo, a tourist video this morning showing them having a ball welcoming the falling snow. In the same way we can welcome the grace of God pouring out from His very throne, touching us with His love and mercy.

Well, the sun has appeared – time to clear the path yet again.

The Bing search home page in the Safari browser today includes a picture of the Kelpies. And a small description that reads:-

The Kelpies statues in Falkirk, Scotland. The world’s largest equine sculptures, the Kelpies, were built in 2013 in Falkirk as a tribute to the country’s horse-powered heritage. Designed by sculptor Andy Scott, each one is 30 metres tall and weighs 300 tonnes. They’re named for the kelpie spirits of Scottish folklore – shapeshifting water creatures that favoured the shape of a horse, but are known to take human form. These spirits aren’t nice. Scottish poet Robert Burns wrote about their dark intentions in his verse “Address to the Deil”. (© Microsoft)

Verse 12 of Rabbie’s poem includes the line:-  Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, 

We must be wise and discerning about the subtle practices of the devil. He has managed to get people all over the world, and particularly in Scotland, to call out the name of one of his demons.

We had a visit from a lovely young man last week at church. After leading us in a time of worship, he shared briefly about two new songs that he had been inspired to write. And in an introduction to one of them, he made the comment, “Hurting people hurt people.” Sadly, I think this is very true. When we’re hurting, one of our natural responses is to lash out at those around us, those who love us, those who want the best for us, but without any good reason other than a desire to hurt them so that they too, in some bizarre way, can then share our pain. We all experience hurt at some time in our lives. Some people infrequently, but others, it seems, all the time. Some are suffering from physical or mental ailments, that blight and afflict almost beyond forbearance, and understandably they respond to others in a way that hurts. Others just wake up a bit grumpy in the morning – I remember those interactions in the office between someone on a high coming into contact with a grump, and the consequent fragility and frigidity of relationships until a relational equilibrium returned. And sometimes we hurt others unintentionally, a wrong word used, or a misunderstanding. Sometimes the hurt experienced by the recipient is quickly overturned and relationships are restored. At other times, the hurting and the hurt part company, never to meet again, and both end up the poorer from the experience.

My Bible notes took me to Romans 5 this morning, and the scripture, “But God showed His great love for us by sending Christ to die for us while we were still sinners.” At Calvary, Jesus suffered greatly from people intent on inflicting on Him one of the most horrific tortures ever devised by man. But rather than lashing out and hurting those around Him, which in human terms He was perfectly entitled to do, He showed His love and prayed, “Father, forgive them because they don’t know what they are doing.” When Jesus was hurting He refused to hurt others, instead choosing to bless them with His love, a love that even applies today, as the above Scripture says, while we were His enemies through our sin. At this time of year we sometimes sing the hymn, “When I survey the wondrous cross”. In fact, we sang it last Sunday. The last verse reads:-

Were the whole realm of nature mine,

That were a present far too small.

Love so amazing, so divine,

Demands my soul, my life, my all.

Yes, love so amazing. And it’s even more amazing that I can access that divine love anytime I need it. And if my humanity instead prevails, the door to the Cross is open. His love is still there.

Luke 5:16; 6:12  But Jesus often withdrew to the wilderness for prayer. One day soon afterward Jesus went up on a mountain to pray, and he prayed to God all night.

It’s the day we celebrate the birth of Scotland’s national poet, Rabbie Burns, 25th January 2018. The sun is beating down, the recent winds have quietened, the snow has gone (apart from the last few crumbs of ice left over from a very ambitious snowman built in a neighbour’s garden, the scarf and twiggy arms lying forlornly, as though grieving for their master’s demise). So, a lunchtime walk is in order. I headed for the West Fife Cycle Way, a 17 km strip of tarmacadam connecting Dunfermline with Clackmannan, it’s railway origin betrayed by the gentle gradients and straight sections and the aging and crumbling remains of bridges, concrete bunkers and artefacts, and brick, graffiti-covered walls holding back the otherwise rampant terrain and vegetation. Saplings and more established trees in places form arches over the leaf-strewn path, blocking out the sun and transforming the atmosphere into something cavernous and almost sepulchral. The distant gentle roar of a jet engine reminds of the proximity to Edinburgh Airport, but not too intrusively. Closer, an unmuted car exhaust defiantly announces that electric propulsion is not for all. At least not yet. And, because it is lunchtime, the squeals, shouts, and chit-chat of children in a local school distantly join together forming an indistinct cacophony of young life, echoing through the trees. Birdsong is strangely absent apart from the occasional twitter and flutter of wings in the trees. However, it’s early in the year yet; these woods will soon be dominated by the sounds of many warblers. A constant background rumble from the Bluther Burn provides an audible backdrop to my walk, the Burn’s normally benign and silent trickle totally overwhelmed by snow melt, the aqueous clarity now muddied with a grey-green silt, an amalgam of agricultural residues and the dregs of legacy coal mine workings, further upstream.

But on my walk, I’m alone. Just me and Archie, our pet Westie. He’s happy enough, sniffing his way as usual through the undergrowth, bounding his way to the next new smell. My lonely walks are my favourite prayer times. Where I mull over issues, reach out to God for answers, think about the wonders of the world around me and the God Who created all. Where I lift up my friends and family to Him, knowing that He listens to me and answers my prayers. My soul becomes warmed by His presence and encouraged by His closeness, and occasionally a “still, small voice” brings significance.

But my “being alone” cannot compare with the experiences of Jesus, when He went to a lonely place, to a wilderness, to pray. The only sounds He would experience would be the scurries of small animals, perhaps the buzz of insects, or a gust of wind whistling and whining around some buttress of rock. Perhaps a larger animal in the distance stretching its tonsils. Perhaps a flapping from overhead, a bird of prey keenly looking for its next meal. No man-made sounds.

Jesus withdrew from the hubbub of life to pray. And no place better than the wilderness, a place where He could spend time with God, His Father. No pew in a darkened and dusty mausoleum for Jesus. No grabbing a few moments in a corner. He headed off to places where there was no-one else. It probably took Him a significant amount of time to get there because He walked. He also went up mountains – imagine climbing Ben Cleuch in the Ochils to have your Quiet Time. Imagine the anticipation building, knowing that He was going to spend time with the One He loved the most, His Dad.

And what would that divine dialogue have looked like? No “hands together, eyes closed” religiosity I’m sure. No head down, mumbled repetitive prayers using a language more appropriate to the 18th century. This was dynamic stuff. The real deal. I’m sure His arms would have been outstretched to Heaven, reaching out to embrace His Dad. On top of Ben Cleuch there’s a trig point – I’m sure Jesus would have been standing on the top to get even closer. They would have shared those wonderful times when the world was created through Him (John 1:3). There would have been a dialogue we can only dream of. Nothing hurried – all night was ok. And Jesus would have received His Dad’s perspectives on the ministry before Him. Returning from the wilderness, His step would have an additional spring to it, propelling Him towards His next task.

So back to my walk, returning from a brief oasis of being alone. Grateful for a short time of prayer. Refreshed spiritually and physically. No earth-shattering revelations, sadly, but a worthwhile time nevertheless.