Morningside

envoi - Mary Little - intern 2006/7

Genesis 18:20-32

Luke 11:1-13

I’m always nervous before giving a talk in church, and that’s even when there aren’t two bishops in the congregation. I’m also terrified that I’m going to start crying. I’ll try not to, but if I fail, I ask you to bear with me.

Today’s Gospel can be taken in two different ways – I could talk about how God answers prayer, or I could talk about how God doesn’t answer prayer. I actually wrote a sermon for each of those options (both of which will, I think, be published in the magazine). I decided that it would be a good idea to give the sermon about how God does answer prayer, because it’s generally more cheerful, and lends itself better to anecdotes – and we all know that this is just a thinly-veiled excuse for me to get up here and reminisce.

I actually found it a lot easier writing the other sermon – about how God sometimes doesn’t answer prayer, even when we pray in the way Jesus teaches us in these verses, and despite his promises that doors will be opened and that seekers will find. Part of my problem is that, ungrateful brat that I am, I always find it easier to come up with instances of when God hasn’t answered a prayer, than to remember the times when he did. This is partly because the times when God doesn’t seem to answer prayer tend to be the times when it really matters, and it sticks in your mind. But another reason for my struggle to remember answered prayers off the top of my head, is that I’m rubbish at praying for things in the first place.

The fact is that God has showered me with blessings and gifts, often in response to a barely vocalised wish, and sometimes, I think, in a provocatively generous kind of way. “Why don’t you just ask?” says God. “Well, fine, if you’re going to be a brat about it – here it is: fun when you weren’t expecting it; good weather when you were convinced there was going to be rain; success where you foresaw failure; and a couple of jokes thrown in to cheer you up when you’re wallowing in a bad mood. And,” he adds pointedly, “a little thank-you wouldn’t go amiss.”

There are some direct prayers that I’ve sent winging their way heavenward, often with a nervous little smile in God’s direction, which have, indeed, opened up my life like a couple of doors thrown wide. Like when I was trying to decide what to do after leaving University, and the possibility of an Order of St Stephen Internship came up. I didn’t know if this was the right thing to do, although my instinct said that it was. And God, as if he was just waiting to be asked, flung the doors open. Need a job? Here’s one. Place to stay? Coming right up. And funding to help you get there, and a supportive family, and nice people to look after you once you arrive.

A couple of years ago, at a national youth get-together in New Zealand, we had an evening Eucharist in a barn, with about 150 people. The priest, John, who was celebrating, had six small bread rolls and a huge chalice full of wine, and he was worried it might not be enough. We sat in a circle, and passed the chalice and plate to each other. It took some time. And when they were finally passed back to John, there were four and a half rolls left over – we’d only managed to nibble our way through one and a half measly chunks of sanctified bread. The congregation was mainly teenagers, so considerably more of the wine had been consumed – but there was still just under half the cup left. “God is always generous,” said John, “but we don’t take everything that he gives us. We need to be less hesitant about accepting God’s grace.” So he sent the plate and the cup around again, and again, until everything was gone.

And so it has been for me over the last 16 months. The things I’ve asked for have, in the main, been generously given to me, and usually without my even sitting down to ask God properly.

I’ve been able to travel safely to amazing places – Seattle, Dubai, Paris, Iona, the Orkneys, Lindisfarne, Spain; and to more familiar but, to me, still wonderful destinations like Dublin, Arran, Oban, Inverness, Glasgow, and the many other beautiful and fascinating places in between.

I’ve been able to work in a place I like, doing a job I enjoy, with nice people.

I’ve even been able to enjoy and learn from jobs and activities I would never have expected not to hate. Two examples that spring to mind are the pilgrimage to Spain – I am no longer a person who scoffs at the idea of tramping through mud and rain for days on end, amassing blisters and with no hairdryer or makeup in sight. The other example is Greenbelt. The day I emailed my friends and family to tell them I’d actually enjoyed camping in a tent all weekend with portaloos and seas of mud and hundreds of teenagers was certainly not a day they’d expected to come before hell froze over.

I’ve been looked after at Christmas, on my birthday, at important times, and, memorably, when I cleverly locked myself out of the flat for three nights and found the hospitality of this congregation so warm, and so generous.

I’ve amassed an enormous number of memories; and I’ve developed a very keen affection for this country, and this city in particular.

There are so many things I will take home with me from this place. The sound of cars driving over cobbled streets. The smell of bacon rolls wafting from cafes in the morning – and there’s nothing that tempts a converted vegetarian like the smell of bacon! I’ve become a huge fan of tenement living. I love the little quirks of Scottish speech – from now on I won’t be “off to bed” I’ll be “away to ma bed.” I doubt I’ll ever be “outwith” something, rather than outside it, and I apologise to those of you looking for a cheap laugh, but I’m not even going to attempt the accent. But every time I hear a Scottish accent, I’ll smile a wee smile.

I’m also taking back a whole wealth of practical experience, everything from how to rustle up a magazine article after a particularly uneventful month, to building up the tiniest bit more confidence in my dealings with small children. And there’s more general experience, including having an insider’s view of ministry in a large urban church, and having had the opportunity to compare the church culture of Scotland with the culture back home.

Of course there are so many people here who’ve helped me, and influenced me, and since that list includes all of you, I won’t even try to begin to recite it – except that I will say that after working with Michael Paterson I will never look at a priest in quite the same way again.

All these things, and many others, are what have made my 16 months the answer to a much more general, and rarely articulated prayer. I wanted to grow up a bit. I wanted to expand my horizons. I wanted to become a bit more like what God had in mind when he started shaping me.

I also wanted, and didn’t expect, to go home with some faint clue about what to do with my life – and, miracle of miracles, I am going home with just that. I have, for the first time in my life, a Plan, with a capital “Pl”. With inspiration care of Hugh Hillyard-Parker, and nourishment care of Suzy McNeill and the Christ Church magazine, I am now able to tell my (no doubt delighted) parents that I am no longer a directionless ex-history student. I’m planning to pursue some kind of career in publishing, and I even have ideas about how to get started.

While I’d hoped that the careers fairy might visit me in the night, leaving a gift-wrapped life’s plan at the foot of my bed, I never really thought it would happen, and certainly not in a way that has not only reassured, but inspired me. Yet again, God hands me the answer to my prayer, with a smile and a raised eyebrow. Yes, yes, I know – I must learn not only to say thank you, but to ask in the first place.

I’m not sure it’s possible to establish a tradition by doing something only twice, but in case it is, I’m going to finish with a prayer by Michael Leunig, the Australian cartoonist.

Amen

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