Marramgrass

Hope into action.

Surprised By Hope

I’ve come to the end of the middle section of Wright’s book, and while there are a couple of points he makes that may be fairly controversial to some (or many), I think he has largely brought me with him. The problem is that when he writes about what happens immediately after death (in a chapter simply titled “Purgatory, paradise, hell”) — as he really has to, however tempting it might be to skip on by — Wright is addressing questions where we really don’t have much in the way of Scriptural witness to go on, and where tradition is mind-bogglingly difficult to sort through. However, he plainly recognises this fact, offering attempts at understanding rather than suggesting prescriptions.

Following on from this, the final movement of the book is where the author begins to answer the simple question of, in his own words, “so what?”

Surprised By Hope (2007), SPCK, p204:

The point of this final section of the book is that a proper grasp of the (surprising) future hope which is held out to us in jesus Christ leads directly and, to many people, equally surprisingly, to a vision of the present hope which is the basis of all Christian mission. To hope for a better future in this world — for the poor, the sick, the lonely and depressed, for the slaves, the refugees, the hungry and homeless, for the abused, the paranoid, the downtrodden and despairing, and in fact for the whole wide, wonderful and wounded world — is not something else, something extra, something tacked on to 'the gospel' as an afterthought. And to work for that intermediate hope, the surprising hope that comes forward from God's ultimate future into God's urgent present, is not a distraction from the task of 'mission' and 'evangelism' in the present. It is a central, essential, vital and life-giving part of it. Mostly, Jesus himself got a hearing from his contemporaries because of what he was doing. They saw him 'saving' people from sickness and death, and they heard him talk about a 'salvation', the message for which they had longed, which would go beyond the immediate into the ultimate future. But the two were not unrelated, the present one a mere 'visual aid' of the future one, or a trick to gain people's attention. The whole point of what Jesus was up to was that he was doing, close up, in the present, what he was promising long-term, in the future.

There are a number of phrases in that portion (and the chapter it’s taken from) that I was tempted to highlight, but then I realised that I’d end up emphasising all but a few words. In so many of the conversations I have, day by day and week by week, this is what I’m trying to say. I’m now keen to see where Wright ends up…

A reading list.

The Telegraph’s 50 best cult books, following the example of Random Piercings. Please do join in.

The rules: books you’ve read in bold and books you started but never quite finished in italics.

I could have added a third category, of the books I plan to read when I come across them.

Vanishing Point.

A number of years ago, the wife of a local farmer died in an accident on the level crossing beside a cottage where we sometimes holiday. There follows my revision of a short piece I wrote that summer while we were staying in the cottage.

The eye conspires with distance to play a trick on the mind: two lines, fixed feet apart, appear to converge to a single point on the horizon. The distance between them steadily decreases until they vanish together from view.

The trains rumble past slowly, barely faster than a man walks, where once they sprinted and thundered and shook the walls of the little house. The house, really just a cottage, stands by the gate and keeps watch over the crossing of lane and track. The gate has been replaced, along with the fence. They are visibly new, looking very neat, and strong.

A sign, white on red, sternly instructs both drivers and walkers to “stop, look, listen.” He doesn’t need to be told — he knows. Every single day of his life he parks his tractor, opens the gate and stops. These days he’s a bit thinner, looks a bit older. Across the track and up the lane are the fields that he tends, but he’s in no hurry to get there.

From where he stands he can look left to the curve around the base of the hill, or right to where the track carries on straight for as far as he can see. While he waits he hears a train approaching. He backs away, closes the gate again. The driver works the horn of the engine on the way past, but the farmer doesn’t lift his hand.

When the train is gone he steps back up to the track and looks at the twin lines running off together into the distance, converging, disappearing.

Two smooth metal rails, always together. They have a common purpose, a common destination, until they meet their vanishing point together.

The man looks down at the rails by his feet. Two, together. One without the other would have no use, no meaning. No, they are together here and they vanish together on the horizon. That’s how it’s supposed to be: parallel rails, tied together, ending together.

Not like this.

He lifts his head and looks around again. This must be his vanishing point. Two rails, two lines running one alongside the other, never alone and ending together.

Yes. All he has to do is sit down and wait.

Monks in a punt!

Monks in a punt!

There are probably many worse ways to spend late-afternoon on May Day than being punted up and down the Cam with your brother-in-law doing all the hard work.

It took some convincing to get me on to the river, and when I was there I stayed firmly sitting down, but it was great fun.

The photo above shows something I never thought I’d see. There were three punt-loads of men in maroon and orange, often crashing into the bank and each other. It looked like they were having as much fun as we were.

Maybe next time I’ll work up the nerve to have a go with the pole, if I decide I can trust my balance enough.

Pavlova in Cambridge.

Pavlova in Cambridge.

I’m experimenting with using Flickr to post photos directly to my blog from my phone. You could call this one a test.

During the week my wife tried her hand at making a pavlova. It was so good she is reprising her masterpiece for our hosts (and me!). This is a good thing.