Or Advent 3. Hello all. I hope that you are well. We are just back from Messy Christmas, marked by the loudest Nativity scene ever. Hurrah! It was punctuated by songs from Nativity! (Hurrah! 2 ) and a fire alarm which resulted in approximately fifty children, dressed as various people from the Nativity story traipsing out of the church, across the road to the front of the shopping centre. It was very cold and we all ran back in as soon as possible to continue the festivities. I was on the decorate your biscuits table which was more popular than I had expected - I think it was the pink frosting that was attracting them. HOH was helping out on the car park. We are a City Centre church and, at this time of year, our car park is a magnet for people who want to do Christmas shopping and think nice Christian people will let them park. They could not be more wrong. Our parking team show the same determination as the SAS when they raided the Libyan embassy - with about the same level of aggression. Most of these potential parkers bring any trouble on themselves - especially the chap who asked this evening "Do you know who I am?" Er... Not really.
Anyway, I'm not talking about that, this week. I'm talking about names. I am the proud bearer of the name Lesley, which my Mum blessed me with because she thought it was a Sixties, groovy kind of thing. In fact, no one has ever mistaken me for Twiggy (i.e. Lesley Hornby), mainly because of my tendency towards the sturdy. In my childhood, I was sometimes referred to as Lesbo - usually by young boys who had never touched a girl. That was quite annoying (although, you mustn't think that I am running away from that side of my sexuality ©Victoria Wood.) I used to envy my friends who were called Jean or Susan - nice ordinary names.
The fashion does not lean towards simple names these days. We were watching Portrait Artist of the Year this week. I spent a good percentage of the programme thinking that the young man who was painting celebrities was called Margate Leatherworker. In fact, that was where he came from and what he did for a living. Oh. In my defence, I would say though that his habit of painting people and giving them massive conks and the paintings not looking anything like the people they were supposed to look like (Compelling - the judges called it) I don't think you can blame me if I thought he had "artistic" name.
This week I heard the Carol "In the Deep Midwinter", which, I'll be honest, isn't a favourite. I've always found it a bit of a dirge. I do like the last verse though
What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
if I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;
yet what I can give him: give my heart.
I noticed that it was written by Christina Rosetti and I thought that it would be this lady. She's Lizzie Siddall - married to Dante Gabriel Rosetti. She was obviously very beautiful and she was also extremely talented in her own right - although not very happy by all accounts. Her husband was pretty awful to her.
It's not her though. I got her name wrong. Christina Rosetti was Dante's sister and a very different kettle of fish from Lizzie Siddall. She was a devout Anglo-Catholic who lived a quiet life, turning down three marriage proposals - probably on religious grounds.
I think it is an easy mistake to make. (It's probably not an easy mistake to make.)
Our names are a big deal - whether they were given by a mum who hoped her daughter would bring a bit more glamour to the table or they carry the memory of a beloved parent or grandparent. Sometimes, names have to be kept secret until the right time to reveal them such as when Inspector Clouseau had been doing some fine undercover sleuthing and then would reveal
"I am Inspector Clouseau - an officer of the leu."
So how was it then to carry your name and your purpose for hundreds of years as Jesus did when the prophet Isaiah announced it way before Jesus was born. Jesus didn't seem phased by it. He certainly never said -"Let's not overdo it." He knew who he was and what he was there for. His lineage was well documented before we knew him.
So when annoying people, who think that their BMW trumps your parking rights on your own car park because they have Christmas stuff to see to. Well, actually, so do we. We have little people dressed as angels with tinsel on their heads who need to pay homage to the birth and the naming of the king and they have plenty of pink frosting to eat to prove it. Have a good week
the gift of a son—for us!
He’ll take over
the running of the world.
His names will be: Amazing Counselor,
Strong God,
Eternal Father,
Prince of Wholeness.
His ruling authority will grow,
and there’ll be no limits to the wholeness he brings.
My Granddaughters went to a Christmas activities day at a church near them on Saturday. They too had pink frosting, and played Christmas Present Giant Jenga. I would have liked to have been there.
ReplyDeleteNames are important, I was born on Easter Sunday, and named Angela (messenger) my surname since marriage is Almond (symbolises resurrection in the Bible) definitely "nominative determinism"
My mate had stickers which were put on cars that used the church car park inappropriately. They said "people who park here will be evangelised"
Car park steward is the most underrated ministry in the church. You spend most of it freezing cold, Christians think it is fine to rock up late and then complain when there is no room left and you come back from a quick wee to find that someone who doesn't come to church has moved the cones you put out for the pastor and gone shopping for the day. Bless them all.
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