Monthly Letter – July 2017

Dear Friends

When my father died, and that is now thirty something years or so ago, I found myself reading the comforting words of Psalm 16. Thinking back across the years to that significant day in my life, I realize that it’s hardly a coincidence that the psalm to which I was drawn begins with the straight-to-the-point opening line; ‘Keep me safe, O God, for in You I take refuge.’

My Dad, I suppose, had embodied for me through the course of my life the wisdom and patience and stature and strength of the Lord: from my earliest days as an infant and child, right on through the first decade and more of adult life, I knew that if there was a problem which I couldn’t solve I could pass the matter on to him – and he’d then always fix it, as if by some strange magic: if there was an issue which I didn’t know how to handle, he’d help me think the whole thing through until the answer seemed quite clear: if there was a challenge which was scaring me, he’d step between the challenge and myself and bear the brunt of it himself.

I guess without our ever really thinking it out loud, he was for all us children what a can of WD40 seemed to be for him – the remedy for every sort of problem. He afforded us guidance, support and protection: he was patient and wise and so strong.

And with him around we were safe.

Little wonder that when the man died, a stream of latent insecurities poured in: as if the shield which he himself had always been between us children and the scary, untold vastness of eternity had been removed: and I was left then, semi-orphaned, to discover in a whole new way the truth to which, in all he’d been, my Dad had been no more than just a pointer and a sign.

No wonder, then, that I found myself turning thus to the words of that psalm. It was safety I suddenly sought all over again.

And that yearning for safety is one which we all of us know. Events can be complex and cruel: our experience can become overnight both perplexing and bitter and dark. The upheavals and turbulence marking the world of today builds dark and threatening thunderclouds, and creates in society’s soul a certain restless unease, a sense of dread and foreboding which is hard to dispel; and the lightning bolts of terrorist bombs and tower-block fires, and who can tell what’s next, wreak havoc not just on the streets of our nation’s cities, but deep in our spirits as well.

We’re suddenly all the more conscious of how vulnerable always we are, how fragile our existence invariably is, how ‘exposed’ we all are when the walls of protection we thought that we had are discovered now not to be there. We yearn for safety.

And, of course, the message of the Bible, through and through, is really addressed to just that. Where can our safety be fully and finally found?

That’s what David, the psalmist, is asking (and answering) time after time in the psalms: he’s facing opposition and the odds are stacked against him – where is his safety going to be found? ‘Keep me safe, O God, for in You I take refuge.’

That’s what Jonah is asking (and answering again) when he prays from the great fish’s belly: it isn’t any hostile opposition which has brought him there, just his own perverse opposition to the call and summons of God: it’s his own folly, a moral mistake which the man has made in presuming to snub the Lord’s will: it’s an undetected weakness in the man, a ‘blind spot’ in his walk with God – it’s that which has brought him into such terrible straights. And in the face of our own fearful foibles, our own innate weakness and errors – in the face of that, where is his safety, where is our safety, ever going to be found? ‘Salvation (our safety) comes from the Lord.’

And that’s what Ruth and Naomi are asking as well: famine was hardly their fault, after all: and the triple bereavement the women must bear was simply the way things turned out. Neither foes on the outside, nor sin within: just .. well, just ‘life’ as we sometimes will put it. And in the face of the fact that disaster and tragedy happen – out of the blue, and with all their collateral damage – where will their safety be found? ‘The Lord, the God of Israel, (is the One) under whose wings you have come to take refuge.’

Refuge. A safe place. That’s the whole message of the Bible. God is our refuge. A very present help in time of trouble. No wonder we invariably find so much comfort in reading the psalms: they’re full of this. Because the psalmists, they live in a world where there are angry, frightening enemies; where drought, disease, disaster, death and dreadful disappointment are never far away: and where the knowledge of their own frail, flawed humanity alerts them to the mess they’re likely always to end up in.

‘Keep me safe, O God, for in You I take refuge.’ And He does. Come what may.

That’s what they’re always affirming. He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and fortress (my safe place), my God in whom I trust.’ (Sometimes you need to say it, to say it out loud, if only to yourself). Surely He will keep you safe .. He will cover you with His feathers, and under His wings You will find refuge..’

That’s the heart of our message. Jesus is the one ‘safe place’ there is.

And because it’s the message we preach, it must be the people we are as well: if it’s in Jesus alone that our safety is found, then His church must be a ‘safe place’.

We know there’ll be some hostility we’ll have to face, as followers of Jesus – there always is. We know there’ll be adversities we’ll have to bear as we live out our lives in this world – there always are. We know there are all our own infirmities, too, the fruit of our fallen humanity – we’re never finally released from such until we reach eternity.

In the face of all that, the Bible affirms it’s in Jesus alone that true safety is known. And the people of Jesus must, therefore, themselves ever be that ‘safe place’ for those seeking refuge in a baffling, belligerent world. A relational ‘city of refuge’. A modern-day ‘cave of Adullam’ where “all those who were in distress or in debt or discontented” will gather around the Lord Jesus. And find, at last, a ‘safe place’ (see 1 Sam.22.1-2).

What does it mean for us, as the people of God, to be a ‘safe place’ in these days?

Infirmity. Someone spoke with me the other day, wary of too close or too full an involvement in the life of the church until this individual was quite clear that it was ‘safe’ now so to do. The person had doubts and questions, and wanted to know if membership meant there were loads of doctrinal boxes which had to be ticked. Is it ‘safe’ not to be sorted? Is it OK to be not OK? Is it safe to admit you’ve got questions and doubts and you’re still working lots of things through?

And, of course, the answer to all of those questions is ‘Yes!’ We’re learners. Nothing more. In terms of our conduct we all of us make our mistakes: in terms of convictions we’ve often got all sorts of questions.

Are we able to be such a people, our life and our ethos reflecting the message we preach – that the only safe refuge there is in the end is Jesus Christ?

Because to be a ‘safe place’ in the face of the varied ‘infirmities’ all of us have, it means we’ll not come down like a ton of bricks when the conduct of people falls short of what we think that it should be: it means we’re patient with each other, understanding of each other’s varied frailties, bearing with the manifold shortcomings we all have.

Adversity. About the same time, someone else also used the same language of ‘safety’ in speaking with me. ‘When I come through the door of the church,’ the person volunteered, ‘I feel safe: this is a safe place.’ It’s a struggle, for all sorts of reasons (which I well understand), for the person to get that far: but getting through that door and into the church, well, it’s ‘safety’ the person felt.

It’s tough ‘outside’. Life in the midst of addiction is a complicated, messy sort of thing. And dangerous, too. This person is physically beaten in the ‘jungles’ of the streets of Aberdeen. There isn’t really anywhere the person can be safe: not even in the flat the person has.

To come through the door of the church, you must know, is a struggle for someone like that. Battered and beaten, their life an observable mess, and fighting a losing battle against dark and dreadful demons, which opens up a torrent of adversity each day – it’s an effort indeed to walk through the door of the church: but ‘when I come through that door, I feel safe.’

But, again, to be that sort of ‘cave of Adullam’ today, where those in distress and in debt, where those who’re enslaved and who’re despairing of any release, where the discontented, disaffected, disillusioned multitudes who struggle in the face of life’s adversities – to be such a ‘cave of Adullam’ where those who are toughing it out in the jungle of modern-day life can feel, and be, safe – well, that means there’ll be compassion, care and practical support being expressed to one another in a range of different ways: it means we’ll share each others’ burdens; and it means we’ll live with all the noise and mess there’ll often be in what C T Studd once famously described as ‘running a rescue shop within a yard of hell.’

Enmity. Refugees from other lands are now a common feature of our city’s life. And because it’s now before us on our doorstep, we see a bit more clearly that enmity against the child of God is real and raw and wretched. Men and women and girls and boys are persecuted for their faith in Jesus Christ: their homes burned down, their heads cut off, their earthly wealth all seized.

The psalms make sense to all such. ‘Enemies, like lions, are all around me’ (Ps.56.4). And it’s important, thus, that our life as the people of God makes sense to all such as well: that we are a ‘safe place’: a city of refuge for the hunted and haunted today.

Our message is simple. God is our refuge and our strength, a very present help in time of trouble: safety is found in Jesus alone. May our life as His church give expression to that more and more: a ‘safe place’ indeed.

Yours in the service of Christ Jesus our Lord

Jeremy Middleton

Monthly Letter – June 2017

Dear Friends

We forget too easily.

We forget all too often just what rags had been once our apparel: we forget what it was to be lost, when now we’ve been found; what it was to be blind, when we now see so well; what it was to be dead, when we’re now so alive.

We forget what we were. And that can make us presumptuous and proud.

But we also forget what we are.

We forget just what riches have been lavished upon us by God: we forget how abundant God’s mercy towards us has been, how complete is the grace of forgiveness we now have in Christ, how exalted the heights are to which we’ve been raised with our Lord. We forget how entirely extraordinary our experience has become and remains – and in that state of ill-conceived forgetfulness we thus resort to living out a life more ordinary by far than that we have been given by the Lord.

I recall a book from the mid-1970s, with the striking title of “Cinderella with Amnesia” (today it would probably be called “Elsa with Alzheimer’s”, or something like that – except that Cinderella is, of course, much more clearly a rags-to-riches girl than Elsa ever was).

It was a book about the church, the bride of Christ. And the book’s basic thesis was simple. The rags-to-riches girl has suffered from a memory loss: she’s forgotten the end of the story, she’s lost sight of the fact she’s the bride of the prince, she persists in the state she’d grown used to for who knows how long.

It’s not that the church has lost the plot: it’s rather that she hasn’t remembered which page of the book she’s now on. That’s a massive generalization, of course, because it’s far from being true about every local fellowship of those who are following Jesus. But across the board, in general terms, it’s often been the case that we’re unclear, unsure, and sometimes simply unaware regarding who the Holy Spirit really is, and where (if you’ll pardon me putting it bluntly like this) – and where He fits in. God the Father and God the Son – well, the terms are both familiar, referring to relationships we understand, which helps ensure we have at least some sense of who these Persons in the Godhead are and how each works together for our good. But God the Holy Spirit … well, we’re not even sure He’s a Person at all half the time (especially if we’ve watched too many Star Wars films and had our minds all marinated in a ‘May-the-force-be-with-you’ sort of outlook on the world).

The result, therefore, often has been that the Spirit of God has been squeezed to the margins of many folks’ minds: not quite a total embarrassment, true, but conveniently and quietly forgotten.

So Christmas we make a great fuss about year after year. God (the Father, we understand that well enough) – God so loved the world that He sent His own Son … Well, yes! Why wouldn’t we want a big fuss about that? Why wouldn’t we want to be marking such drama as God coming into our world with a stream of celebrations!

And Easter’s the same. A little more measured, I guess, in how we have tended to mark the event, since we want to show all due respect to the costliness, pain and great sacrifice right at its heart: we recognize the need for some solemnity, but we nonetheless give no small size of prominence to this great annual festival of faith. We understand – at least in part – we understand what’s going on: it’s a Father and Son thing again, isn’t it, and we’re glad to acknowledge the grace in the giving of both.

How deep the Father’s love for us,
how vast beyond all measure,
that he should give his only Son
to make a wretch his treasure.
How great the pain of searing loss:
the Father turns his face away,
as wounds which mar the chosen one
bring many sons to glory.

But shift the calendar seven weeks on, and Pentecost doesn’t really get comparable ‘air-time’, does it? It’s very much the obvious ‘poor relation’ of our major Christian festivals. No similar season of Advent or Lent, in the run up to this diary date. No carol-singing jamborees, no early morning climax to a holy week of prayer, profession, praise. No endless rounds of greeting one another with the ‘Happy Christmas’ chorus or the ‘Christ is risen, hallelujah!’ Easter morning chant.

Just a slightly nervous nod towards the Spirit of almighty God, an awkward and tentative “don’t-know-where-to-look-quite” brief acknowledgement that Pentecost took place. And the very fact that Pentecost is often just an ‘also-ran’ outsider in the trilogy of major Christian festivals reveals the real extent to which the Spirit is so often, too, the one ‘forgotten’ member of the Trinity.

Which is really the root of Cinderella’s chronic case of ‘who-am-I?’ amnesia. She’s forgotten indeed who she is: she’s forgotten the Prince is her Husband, and that He’s come now to live with His bride.

The church has forgotten, too often, the Person and work of the Holy Spirit of God: and we do so at our cost.

There is much which might be written to set out, in even summary form, the life-transforming ministry the Spirit comes to exercise: but here are some primary facets of His ministry, which we need to grasp and apply.

Power. Jesus said it. “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you” (Acts 1.8). But it’s a sovereign bestowal of power from Him which has a singular end in mind. It’s power with a view to witness: the power to proclaim Jesus, to live Jesus, to share Jesus; the power to declare the good news of God’s grace, to demonstrate in word and deed that Jesus has been raised from the dead, is alive and at work, and is wonderfully able to save.

The Spirit of God empowers His people. He gives them the boldness to see and to seize the chances there’ll be to speak about Jesus and explain what the gospel’s about: He gives them the wisdom to know what to say: He gives them the vision to step out in faith and engage with the people around them: He gives them the passion to enter all the dark and dangerous alleyways of life, intent, with the heart of the Saviour, on seeking and saving the lost.

You will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you. That sort of power. We forget that at our peril. Amnesia here is nothing less than a blanket of asbestos, toxic in the unseen dust it spawns, and dousing the fire of the Spirit.

Pentecost always reminds us that if Jesus is indeed ‘the door’, then, be sure, that door is now a revolving one: the Jesus who welcomes us into the fold, is the Jesus who now sends us out – out with the power to preach and proclaim the good news and to share His pulsing resurrection life with a world so desperately dead.

Presence. “We will come to (that person),” Jesus said, “and make our home with him.” God has taken up His residence in the hearts and lives of His people. His love is made real, and infuses the whole of our being: we’re enveloped and bathed in great waves of God’s fatherly care.

The Spirit of God brings the presence of God right into the hearts of the people of God. He dwells in them, acts for them, and works through them. Jesus. Immanuel. God unmistakably with us.

To a world in rebellion against His rule, God is now a clear and present danger: alarmingly threatening, and uncomfortably close. He’s no longer some dim and distant Being whose existence is the sort of thing philosophers will debate. He’s now up close and personal, and wholly in your face. He dwells in His people: He encounters His world through their lives. There aren’t too many hiding places left, because His people are now all over the place: and God is present among them. God now physically present. On the high street, in the cafes, down the aisles of the shopping malls, out at the places of work and back at the ranch where they live.

God now patently present through His Spirit’s having come upon His people in this way. Perhaps we should all go around with a big, red warning triangle! Let the world be warned (and not just at our worship times) – ‘God is really among you!’ (1 Cor.14.25).

That’s the startling privilege God has given us: it’s in and through His people now that the Lord makes His presence known. God has left the building! His presence is now no longer confined to a temple out in Israel. He’s out and at large, on the loose in the world that He loves.

Cinderella’s memory loss means missing out on all that this new chapter in the story’s opened up. Pentecost turned that significant page: it’s a whole new part of the story in which we’re now caught up.

Purpose. The Spirit of God has come in person to orchestrate the work of God. He knows what He’s doing, and He knows where He means us to go.

He turfs His people out from all the cosy comfort of Jerusalem: there’s a world out there, He insists. He calls Philip away from a place full of action and excitement and directs him to an isolated parking bay on the main road south: Samaria may be bubbling with new gospel life, but there’s a whole, extensive continent which needs to hear the message just as much.

So Philip goes south, and Peter gets sent way out west, and Barnabas heads off up north, and Saul will be stopped in his tracks, turned completely around, and called to take the message to the massive Gentile world.

This band of believers is being sent off and out to every single compass point there is to play the music of the gospel of God’s grace. Not in any merely random sort of way. Not because they’ve figured out some empire-building strategy. But simply because the Spirit of God now orchestrates it all.

Purpose. The whole thing is marked by clear purpose, for the Spirit of God is directing the show – and He knows how to get the work done.

Pentecost means we don’t simply drift any more. We may have been given a building, but it’s not there for us to be sitting and twiddling our thumbs! There’s work to be done and the Spirit of God will be driving us out to the far-flung corners of the city and beyond, with one great purpose in mind: to get the message out!

Forget the amnesia: get your shoes back on, Cinderella – your Prince is off on tour!

Yours in the fellowship of the Spirit

Jeremy Middleton

Monthly Letter – May 2017

Dear Friends

Easter is the pivot of history. The death and resurrection of Jesus changed everything. The rule-book of religion was redundant. Overnight. Over that Saturday night to be precise.

I mean, you can take your old rule-book along to the tomb where they’ve buried the Lord whom you love – and .. well, it suddenly doesn’t help you one small bit. Is your being at the tomb really now a ‘defilement’, since the tomb is the place of the dead? Hardly! It’s life like this world hasn’t witnessed life ever before – it’s life which has just now exploded and filled the whole place. This tomb has become more a ‘womb’!

And the play-it-by-the-rule-book sort of rituals which have marked the former piety of people in their worship of the Lord – those careful, costly God-exalting rituals of anointing by which again the women were expressing their devotion to their Friend, well, they’re suddenly overtaken by events.

They’re living now on the future side of Easter. And there’s now for them, and for us as well, a whole new way of living to be learned.

Jesus is risen. His work is complete. The curtain in the temple’s been torn down. The door of the prison has been blown off its hinges. The future is no longer now the stuff of mere dreams. We’re out at last on the wide open seas of new life.

It’s a bit like that moment in the Tom Hanks movie Castaway when (and this is going to spoil the story a bit, if you’ve not yet seen the film but are planning still to do so! But isn’t that what we all of us are by nature, ‘cast away’ from the Lord?) – it’s a bit like the moment when the guy gets off the island. He’s been stuck there, alone, for more than long enough: and to leave this lonely, isolated, castaway, island life, there’s a great big ‘barrier’ reef  which has to be crossed. With just the right wind, and with a whole load of work, the man with his make-shift and DIY raft finally breaks through the surge of the reef, and the gateway to freedom is there.

That’s the ‘resurrection moment’ in the narrative of Castaway. But it’s not the end of the story, of course! Anything but. There’s an uncharted ocean the guy has then to navigate – and I’m not sure he’d given much thought to that (but I’ll not spoil the story any more)!

In much the same way, the post-resurrection experience of those on-the-spot disciples of Jesus, saw them suddenly bursting right out onto the uncharted waters of a whole new era of grace. Far from being the climax and conclusion of the story, Jesus’ resurrection was actually just the centre-piece and pivot of the narrative: the story was only beginning.

We, too, live now on the ocean side of the Castaway reef, the ‘future’ side of Easter. And the very specific context in which we here are sailing that ocean of grace is this period of ‘post-Bought-it’: and the question we’re facing is – what happens next, now that the building’s been bought?

For that was something of a ‘resurrection’ moment for ourselves, was it not! A mighty demonstration of the power of the living God, helping us see just how very able He is to do so immeasurably more than all we could ever ask or even think. What momentous days, they were!

But now that that ‘reef’ has been crossed, and we’re out on the ‘post-Bought-it’ seas of the freedoms which ownership brings, we’re learning fast the facts of resurrection life: the most basic of which is this – the display by the Lord of such resurrecting power is never where the story ends, but only where, in a very real sense, it finally begins.

So, what, in other words – what has this great display of His grace been all about? Why has the Lord entrusted this building to us? Where do we go now from here? How do we see this building being used? And what may we, therefore, expect?

Here, then, is what we may start to expect – in a very ‘broad-brush-stroke’ account of the burden which lies on my heart.

Stated very simply, Easter was followed, some seven weeks on, by the floodgates of heaven being opened by God in the event we know as Pentecost.

Is it valid to think that a similar sequence of God’s gracious dealings might be our experience too? There’s surely some reason to think so! As I said last month, the backdrop to the purchase of the building was the word the Lord laid firmly on our hearts – that word of extraordinary promise. “’Test Me in this,’ says the Lord Almighty, ‘and see if I will not throw open the floodgates of heaven and pour out so much blessing that you will not have room enough for it..’”

And the fact we were able to purchase the building outright was not so much the floodgates of heaven being opened (though we recognized the hand of God in “the abundance that we have provided” [1 Chron.29.16]), as our rising to God’s challenge to our giving, and our ‘testing’ God in this.

Have we not some cause to expect, therefore, now that the floodgates of heaven will be graciously opened by God in a fresh and abundant outpouring of blessing? Our ‘Easter’ being followed by a ‘Pentecost’ of grace. Isn’t that the tenor of God’s word to us and the pattern of God’s work? And isn’t that the thrust of what we might be praying now as well?

If the ‘floodgates of heaven’ are opened, then it’s streams that we’re likely to see: and that’s what I hope we may find ourselves burdened to pray for. There’s a verse in the book of Micah which puts it well – “In the last days the mountain of the Lord’s temple will be established as chief among the mountains; it will be raised above the hills, and people will stream to it” (Micah 4.1).

People streaming in.

Sunday by Sunday, early in the morning, I stand by the lectern and pray to that end – that the floodgates of heaven will be opened up wide by the Lord as the doors of the building He’s given us here are pulled back, and a great and growing crowd of thirsty people will come streaming in.

To which you maybe say (politely, of course, and under your breath) – dream on! How on earth (you may think) are we ever to see such a ‘stream’ of people crowding in to share with us in our worship? Those days are past now, surely (as the song goes): and in the past are they not now bound to remain?

So – are such streams merely dreams?

Surely not with a God who is able to do so immeasurably more than all we might ask or might think. Surely not with a God who has said that He’d throw open wide the floodgates of heaven.

But how? Well, it’s spring-time now (at least in theory!) and we know how it works in the natural world. You look at the thick layers of snow on the mountains, the huge depths of ice in a glacier, and .. well, we haven’t got equipment which can turn all that to water! We maybe haven’t – but the Lord very definitely has, hasn’t He?

And what’s true in the realm of the glaciers and snow is as true in the realm of the spirit. “He sends His word and melts them; He stirs up His breezes, and the waters flow” (Ps.147.18)

That’s what those dreams of the streams are all made of! The Word of God and the Spirit of God – a mighty combination! No matter how hard are the hearts of the people around us: no matter how cold towards Jesus the culture may seem in these days still to be – when the Lord sends His Word, when the breezes of God’s Holy Spirit at work blow in with His life-giving grace, then a new spring-time season arrives, and the glaciers of cold unbelief start to melt: the waters flow, and the streams of our dreams fill those valleys, which ‘til then have only been full of dry bones.

Dear friends, let’s never forget that we’re post-resurrection people! We’re out now on the ocean side of that reef! The building’s been bought, we’re afloat on the high seas of grace! Let’s pray for that grace from on high whereby, through His Word, the hearts of the cold are all melted: let’s pray that the Lord stirs His breezes again and the wind of the Spirit sees the waters of new life begin to flow: and let’s pray for those streams, for those people streaming in!

Yours with warm expectancy in Christ

Jeremy Middleton

Monthly Letter – April 2017

Dear Friends

Thrilled. Elated. Stunned. Awed. Humbled. Moved.

The list of suitable adjectives could easily go on! For it’s hard adequately even to begin to express the rich, exhilarating cocktail of emotions which we’ve surely known as we’ve seen the funds being given to enable us to purchase the building here at Gilcomston.

It would be easy, though, to be so caught up with the sheer, astonishing scale of the sums which have been given, and so bathe and cavort in this river of joy-steeped euphoria, that we miss the real significance of what’s going on. However remarkable the scale of that giving may be (and it is, make no mistake) we need to see it in context: it’s part of something far greater.

Such giving didn’t simply happen in a vacuum: it was part of a sequence of sovereignly-ordered events – and it’s in seeing that sequence that I hope the significance, too, of all that is now taking place will begin to be seen for what it is.

We can trace, for one thing, a series of striking, timely providences on the part of God, which opened up the way for us to buy and take possession of this building here on Union Street. Some six or so specific sets of circumstances – none of which we could, with any sort of confidence, have previously presumed upon – combined to open up for us this present opportunity to purchase the building. We’re able, as I sought to make clear in my letter last month – we’re able to see that it was, indeed, by nothing less than the sovereign providence of God that we found ourselves at this point.

As Jehoshaphat humbly reminded the Lord in that prayer which we’ve now come to know all too well (2 Chronicles 20) – it was You, Lord, who brought us here.

But alongside the fact of the providence of God, there has been the telling impact of the Word of God. For months now the Lord has been speaking His Word right into the heart of our life.

‘Immeasurably more .. immeasurably more..’ He kept saying, ‘I can do immeasurably more than all that you ask or think.’ That’s what He’s been saying, isn’t it, until that truth was inscribed in indelible ink on our hearts and minds. So that as the moment finally came when we faced the sudden challenge of a K2 type of monetary mountain to be climbed – except in our case it wasn’t K2 it was K750, three quarters of a million pounds and more to be found, within a matter of just a few weeks … well, we knew the score by then, didn’t we? We knew just what to expect.

More.

Immeasurably more.

And – it’s remarkable, this, from a purely human standpoint: it’s astonishing really, the next best thing to miraculous, you might be inclined to surmise – within a matter of barely a couple of weeks the sums coming in have indeed been precisely that: more. More than the sizeable purchase price we required: more than the mountainous £750k we needed to be buying the building outright: and more than that price with all the considerable fees added on.

And not just more but immeasurably more – because we’ve still not been able to measure just how much the Gift Aid component will be!

So the sums of money coming in are to be seen against the backdrop of – and as very much the sequel to – God’s providential dealings with His people in this place: and seen against the backdrop, too, of what He has been saying through His Word, the striking, specific fulfillment, indeed, of that Word which He’s been speaking through the past few months, right into the heart of this fellowship’s life.

How then are we best to interpret the fact that the money’s coming pouring in?

It’s seemed to me that the most helpful way of grasping the significance of this is found in the words of David of old, when he offered his thanks to the Lord in these terms –

“O LORD our God, as for all this abundance that we have provided for building you a temple for Your holy Name, it comes from Your hand, and all of it belongs to You” (1 Chron.29.16)

With a glad and whole-hearted generosity, the people of Israel had responded back then to the call they’d been given by David, not to buy, but in their case to build, a temple for God. And it’s striking to see how the stunning amounts which they gave were perceived by this man in his prayer. ‘This abundance that we have provided .. comes from Your hand.’

Our giving, Your hand. The two belonging together. There’s a sense in which, he surely saw, that this was no less than the hand of God Himself being stretched out upon His people. And that’s surely, as well, how we should understand the astonishing scale of the giving there’s been. This abundance which we have provided … well, it comes from Your hand, O LORD.

It’s solemnizing to see it like that. The living God means business.

And the ‘business’ He means is itself, I believe, immeasurably more than we’ve asked or begun to imagine.

Way back in the autumn we had a number of studies in the book of Acts (you maybe recall), under the series title of ‘Opening the floodgates,’ a series which culminated in a significant weekend away. It was as if, back then, the LORD through the whole of our weekend away, spoke a clear and defining word to us all – the verse from which the series title was drawn.

“’Test Me in this,’ says the LORD Almighty, ‘and see if I will not open the floodgates of heaven and pour out so much blessing that you will not have room enough for it. ..’” (Mal.3.10)

Many, perhaps, have looked at the giving we’ve seen in these last few weeks, and concluded that the Lord has indeed done just that – that He’s opened the floodgates of heaven, and the money’s come pouring in; so much indeed we hardly know what to be doing with it all. (Except, of course, the treasurer and the Trustees, they know very well what to be doing with it all!)

I think that misses the point. The money that people have given has far more to do with the summons the Lord gave His people to ‘test Me in this..’, than it does with the floodgates being opened. Isn’t that the case? What was the challenge the Lord was giving the people back then, if not a challenge regarding the way they would give? No half measures, He was saying to them then, give the lot.

No half measures. That was the challenge, and that, in a sense, was the test. Show Me true ‘extravagance’ in your giving, the Lord was declaring – and then you’ll see what ‘extravagance’ really is like. Heaven’s extravagance. Then you’ll see what real abundance looks like, as the floodgates of heaven are opened!

So the ready response which there’s been here now on the part of so many folk, here and beyond, I should stress – I’m not at all sure that that may not be just the ‘test Me in this’ end of things. Don’t you think that perhaps, all those weeks ago now, when the Lord spoke that word to us all – don’t you think that perhaps it was this He was actually saying: ‘you show Me your abundance: and then you’ll see what real abundance looks like, as I open the floodgates of heaven and I show you Mine!’

It’s the essence of His covenantal dealings with us once again. ‘You go, and I give. You go do that crazy thing and climb the massive mountain – and then see the mountain of blessing that I then will give, way beyond what you know how to cope with!’

In other words, we haven’t seen anything yet!

Because it’s not primarily with a building as such that the Lord is really concerned, is it? It’s what may now happen in and through this building in proclaiming Christ.

And the ‘blessing’ poured out as the floodgates of heaven are opened – may we not dare to think that that will yet be a fresh and abundant outpouring by God of His mighty Holy Spirit? Perhaps even more, immeasurably more, than all we might be daring to think.

And that with a view to enabling and emboldening us His people here to rise to His summons afresh, and to take the Lord Jesus right out and onto the streets and into the hearts of the people of our city.

Yours, both gratefully and expectantly, in the service of Christ our Lord,

Jeremy Middleton

Monthly Letter – March 2017

Dear Friends

I was born in the year that Mount Everest was first climbed.

Reaching that peak may be ten-a-penny now (around 4,000 people have done it), and there are those who say that K2 is actually the tougher climb anyway, but back in 1953 getting to the top of the highest mountain in the world was a big deal.

So much so that my parents were sorely tempted, I’m told, to name their first-born son Hillary, after the man who, along with his Sherpa mountaineer, Tenzing, would, a couple of months later, become the first man ever to reach the famous summit. My Dad was a climber of mountains (of the Cumbrian, rather than the Himalayan, variety), so I guess he was keen to impress on his son from the start his own long-standing mountain-climbing instinct – an instinct which looks at a mountain and figures it’s there to be climbed.

Regardless of the chosen name (and I think Hillary might have proved an awkward one for a boy to go through schooling with – shades of Johnny Cash and ‘A boy named Sue’, perhaps: mind you, Tenzing wouldn’t have been much better), the instinct was certainly instilled: show me a mountain and I’ll not balk at the prospect of the climb.

Which is just as well, I suppose, given the mountain ahead of us here in these days, with our building now to be bought. Raising the purchase price of £750,000 (augmented, of course, by significant fees) is far from representing just a pleasant Sunday stroll across some gentle, rolling foothills in the life of faith: these are more like soaring mountain peaks we have to scale!

It’s not surprising, therefore, that the spirit with which we’ve all greeted the news that the building is ours now to buy has seen us both partly excited and thrilled – and partly, as well, just terrified silly and scared right out of our socks! I mean, that’s an awful lot of money which we have to find!

Mount Everest is always a truly daunting prospect: but that doesn’t mean that climbing it is not even worth attempting. It simply means we treat this massive challenge with the Jesus-centred attitude of faith which it demands.

Remember that sprightly and evergreen octogenarian, Caleb?

“Give me this mountain!” he was quick to insist when the land was at last being divided among all the tribes. The man had had his eye on these mountains since the day he’d first spied them, a whole half-lifetime before. Far from being a ridge too far, those were the heights which a man of his throbbing, adventurous faith had always been eager to climb and to claim for the Lord. Some Caleb-calibration is our need. Think big. Aim high. Seek nothing less than the best God is eager to give.

So what do we learn for ourselves from this vibrant, ‘Munro-bagging’ man, as we rise to the mountain-sized challenge our buying this building presents? Here’s a simple sort of checklist then, which, when faced by any sort of challenge that you face, will stand you in good stead.

Be expectant. Not because we keep burying our heads in the sand and pretending the mountain’s not there: but rather because we’re very aware of the Lord having brought us thus far.

He always completes what He starts. He knows His mountains: so when we find that He’s brought us as far as the ‘base camp’, we can be sure that the summit’s attainable: He doesn’t ever lead His people up the garden path – or even across the Himalayan foothills for just the sight of Everest’s peak. So when we’re able to see (as we are), that the only reason why the purchase of the building is now possible is through a series of striking and sovereign providences of the Lord, then that kindles an expectancy that the sums, just like a summit, are attainable.

Hudson Taylor (so I recall) used to have two simple banners hanging down each side of a door in his house: one said Ebenezer and the other Jehovah Jireh – a simple and daily reminder to the man that ‘Hitherto the Lord has helped us’ and (therefore we may be confident) ‘the Lord will provide.’

Be careful to remember. Caleb was one of just two who could actually recall the momentous events which saw the people of Israel delivered from bondage in Egypt. He’d been in a sort of Himalayan landscape in the past, in other words: the mountain of the Pharaoh’s dreadful tyranny, the mountain of a sea which had to be crossed, the mountain of a people numbering tens and tens of thousands to be day-by-day provided for through close on four decades of wandering.

He’d been there before. And so have we. We’ve had to face at least two previous challenges of such a sort as this: both huge financial mountains to be climbed, the sums involved comparable at least to that we face ourselves. And we’ve seen how the Lord has provided. Wonderfully. Persistently.  Sufficiently.

There’s a history for us to look back to, and that grace of our God-given memories is the soil from which our hopefulness now grows.

Be courageous. We don’t climb the mountains alone. Sir Edmund Hillary didn’t. And neither did Caleb: he knew the score, the music of God’s promises in Christ. What the Lord had impressed on Joshua’s soul, was impressed on Caleb’s as well. ‘I will be with you .. The LORD your God will be with you’: so ‘be strong and courageous’.

They make children’s songs out of this sort of memorable phrase! ‘I am not alone, No! No! No!’ Pretty naff songs, for sure (and more naff than pretty) … but at least they’ve got the point!

It was the same Hudson Taylor who once said (he’s a lot of these quotable quotes) – ‘All God’s giants have been weak men (and women) who did great things because they reckoned on God being with them.’ Exactly. It’s not complicated.

We reckon on that because God has promised us that: He’s given us that, He’s given Himself, His very presence, in the Person of His Son. Jesus, Immanuel. God with us. It’s right up there, bang in the middle of our own wheel window – a perpetual and simple reminder of that great foundational truth, ‘God with us.’ If that’s the case (and it is!) then who can be against us (however mighty they might seem to be)? And more to the point at the present – what can be against us (no matter how massively mountainous the challenge may presently seem)? Be bold!

Be excited. Not in some frothy, superficial, sentimental way: but rather in a spirit of wonder and awe, as it dawns on our hearts that we’re here where we are, and facing what we face, not on account of some rotten twist of fate, but simply because of the call and the word of the Lord.

What’s He been saying through these past any number of weeks as He speaks into our gatherings if not just this, that He’s as able as ever he was to do, as He puts it, immeasurably more than all we could ask or even think? What do we dare to ask Him for in relation to the sums we now require? Well, He can do immeasurably better than that! What do we think (in our wilder and thus unspoken dreams) He might possibly do? Well, think again, says the Lord, you’re way off the mark – He is able to do and to give immeasurably more than we think!

And what’s He been doing this past long while if not drumming it into our heads week by week that the means by which He is pleased to reveal His great glory is through His covenantal dealings with His people: and that the essence of those covenantal dealings with His people crystalises out as this – ‘you go, and I’ll give.’

It’s all good stirring stuff, and we’re glad to sit back in our seats and enjoy all this riveting drama unfolding before our watching eyes in the lives of these ancient believers. And then we find that the Lord is now speaking not just to us any more, but about us as well. ‘Your turn now!’ He declares. ‘You go, and I’ll give. You’ve learned it: now live it! You go climb this mountain – and see if I don’t give!’

Isn’t that what thrilled the prophet Habakkuk? “He enables me to go on the heights.” And should we not be as similarly thrilled? For we’re now finding ourselves sucked right into the story we’re reading: His story, and we all get to be a part of it. How awful, how wonderful!

So, yes, we’ve every cause to be excited. And therefore, as well –

Be committed. That man Caleb certainly was. Single-minded. Whole-hearted. Giving his all. It’s the only way safely to climb in the soaring Himalayas.

150 years ago this place was just a building site. And those who made sure (by investing themselves in that single-minded way) that this building we’re now going to buy was erected all those years ago in 1868 – well, they couldn’t have had any sense at all of just what the Lord would then do: immeasurably more than all they’d have asked then or thought! Think what’s happened since then.

It’s no different for us today. Through our generous and sacrificial giving we’re investing in a future work of God, the extent of which we can scarcely begin to imagine. But we take God at His word, and thus believe it will again be immeasurably more than all we might ask or could think.

May we not dare to believe that in the years to come and from this building we’ve bought, He will take up the rubble and ruins of lives that are broken and battered and lost in their bondage to sin, and build for Himself a people renewed, and restored, and transformed – to the lasting praise of His own great Name?

And is not this a ‘mountain’, then, which we ourselves, like Caleb of old, will be eager to tackle and climb with a whole-hearted, generous faith?

Yours in that spirit of faith, and in the service of our Lord Jesus Christ,

Jeremy Middleton

Monthly Letter – February 2017

Dear Friends

I know they say that you can have too much of a good thing: I don’t know who ‘they’ are – but I’m going to run the risk anyway, and expand a bit more on what we’ve been starting to look at in our Sunday morning worship.

“Immeasurably More…” That’s the title we’re using for the series of studies on Paul’s great letter to the church at Ephesus. It’s fair enough, surely, to use the man’s own words as the title; especially since they describe as well as anything else (and certainly as succinctly as anything else) the essence of what he’s on about in these six riveting chapters of Scripture.

Not just more, but immeasurably more.

That’s what God is able and pleased to do in and through our flawed and faltering lives – more; immeasurably more than all we could ask or imagine. And that’s because of who God is, of course: more, immeasurably more than all we could think or comprehend. Wiser and stronger, and purer and kinder, and richer and bolder and safer, than any mere mortal could even begin to take in.

God is in Himself so much more, immeasurably more, than all that our stunted, stubborn minds can start to grasp. Stubborn? Well, surely yes. It’s a stubborn trait of intellectual pride which makes us think (subconsciously perhaps, I grant you, half the time) that somehow what there is to know about the Lord can all – in truth it should all be comprehended by the minds of us mere mortals.

Impossible. Our minds are made to measure. And when we’re faced by that which can’t be measured, well we’re wired by God in such a way that reason is intended then to melt away to wonder. Which is when the stubborn streak kicks in. God gets ‘cropped’ to fit the largest frame to which our minds will stretch.

We’re happy to live with just such a down-sized sort of deity. We miss the point completely, of course, when we do. And that’s why Ephesians is never a comfortable book. Comforting, yes, when properly understood: but never all that comfortable, for the teaching Paul gives in this letter explodes from the start such a limited view of the Lord, and insists that we ‘know’ what in truth will go way beyond knowledge, and accept how immeasurably greater He is in every regard than anything we might have thought.

And because He is in Himself so immeasurably more than all we might think or conceive, He’s as able as well then to do so immeasurably more than all we might ask or even think. More than that, He’s not just able to do so, but actually pleased and willing to do so! More. More. Immeasurably more.

But we find that hard to accept. Hard to believe, except in some nominal sense, and then harder still, I suspect, to apply to our everyday lives. Which in some ways is precisely why the letter was written in the first place: it’s a pastor’s letter, full of that awareness of the obstacles to growth; the teaching of a pastor who’s attuned to all the flaws there are within the human heart which make it hard to take on board such elevated truth, and mean we end up merely paddling in the shallower pools of gospel life instead of swimming in the surging seas of grace.

Why do we find it so hard to accept and apply to our lives this glorious truth that our God is both able and pleased to do so immeasurably more than all that we ask or think? I think there are at least these three persistent reasons.

First, there’s a theological reason. Our view of God is often subtly flawed. We have not adequately grasped either the power of God or the love of God.

We believe in miracles, for instance – how could we not, since the miracle of a stunning resurrection is right there at the bedrock of our faith? But we view them as an oddity, akin to how we might regard some people with twelve fingers. I mean, sure, they happen, but they’re hardly what we’d think of as ‘main-line’. Miracles are there at the freak-ish end of faith.

God’s power is thus subtly reduced to the standard sort of measurements we use: and we find that we’re really ‘rationalists’ still at core. Theory is trumped by a sober sort of realism. God could do a whole load of things perhaps: but He probably wouldn’t and almost certainly, therefore, He won’t. Our theology is often, in practice, quite flawed.

And not just in terms of God’s power – in terms of His love as well.

Again, we know the theory: God loves us big time. We’re pointed right back to the cross, which simply can’t be explained without our having recourse to the wonderful love of the Lord. Or was that again out there at the freak-ish end of fervour on the part of God, a once in a blue moon demonstration of a love which is more normally restrained? Does God really love us that much? Always? So much that He’d open the doors of heaven and pour out everything? Again and again and again? Really?

Our theology can start to get quite twitchy at the absolute extravagance of God’s amazing grace. Which leads on to the second reason why it’s hard for us to take on board the ‘immeasurably more’ in God’s grace.

There’s an essentially spiritual reason as well. That’s to say, there are still in us all the remains of a gospel of ‘works’; the dregs of a sense of dessert still slop around the caverns of our hearts and infuse all our thinking with a thorough-going, performance-based perspective on the dealings that God has with us in Christ. There’s a deep-seated spiritual pride in us all which refuses politely to die; and this pride is a thing which will wriggle and squirm in its death throes far down in our souls, and it’s this which disdains such extravagant favour being shown us by God.

This reluctance to rule out dessert as a factor in how God will act then shuts our eyes to the humbling dimensions of grace, and the startling ‘immeasurably more’ He is able and willing to do.

There’s often a third, more ‘cultural’ reason for the struggles which we have in both accepting and applying to ourselves this ‘immeasurably more’ of the gospel. For those familiar with a culture (or sub-culture) of ‘asceticism’, this facet of the gospel of God’s grace is hard to take.

There’s something not right when you start to enjoy life too much. That has often been a hallmark of religion in our land. We follow a crucified Saviour, and therefore, like Him, we are called, are we not, (this is how this culture thinks) to be men and women of sorrows, acquainted with suffering? ‘Bless us, Lord (but not too much or it could get a bit embarrassing).’ I’m painting, I know, a caricature. But it’s there as often as not as part of the shadowy ‘culture’ from which we’ve been brought to the kingdom. And we need to learn that the austerity gospel is as harmful to true growth in Christ as the so-called prosperity gospel now doing its rounds. The ‘immeasurably more’ of the gospel means just what it says on the tin – we’ve been blessed by God with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly realms in Christ!

But the moment you get just how big this all is, then up steps master Oliver, the boy who goes looking for ‘More’. Or his older female counterpart, a lady we all know as Eve.

Because ‘more’ dates back to Eden. There’s a wrong sort of ‘more’ Eve went seeking: and there’s a wrong sort of ‘more’ we, too, are so prone to pursue.

The Lord gave the pair back in Eden immeasurably more than all they’d have asked for or had dreamed of. All the trees in the lavishly watered, wonderfully fertile garden – they’re commanded by God to enjoy all this fruit. Except just one.

Are you seeing that? It’s more than their being allowed by God to eat the fruit: immeasurably more. It’s more than their merely being invited by God to enjoy the fruit: immeasurably more. They’re commanded by God to enjoy it all! There’s nothing ascetic about that is there?

But in the face of all that, God’s ‘immeasurably much’, Eve will insist on just that little bit more. And we’re her children. We’re the same. We want more. More of a say in how to live life. More of the freedom to do as we like. No restrictions at all. It’s license rather than freedom for which, deep down, we always hanker.

And before we even see what’s going on, we’re swinging from our legalism to license with the skill of a seasoned trapeze artist. Through the same deceptive scheming of the serpent in the garden, the ‘immeasurably more’ of the gospel becomes “I’m measurably more …” in our thinking: I’m measurably more able and worthy to make up the rules for myself: I’m measurably more .. well, you start making it up for yourself.

It’s a tightrope we’re summoned to walk. And Paul’s letter to the church at Ephesus is as good a pole as any to provide the sort of balance in our living that we need. May we learn to walk well with our Lord!

Yours in Jesus Christ our Lord

Jeremy Middleton

Monthly Letter – January 2017

Dear Friends

January 1st is one of the straws at which our world will always tend to clutch.

As if, by some strange sort of magic we otherwise scorn, that overnight shift from one day to the next has a power, on this one particular date, to press the ‘reset’ button on our lives and afford to us all a fresh start.

In truth, of course, it’s just another day: no different from the day before, with no inbuilt capacity to make things right and change our whole experience: the debt into which we have fallen – it’ll still be there: the grief which has broken our heart – it’s as painful and real as it was.

Much as we might wish that it were so, and hard as we might ring the bells to mark that midnight moment, there isn’t any magic in the middle of this one specific night. The first day of the first month of the new, incoming year is .. well, it’s just another day.

And yet.

And yet we’re glad to find that time is given all these regular, rhythmic punctuation marks. We’re glad of that arrangement, for instance, whereby time is broken into weeks, with each recurring Sunday like the start of a new paragraph; and glad as well that each New Year is likewise like our starting a new page.  We’re glad to think of history as if it were a larger, life-size variant of Monopoly, with January 1st affording similar benefits to that of passing ‘Go’.

In truth, of course, there are no timely, heavenly hand-outs as we pass this annual milestone in our lives. There’s no such easy magic which will break the wretched spell which sin has long since cast upon our world.

It’s just another day.

But the sense and the wish and the hope which we have, that there is somewhere such ‘magic’ – that’s an instinct which runs deep within our spirits and refuses to lie down. I wonder if you know the words of the Paul McCartney 1970 song which goes by the haunting name of ‘Another day’?

So sad, so sad: sometimes she feels so sad. Alone in her apartment she’d dwell, till the man of her dreams comes to break the spell.

Ah, stay, don’t stand her up. And he comes and he stays … but he leaves the next day. So sad, sometimes she feels so sad

Waiting, longing, hoping.  Waiting for ‘the man of our dreams’ who will come and will break that dread spell. But we look in the wrong sort of places, and we trust in the wrong sort of people: and what we dared to believe would at last be that man of our dreams turns out to be no more use, and to have no more substance, than the proverbial man of straw.

He comes and he stays, but he leaves the next day. The excitement and hope of Hogmanay festivity mutates into one more wretched hangover. So sad, so sad.

The instinct, though, runs deep; time after time, with a stubborn, set resilience, it emerges from the shadows and awakens once again the hope that somehow that old spell will yet be broken and a new start can be made.

This instinct runs deep, of course, precisely because that dream of ‘the man’ who will break this cruel spell – that dream has been carved on the walls of our souls by the Lord. It’s the way we are wired, by the grace of God, an unseen, pulsing pointer to the promise He Himself had, long before the dawn of time, first made – the promise that ‘the man of those dreams’ would come, and that He would indeed break the spell.

The book of Judges is, thus, for instance, just a catalogue of that Hogmanay-type hopefulness, when time after time the people of Israel get into a mess and end up dwelling alone (or it feels like that, surrounded as they are by hostile, nasty neighbours who, with at least a measure of truth, are but neighbours from hell) – dwelling alone in the ‘apartment’ God has given them, that thin little strip of middle-eastern land, waiting and praying and hoping for that God-given ‘man of their dreams’.

And yes, the man (well, usually it was a man) – he does come: “ah, stay! ..” we can almost hear them cry, “.. don’t stand us up!” And they do stay, varying numbers of years they’re around; but it’s always, in the great grand scheme of things, no more than just a fleeting sort of interlude – he leaves ‘the next day’. There’s a measure of momentary relief: but the spell isn’t broken, and the roller-coaster story of their up and down existence (and mostly it’s the down and out which dominates) goes on.

These so-called ‘saviours’ were not the real deal and they could not deliver the goods. But they were a recurring reminder of ‘the dream’ the Lord has buried in the caverns of our consciousness; and each of the leaders the Lord thus raised up was a sudden, whispered pulsing of that promise from of old.

Of course, that promise of God, writ large across the great, expansive narrative of grace, unfolded in the story of His dealings with this wayward, spell-bound people – that promise of God was also given utterance increasingly in what His prophets preached.

The assurance they brought that His mercies are new, not just on the morning of January 1st, but new every morning. The promise they articulated wonderfully, and that in the darkest of days – the promise of a new heart and a new spirit. The description of God as the One who makes all things new. And the soaring, climactic guarantee that there will, therefore, one day be a new heaven and a new earth when the spell will be finally broken and when all will be finally right.

That’s the ‘deeper magic’ to which those ‘dreams’, so well secreted in our souls, all point. The Man of our dreams who would come and who’d break the spell.

Remember that bit in the Narnia books when Aslan explains to the children what he’s done?

“Though the Witch knew the Deep Magic, there is a magic deeper still which she did not know. Her knowledge goes back only to the dawn of time. But if she could have looked a little further back, into the stillness and the darkness before Time dawned, she would have read there a different incantation. She would have known that when a willing victim who had committed no treachery was killed in a traitor’s stead, the Table would crack and Death itself would start working backward.”

The spell has been finally broken, and the Man of our dreams is at last and for ever here to stay. Death has started working backwards, until at last it will disintegrate completely, and then simply be no more.

This year more than ever, with the first day having fallen on a Sunday, the weekly celebration of our resurrecting God – this year more than ever we’re reminded that the surging hope and confidence we have is rooted in, not some cheap Hogmanay and hogwash sort of magic, but that ‘deeper’, daring ‘magic’ which took God’s own Son to Calvary and saw Him thereby break the ‘spell’, destroying once for all the power of hell and death.

And there’s therefore a sense in which the parallel with the Monopoly board holds true. It’s that one word ‘Go!’ which we hear once again at the start of another new year.

Our mandate is simply to ‘go’: because the Man of our dreams has now come. And stayed. And broken the spell.

Gladness instead of mourning. A garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. Renewal in place of the ruins.

In the apartments of Aberdeen, and far beyond, how many there are who dwell alone, ‘til the Man of their dreams should come and break the spell. Men and women, without hope and without God in the world, tired of disappointment, weary of their every new day dawning turning out to be no more than just ‘another day’, and utterly unaware (until they’re told!) that that Man has now come, and that the ‘deep undoing magic’ of the gospel has begun.

So the Man Himself calls out loudly, ‘Go!’

Please God we shall do so! With renewed expectancy: with spirits refreshed and energized again: eager to see ‘death’ now working marvelously backwards in the lives of those who for all too terribly long have been under that dreadful spell, the curse of sin.

Yours in Jesus Christ our Lord

Jeremy Middleton

December 2016 Record – Monthly Letter

Dear Friends

‘American politics’ may not be the area you’d choose for your specialist subject on Mastermind (it wouldn’t be mine, for sure – and, of course, you may well wisely choose to avoid the challenge in the first place).

But in the past few weeks those self-same American politics have thrown up, and brought into sharp relief, a question which has a certain timeless relevance.

What do we look for in leaders?

It’s a timely question.

Timely, first of all, because in these next few weeks we mark again the coming of the King. “Today a Saviour has been born to you,” the shepherds out in the fields were told: but the Saviour thus born, well, be sure of this, “He is Christ the Lord,” they were quickly further informed. Our true salvation, and our only true security, is found within and under His lordship over our lives.

We’re safe where He’s sovereign. We get to live, as He gets to lead.

So what does that leadership look like?

Well, you’ll look in vain for any presidential palace or some fancy royal residence. Not with Jesus. Anything but. He runs a mile from that.

You think that’s an exaggeration? Hardly! Remember the time when He’d fed the five thousand (and that was just the number of men), and the people were all for voting Jesus in as president-elect? “Knowing they intended to come and make Him king by force …” – an electoral ‘shoe-in’ if ever there was one, and if ever it came to a vote: but what did Jesus do? He ran a mile, He “..withdrew again to a mountain by Himself” (Jn.6.15).

He knew what they were on about. He was never going to be some sort of puppet-king like that. You vote Him in when you see what He can do for you: but then, of course, you can later vote Him out of office if He doesn’t actually do things as you’d like them done.

That’s just another way of saying that, bottom-line, the customer is king: and their so-called president-elect will be no more than just their puppet on a string. Jesus isn’t taken in.

He doesn’t do that sort of leadership at all. Instead, as often as not, His leadership looks far more like a tough-skinned, weather-beaten shepherd, out on the hills in the ancient world’s equivalent of his denim dungarees.

None of the impressive pomp and pageantry of palace life: that’s all very well for superficial, ceremonial spectacles, to let the sycophantic minions know who’s boss. But it’s hardly all that practical: and Jesus as our Leader is intent upon salvation – so He’s nothing if not practical. He has to be: salvation is a painful, messy business, and demands from the One effecting it a sleeves-rolled-up, and wholly hands-on exercise of stamina and strength.

His leadership, in other words, is never just a nominal thing, never merely titular at all. He’s come to be our Leader: to lead us out of hopeless, abject slavery, and to lead us on to pastures new and good.

No wonder the picture the Scriptures most commonly use is that of the Shepherd.

For it’s ‘sheep’ with whom this Leader takes to do: foolish, feckless creatures, clueless as to where to go, and drifting off to ditches, dead-ends, dangers and to difficulties galore. Such ‘sheep’ as that which we are, we need a sharp-eyed, sure-footed Shepherd, out on the mud of the hillsides, not some sequin-studded sovereign in the comfort of his castle.

That’s the Leader we needed. And that’s why the birth of the Saviour is heralded first to some shepherds, out at their work on the Bethlehem hills: they, better perhaps than any, will ‘get it’. The Saviour is a Shepherd, and that lordship whereby safety and salvation is secured for us is a bold and gracious, always out-front, leading of the flock both day and night.

For this is what shepherds do. They keep watch over each of their flock. They rescue their sheep from disaster, shield their sheep from all danger, feed their sheep with good pasture, lead their sheep by still waters – and prepare their sheep always for the temple of God, which is where their true destiny lies.

More striking still in the old, familiar narrative of Jesus’ birth is the time of day: or night, to be precise. These shepherds are out in their fields, keeping watch over all of the flock, by night: when the kings of this world have been long since tucked up tight in their comfortable beds, and the sovereigns in their silk PJs are fast asleep.

It was a dark, dark world in every sense into which our Saviour was born. But He entered the darkness, He lived with the dangers, He bore all the costly demands which that fullness of life He would give to His sheep would require.

That’s what leadership looks like! How good to be reminded at this time of year that such indeed is the nature of the Saviour who has come. The King who reigns through servitude: the Shepherd who will be at last the sacrificial lamb. The Lord in whom, through whom, with whom, we know life.

And that’s what we look for in leaders – to get back to the question with which I began. A timely question, as I said. And that not only because it’s Christmas and our thoughts are all directed to the coming of the King; but as much because it’s very much the area of our congregation’s life on which our thinking as the Transitional Leadership Team has been very largely focussed.

The Transitional Leadership Team is, by definition, essentially transitional. Its existence as such has given us all a helpful and necessary ‘breathing space’ in which to think through just how best we put in place the healthy local leadership required to take us forward in these coming days.

Reflecting back on the past twelve months, one of the things of which we’ve been aware has been the benefit of working with a numerically small local leadership team, to whom has been entrusted the decision-making role. In adopting this pattern, certainly, we have sought, as best we may, to balance what could well be termed a basic ‘oligarchy’ by ensuring that (1) we involved the body of elders in (as well as updating them about) our on-going discussions; (2) wherever feasible, we provided regular and good communication with the fellowship as a whole; and (3) we created at least a measure of congregational ‘enfranchisement’ through the various Community Groups, whereby discussion, informed by the Word of God, about different and important facets of our life as a fellowship here could be shared on as wide a congregational front as possible.

This sort of pattern is something we’re keen now to build on, as we move towards a form of local leadership into which the present Transitional Leadership Team can readily and happily evolve, without any fear of ‘cold turkey’ – to use an appropriate seasonal phrase!

It has, however, been geese (the older Christmas dinner-table centrepiece), instead of turkeys, which have informed and helped our thinking as we’ve pondered just what form our local leadership should take!

It’s become, I suppose, something of a commonplace, when thoughts have turned to leadership, to refer to the ‘formation flying’ of geese as they settle in to their ‘long-haul’ flight: their well-known ‘V’ formation significantly increases their combined efficiency (an estimated 70% increase, and more, in their flying range); and it highlights also the benefits there can be in their rotating the ‘point’ position with its ‘front-end’ demands of leadership.

Well, we’re certainly in ‘for the long haul’ here! And the flying geese analogy may well provide as helpful a model as any for the sort of local leadership to which we are aspiring.

For such a model serves to highlight well two helpful, core components of a ‘long-haul’ style of leadership.

First, it highlights the benefit of a small ‘executive’ leadership body, entrusted with the ‘point’ responsibility of an overall decision-making role. Such a Leadership Team would be both drawn from, and supported by, the larger body of elders – the former keeping the latter ‘in the loop’, and drawing on the pool of wisdom and counsel which the body of elders afford; the latter supporting and encouraging the former through their on-going prayer and insights.

Secondly, however, such a model well highlights the value and importance of ‘rotation’. As the geese themselves have figured out, there are very good practical and pastoral reasons for countenancing such a pattern of ‘rotation’; a pattern which would not involve at any point a great and wholesale change, but equally would guarantee a frequent introduction of a fresh and energising ‘set of wings’.

Leadership’s all about ‘long haul’: which is what we’re intent on securing.

And with that we’re back once more to Jesus. Our Saviour is here for the long haul. There won’t be any running away on the part of this Shepherd who’s come – no matter the cost He will bear, no matter the wounds He’ll receive, no matter the price He must pay. There won’t be any running away on His part, and He won’t for a moment ever think of just packing it in – no matter how wayward, and stubborn, and foolish and fractious His people, like sheep, may well be.

He’s the ultimate ‘long haul’ Leader: the Saviour and Shepherd, whose goodness and mercy will be there for me ‘all my days’, and who’ll lead me right on ‘til I’m dwelling forever in the house and the home of my God.

So, in closing, as the season of Christmas catches each of us up in its wonder and hope once again (at least I pray it may do so, whether sorrow or joy fills your heart), I’m eager to say that the warmth of the welcome you’ve given us here, and the sense that we’ve had of that gracious ‘long haul’ love of the Lord through the care and support you have shown – these have humbled us greatly, and served only to stir yet more in our hearts just such a ‘long haul’ commitment in love to you all in the on-going work of our Lord Jesus Christ in this place.

Thank you so much! And may the grace of the Lord, who though He was rich yet for our sakes become poor that we through His poverty might be enriched beyond all measure – may that grace of the Lord Jesus Christ be with each one of you, in the face of all your circumstances, at this time.

Yours in Jesus Christ our Lord

Jeremy Middleton

November 2016 Record – Monthly Letter

Dear Friends

It’s the ‘rhythm’ in our common life which I’m keen we examine and grasp: the ‘respiratory’ work of the Spirit of God, as it were, the pulse of the body of Christ: the ‘rhythm’ inherent in the ‘going out’ and ‘coming in’ of which the psalmist speaks.

Of course you can take that famous final phrase from the well-known psalm (you know the one, how “the Lord watches over your going out and your coming in for this time forth and for ever more”) and apply it, I guess, in any number of different ways.

It’s the pattern of our working life. Our going out to our work in the morning; our coming in as the sun starts to set.

It’s the route-map of our life on planet earth. Our going out on surging streams of expectancy into all that our adulthood brings; our coming in, on the tide of the toll of advancing years, to God’s stepping stone into His future.

It’s the sequence of our life in Christ. Our going out from the bondage of Egypt; our coming in to the freedom of Canaan.

But it’s also the ‘rhythm’ of our communal life as the born-again people of God. A people who are ‘gathered’ and ‘scattered’, ‘gathered’ and ‘scattered’ incessantly: gathered as those who are saved, scattered as those called to serve. The breath of the Spirit, the heartbeat of heaven, the pulsing life of the Lord.

Gathered, scattered. In, out. Together, apart.

It’s a rhythm writ large, as I tried to briefly demonstrate last month – a rhythm writ large across the whole, expansive spectrum of God’s truth. And it’s a rhythm in our communal life which the Lord has been careful to regulate right from the start.

One day a week in their own small patch of Israel, up and down the land, the locals were to gather, a coming together which was in many ways to define the very essence of the people they’ve become. They’re a ‘congregation’ because … well, because the very essence of that life they’ve been given by God is that they congregate: they’re a people who’ve been gathered together as the family of God.

And three times a year, they were to do the whole thing big time. A week long festival of faith on which they all converged: a sacred pulling together of all of the people of God from wherever their ‘lines’ might have fallen, a festival of faith, so large and so steeped in the grace of God’s blessing that it would dwarf the likes of Greenbelt in terms of both its size and its significance.

One people, one place, one passion. If ‘strap-lines’ had been in vogue back then, that’s the sort of strap-line they’d have had. One people, one place, one passion: the living Lord. The family of God, the city of God, the glory of God.

Their life as the people of God, sent out as they were (and thus everywhere scattered) by their great redeeming God, to declare and display ‘the glories of His grace’ – their life had its own clear ‘punctuation marks’.

To be better equipped for the service for which they were scattered, they required that coming together. Week by week on the Sabbath: and then three times a year, way up on the mountains of Judea, and in the city of their God.

And the ‘rest’ and refreshment God promised lay not so much in the downing of tools and in stopping their work, as in their coming together to worship and rest in their Lord. It was never intended as a ‘do-nothing day’, a ‘sit-there-and-twiddle-your-thumbs’ sort of day, with your working clothes thrown in the corner, and your lazing around with the chance to catch up on some sleep. Anything but.

This was the business of gathering again, ‘coming in’ once again from where they’d all been scattered, converging, as though drawn by some magnet on high (the Lord does have that magnetic, magnificent pull, doesn’t He!) to the place where the springs of the worship and love in their hearts would erupt in a fountain of praise.

So here are the questions we need to explore. Why is that week by week ‘gathering’ in which we engage so crucial to all we attempt when we’re sent out and ‘scattered’ to serve? And how do we best give expression to all the Lord means us to know in thus gathering His people together?

Or framing that question a different way: if the ‘One people, one place, one passion’ sort of strap-line has significance at all, then –

  • How do we give expression to our being, indeed, at one as the family of God? That’s essentially a relational
  • How does our converging on this one shared gathering place best point us back to that one great place in history where on His cross our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ effected that which brings all things together under Him? That, I suppose, is an essentially theological
  • How is that single, focused passion both stirred and expressed, such that, sent out once more, we’re on fire for the Lord, inflamed with His love, and eager to share the good news? That’s, I suppose, an essentially spiritual

Let me suggest, then, the four main points of our ‘congregating compass’: four primary reasons why our God graciously gathers us in week by week from wherever it is we’ve been scattered. Maybe then we can start teasing out just how best all these week by week gatherings will encompass the purpose God has.

History

We each of us have a history. And, yes, it is at its core always His story: the story of the Lord’s gracious dealings with us down the years. It’s the story which the blind man told – I once was blind, but now I see (Jn.9.25), replicated by the grace of God in all our lives in who knows how many different versions, but always with that quintessential contrast and its pivot on those two great telling words “.. but now ..”

We are not what we were. Once we were blind but now we see. Once we were lost but now we’ve been found. Once we were enemies, now we’re His friends. Once we were dead but now we’re alive.

Our present experience has a history we need to recall: we forget our past at our peril. Remember your story: remember it’s always His story: and remember what all is involved in those two simple, pivotal words – ‘but now ..’

That’s the first reason God gathers His people together: and needs to do so every seven days – our memories are short, our concentration poor, and thus, too easily and often, our whole perspective shifts and we become, no longer blind, so much as blinkered in our thinking, forgetful of those very basic truths which give our daily living such an edge.

For those two great pivotal words, ‘but now ..’, words which tie the riches that we now possess to what was but a wretched and impoverished past – those two great pivotal words ensure that we are once again all tethered to the trinitarian ‘trig points’ for the living of our lives: the grace of God, the cross of Christ, and the work of the Spirit.

These three combined realities, enriching, ennobling, enduring as they are – these three combined realities alone explain the stunning contrast which there is between our present and our past. Lose sight of these three, and the edge to all our living as we’re scattered through the week – that ‘edge’ is also lost.

Identity

Sundays address an endemic identity crisis in our lives.

For our world has it all upside down. It defines who we are (by and large) by what we do. Go into the barber, go into the hair-dressing salon, and, first time there, right at the top of the list of the questions you’re asked is ‘what is it you do?’

And how do we answer? We define ourselves by what we do.

You spend the larger part of all your days in educating children – “.. well, I’m a teacher” is the answer that you’re as likely as not to give.

But this world, which bombards us from morning to night with this subtly distorted perspective – the world has it all topsy turvy.  Who we are is not defined by what we do: it’s the other way round entirely. Who we are defines what we do. Our identity comes first. It’s paramount.

But a week out there in the upside down world – well, it weakens our hold on this truth, doesn’t it? We need such a regular reminder in regards to our identity.

Our identity is found in Christ. It’s a relational thing in the end of the day. I am His: that’s who I am. He is mine and I am His. Everything else flows from that: and nothing is bigger than that.

That’s to say, our identity is an essentially relational thing. In the words of the Bethel Music song – “I’m no longer a slave to fear, I am a child of God.”

Except it’s plural. Always plural. Once we were not a people, now we are the people of God (1 Pet.2.10). Strangers who’ve become citizens: foes who’ve become family. Our identity now is a plural, relational thing.

And God gathers together His people each week to remind us of this once again.

“Our Father ..” He taught us to pray, and those first two words say it all. We are both children of God, and related as brothers and sisters. Related, note. Our identity is a relational thing. In Christ; and part of God’s family. That’s who we are. And who we are then defines and determines both what we do and how we live.

Destiny

We are a future-oriented people in the way our lives are lived. Sundays serve to redirect our focus to that future God’s secured.

We’re gathered each week by the Lord to remind us of where all He’s wrought and accomplished for us in His Son – to remind us of where it will end. With the ultimate in ‘ceilidhs’.

Does that offend the sensibilities of some, to put the thing like that? I mean no offence! I mean only to stretch all our thinking, to help us all see that in gathering His people each week as He does, the Lord is intent that we grasp once again what’s in store – that glorious coming together of all of the saints, “a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and in front of the Lamb” (Rev.7.9). There’s music and movement; isn’t that what the Scriptures all teach? The ‘great dance’ as C S Lewis once famously put it. Joy and delight, peace and pleasures, a family together and festive forever at last.

Sundays are there to calibrate our living once again. To pull up all the anchors of nostalgia which tie us to the good times of the past. To drag us away from the lure of the present and the pleasures it presents. To remind us that we’re pilgrims here, not residents. To assure us that, however dark the tunnel we may presently be walking through, there’s light at its end. Always.

The very act and fact of gathering reminds us of our destiny; and motivates us afresh to keep on pressing forward to that end with both an urgency and hope. Because the reason why we’re scattered to the far-flung corners of God’s world is to serve Him as His signposts to, His heralds of, that new and better day which soon will dawn.

Energy

As Jesus was conscious while He ministered of the power which was always going out from Him, so the service which we render in our ‘scattered’ lives saps streams of spiritual energy from our souls. Our reserves need replenished.

And it’s there in His gathering His people that the Lord thus refreshes us all. Like sponges wrung dry as our lives have been used by the Lord to bring cleansing and comfort to all of the folk we’ve been with, so we need once again to be drenched in the Spirit of God: fed afresh through the Word of the Lord, fired afresh in the praise of the Lord, filled afresh with the Spirit of God.

Gathered by God, to be scattered. Empowered by the Spirit poured upon us: encouraged in the knowledge of our destiny: ennobled by the grace of our identity: and inspired by our recalling His great story in our lives.

But how all that becomes the great reality of every weekly gathering of His saints – well, that must wait, I’m afraid, for another time!

Yours in Christ’s service

Jeremy Middleton

October 2016 Record – Monthly Letter

Dear Friends

The sights and sounds and smells of harvest have been in the air. I mean outside, in the earthy world of farms and fields: the time when the brambles are big and the rose hips are ripe, and farmers go out to gather back in what they’d taken such trouble to scatter.

It’s part of the rhythmic annual liturgy of the land. Gathering what’s been scattered – and rejoicing in the increase. And what’s true in the way God has ordered His world is as true in the work of the gospel. We go out bearing ‘seed’ to be sown in the souls of neighbours and friends: and then we return, bearing with us the ‘sheaves’ which the seed, by God’s grace, has become.

The analogy is God’s, not mine … though I’m happy to use it, since the words of the psalm which express it so well have inspired and encouraged my heart since the day they were first impressed on my heart by the Lord.

“Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy. He who goes out weeping, carrying seed to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with him” [Ps.126.5-6].

I had tears in my eyes when I first read those words: tears of sadness, despair and frustration through a sense of just how unworthy, inept and unsuited I was for all I’d been called to by Christ. These words from the psalm were as an oasis in the desert, like a beam of light shining into the darkness and distress of the pit of my own inadequacy.

They were a promise. A promise whose truth was paraded before my watching eyes in the cycle of the seasons and the sequence of the farmer’s world.

But they were more than a promise. I saw they simply recognized an elemental pattern in the way God works. He gathers, and scatters, then gathers again. This rhythmic annual liturgy of the land was a prism, I saw, through which we mortals with our ever so limited vision, could nonetheless grasp the whole grand purpose of Almighty God throughout eternity: He gathers, then scatters, then gathers again.

This, I saw, was the essence of the ebb and flow of history: this, I saw, explained the five great ‘acts’ in the drama of salvation which the Bible itself sets forth.

Gathered at creation: scattered by sin: gathered again at the cross of our Saviour, right at the cross-roads of history: then scattered once more by the Spirit: and gathered at last and for good in the glory of that final, lasting, joy-filled ‘harvest home’.

And what really struck home as I pondered this all was that no matter just where you might look in the course of this ‘large canvas’ flow, each part of the story you chose to inspect had this same basic pattern shot through it, like some sort of heavenly ‘trademark’. Gathered, then scattered, then gathered again.

The rhythmic sort of lifestyle of the countryside. And for this young man who had dreamed as a boy that he’d end up being a farmer, well, it pleased my heart no end to find that the Lord Himself was actually a ‘farmer’: or at least that the farmers were taking their cue from Him.

How does the Bible begin if not with the Lord’s trademark ‘gathering’? “Let the water under the sky be gathered to one place ..” [Gen.1.9]. And so it goes on, as the great Creator gets to grips with the disordered mess of His formless ‘raw materials’, sorts them all out by separating out what is different, and by gathering together those things .. well, all that belongs together: like some hard-working parent intent on creating some order from the chaos of her children’s cluttered playroom: dolls in one place, the thousand and one bits of Lego all back in their own special box, soft toys here, all the puzzles there, and so on. Gathering, gathering.

And than, having wonderfully gathered the dust of the earth and breathed that into the wholeness of a brand new humanity – well, the next thing He does is scatter this ‘gathered’ humanity. His first words to this newly formed, and marvelously gathered humanity? “Be fruitful, and increase in number .. (that’s harmless enough! But look at what follows!) … fill the earth and subdue it…”

Dear me! No sooner gathered and enjoying the pleasures of the garden prepared for their living than their Maker is telling them – ‘Off you go, spread yourselves out through the earth and do yourselves what I have been doing for you…’

Every parent knows the drill. You step into the chaos and gather up and tidy away all the toys: but it isn’t for tidiness’ sake you gather them up: it’s to ensure they’ll be played with again, and more easily and fully enjoyed. You know they’re going to get ‘scattered’ all over again, indeed, you mean them to be scattered, that’s why you gathered them up.

God doesn’t suffer from some cosmic sort of OCD. That’s not why He gathers. It’s with a view to scattering, filling the earth with His well-ordered freedom and the serious fun of heaven.

And the striking thing is that all the way through the Scriptures this is the pattern you find.

Take the time of Noah. The ‘playroom’ of the world back then had become a bit of a bombsite: a mess, a tip, sheer chaos. Almost back to where we started in Genesis 1:2 – formless (disordered, chaotic), empty, and dark (morally anyway, and that’s the worst sort of darkness always).

So the Lord is back to His ‘gathering’, isn’t He, and Noah’s job is to bring them all in to the ark, ‘two of all living creatures, male and female’ (Gen.6.19), while the earth gets a thorough ‘spring-clean’.

Gathered. But then, just a matter of months down the line, they’re being ‘scattered’ all over again. Out they all came, off they all went, and the mandate from God once again – “Be fruitful and increase in number..” Back to filling the earth to its furthest corners.

Gathered, then scattered. It’s the rhythm which the Lord then writes into the life of the people of Israel. Spread out north and south through the land of ancient Canaan, they’re first gathered, then scattered on a regular, lasting basis.

Gathered each week where they are (the weekly Sabbath was far from being just a day of rest, as though simply downing your tools and stopping your work for a day was the be-all-and-end-all of the thing – the ‘rest’ for God’s people lay emphatically in their being careful to come together, to be gathered), and then scattered once more to get on with the business of God’s kingdom, out in the dust and dirt of their fields, or wherever it was that their energies best got applied.

And gathered, three times every year, on a much larger scale, all of these local ‘community groups’, as they all descended on the big central venue of Jerusalem; before, of course, being then scattered back across the land to bring the light of the knowledge of the God they had known to the farthest, darkest corners of the land.

He who goes out weeping, carrying seed to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with him. It’s a pattern, you see, not just a rich and lovely promise.

And, of course, that pattern is nowhere better evidenced than in the cross of the Saviour Himself. It’s at the feast of the Passover, when the whole of Israel converged on the city of Jerusalem, when the city was filled to overflowing with a people who’ve been gathered from all the farthest corners of the land – it’s at that great annual ‘gathering’ that the Son of God is crucified.

And His understanding of what He’s accomplishing there? Well, this is how He puts it – I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all men to myself (John 12.32).

That’s what happened, isn’t it? A people previously scattered are marvelously gathered together. Read on into Acts and there you see it in the opening two chapters of the book. The mixed, disheveled bunch of His disciples are all gathered in one place (that’s miracle enough): and as the Spirit comes upon them all, a larger crowd is gathered, men and women, ‘from every nation under heaven’, sucked in by the wind of the Spirit, until at last there are thousands and thousands being gathered together to share the new and common life of the people of God.

But you’ve hardly had time to draw breath and to marvel at the miracle, than the Lord is back to scattering them all. “Go” becomes the operative word. ‘Go and make disciples of all nations… you will be My witnesses in Jerusalem, Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth..’ And He makes sure they are just that.

There’s a sense in which the simple visual emblem of the cross depicts this rhythm as well as anything. The four corners of the earth converging on the centre – the centripetal power of the Spirit of Almighty God: but at the same time the four points of the compass, north, south, east and west, to which the people of God are sent out – the Spirit of God in centrifugal mode.

It’s the story of the lifeblood of our living as the people of God, pumped out from the heart with the oxygen of the kingdom, scattered to the farthest corners of the body; then returning, drawn back to the heart. The rhythm of the kingdom. Gathered and scattered, gathered and scattered.

Why do I labour the point? Because of who and what we are as a fellowship, and because of some of the tensions with which we, therefore, have to wrestle. We’re intrinsically a ‘gathered’ congregation (although that’s a bit like speaking of a round circle!) which deliberately ‘scatters’ her people to their own localities to do the business of the kingdom there.

And precisely because we’re scattered geographically, and yet choose to ‘gather’ to a central point which isn’t all that ‘local’ in the main, this ‘rhythm’ in our corporate life is both thrown into sharper relief, and is all the more important we get right. For a people who are manifestly ‘scattered’, what we do when we’re gathered by God assumes a huge significance. And that’s what I’ll aim to pick up on next month!

When the people of God get this right, then this rhythm becomes the heartbeat of heaven, the breathing of the Spirit of God, whereby life is imparted, lives are renewed, and the purpose of God is fulfilled. Which is surely what we yearn for!

Yours in Christ’s service

Jeremy Middleton