Tom writes:

Songs can be tricky things. While I am deeply committed to the use of secular music in sacred worship, I do recognise that it is not always a simple thing to do. Sometimes this is because they are deeply ambiguous, and sometimes it’s because, while the song itself is fine the artist presents problems because of their wider views or behaviour. Sometimes, though, it’s because you think part of a song says just what you need, but another part says something rather different to where you’d like to go.

An example of this is the song “Woodstock” (originally written and performed by Joni Mitchell, but arguably performed definitively by either Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young or Matthew’s Southern Comfort, depending on taste and geography – I’m a CSNY man, myself). I love the opening lines of the chorus:

We are stardust, we are golden,

We are billion-year-old carbon [ final verse: we are caught in the devil’s bargain]

I’ve preached on those words, in particular on Ash Wednesday, in the light of the words: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Turn away from sin and be faithful to Christ.” For we are indeed dust, star dust, elements that are billions of years old. Ultimately, we are not creators but part of creation. Those of us who have a Christian faith must be absolutely clear that our responsibility to the environment is not so much rooted in some sense of benevolence towards the planet we happen to live on, but a necessary part of recognising that we are simply one part of a vast creation for which God, the Creator, has an eternal love. It’s wonderful (in my view) when there’s a secular song we can turn to in order to highlight theology – after all, we live in a world where secular songs are more likely known than church ones!

However, as much as I love the song generally, and in particular those chorus words, I also have a big problem with the song – and especially how the chorus ends: “And we got to get ourselves/ Back to the garden.” It is a tempting feeling – the world is going to hell in a handcart, and the way out is to reverse back to a time when things were better. It’s a temptation open to both the secular and the religious – history is littered with forms of socio-political philosophy and theology that look back to some supposed golden time period. Sociologically, it’s often agrarian, and in theological terms it’s often about trying to somehow recover our place in the Garden of Eden before the fall of humanity.

Yet, to me, this looking back seems deeply unbiblical. It seems to me that, for Christians, the direction of travel is not an attempt to get back to the garden but to seek out the city of God. Now, do not get me wrong, I am not an urbanist, who thinks the earth’s population should base itself in urban conurbations. Nor am I some kind of neo-Victorian progressivist, who thinks that the future is always better than the past, and that human/ecological improvement is a natural given. Rather, it is that a) while the past is vitally important to working out how we have ended up where we’ve got to and might give clues as to errors needing to rectified it is not a map of the future, and b) as a theologian I think it clear that the scriptural direction of travel is forwards from a Garden to a City, at least in a metaphorical, mythical way.

We’re not long off Advent as I write this. I often describe Advent as a time when we wait for that which has already been and remember that which will be – for Advent is a much about the Second Coming (however we understand that phrase) as it is about the original Incarnation. And in this waiting and remembering it is important to be aware that what will be is not what was. We are indeed start dust, a part of the Creator’s beloved creation, but the destiny of that creation is not what it once was, but something new, something better, something brilliant, and we won’t get there by walking where we’ve come from, however appealing that might be!

Marc writes:

Humankind has been on a journey around light:

We sat around a fire and told stories as communities and clans;
We moved indoors and read stories around the fireplace, or listened to them on the radio;
The radio got replaced by the television and we continued to have less responsibility in telling the story, though we were all still pointing in the same direction;

Nowadays, the TV is still in the corner of the living room and the seats still point towards it, and it ever continues to burn out a light and tell stories but whilst it tells its stories, I tune it out and disappear into the light of the screen in my hand. It tells stories, paints pictures and shows things to me. I experience them alone, along with millions of other people, and occasionally I send them to other people on social media so that they too can enjoy them alone.

And before I know it, time has disappeared, the film has ended and it’s time for bed.

I’ve done nothing, paid attention to nothing important, and my fingers have silently run over the screen.

The stories I’ve been told have been trying to tell me what I’m missing out on, but they haven’t brought me lasting joy. And yet I keep disappearing into the machine-assisted nowhere.

How could we reclaim the stories that matter, gathering back around a community light rather than our personal pocket lights?

How can I get closer to stories that matter, rather than imperfect pictures promoting and promising perfection?

Well, I got so lost here
Machine-assisted, I disappeared
Into a dream, you don’t wanna hear
How I got caught up in nowhere again (Oh, oh)

It feels like I’ve been silent runnin’ (Silent runnin’)
Through the infinite pages, I scroll out
Searchin’ for a new world
That waits on the sunrise
I’m silent runnin’

Find out more about Gorillaz at https://www.gorillaz.com/

Gill writes:

Sometimes a song’s lyrics speak to us, but its whole essence provokes wider, deeper thinking. This song from the young Altrincham band, The Guest List, is a case in point.

The song itself is genuinely poignant. The 161 refers to the number of men from the 60 houses on Chapel Street in Altrincham who left to fight in trenches of World War I. 29 did not return and 20 succumbed to their injuries soon after returning home. King George V referred to it as the ‘bravest little street in England’.

It’s not there now. The street, including the Methodist chapel that gave the street its name, are long gone but on the wall of Phanthong Thai Restaurant (formerly the Grapes pub), you’ll find a blue plaque commemorating those 161 men.

The wistful images evoked by the song have led me to ponder the everyday lives of those 161 and their families. How they lived not only side by side but, most probably, in and out of each other’s homes. It makes sense that they joined up and left for the war together. In a similar way, thousands of young men joined World War I alongside their friends and family, often forming the basis of ‘Pals Battalions.’

Belonging is a human need. We’re social beings who suffer when we feel that we don’t belong somewhere. I find Brené Brown’s thoughts about belonging helpful to reflect on because she says that true belonging needs to start with knowing ourselves first. Once we truly know ourselves, we can be confident and have the courage to retain our sense of self whilst belonging to groups.

We humans have a tendency to do things the other way around. In order to meet our need to belong, we tend to seek out people who think the way that we do and share our beliefs and values. This is how we’ve traditionally sought community, but it can start to go wrong if our common ground is a dislike, or even hatred, of “the other”—people who think differently and have different beliefs and values to us. It becomes ‘them and us.’

It’s really difficult to step back once hate has been embedded. This is why Brown believes that we must know ourselves first and foremost so that we can have the courage to take that step away, rather than be swept up with values and beliefs we might not necessarily buy into completely.

‘Them and Us’ is at the forefront of my mind this week. I’m filled with uncertainty and worry about how things might play out in the USA in the coming months and years. And over the next few days, we will be remembering publically those whose lives were violently cut short as a result of conflict – the ultimate ‘them and us.’

I hold onto the hope that it doesn’t have to be this way. I hold onto the hope that we can all be grown-ups and realise that we simply can’t agree with everyone we meet, but we can try to understand each other’s experiences and perspectives. I hold onto the hope that the more we talk together and hold space to understand each other, hate can be driven out and love can enter in.

If ever you have read the book, or seen the film, The Railway Man, you will know the story of Eric Lomax, a British POW subjected to torture by the Japanese army in Singapore. It tells the story of how the hate he had for Nagase, his Japanese interpreter (whose voice he heard whilst being tortured) eventually turned into love and friendship.

The story is fascinating as it takes you through all of the emotions that both Lomax and Nagase underwent in their reconciliation. The courageousness of both to meet, understand and start to know each other resulted in a lasting, genuine friendship that is an inspiration.

As I stand and reflect in the two-minute silences in church on Sunday, and at the village war memorial on Monday, I will remember the souls of Chapel Street, the souls of those who left our village and never returned, and the souls of all those killed as a result of conflict. And I will remember the last words of The Railway Man, “Remembering is not enough if it simply hardens hate. Sometimes the hating has to stop.”

Why not give The Guest List a follow on Instagram – https://www.instagram.com/theguestlist.band

Tom writes:

I still remember it like it was yesterday. It was the morning after the night before (you can imagine for yourself what that might mean, and you’ll probably be wrong, but hey, a bit of mystery is no bad thing!). In the April morning sunshine, I was walking along the suburban streets as though they were air, skipping several perfectly usable bus stops because that would mean standing still, and I was too full of joy to even think about standing still. Around me the world glowed.

Given much of the past twelve months had been disastrous, a time of being broken into a thousand pieces and being unsure how they might be put back together in any coherent way, a time of anger and bitterness and confusion, a time in which what should have been the start of something exciting and encouraging fell apart and ended as something devastating and disheartening, such a feeling was remarkable.

It is this moment that I think of whenever I hear Elbow’s song, “Mirrorball”. The song is a reminder that how we see the world is rarely based on unfiltered fact. Rather, our interactions with the world are shaped by so many factors –not least our own mood and recent life events. The band’s lyrics reflect deeply on the ways in which finding love results in seeing the world differently. What were once normal street scenes have become a ballroom in which the couple dance together. Life has not always been a bed of roses since, but when I hear this song (written and released a few years later than that moment over twenty years ago) I am transported back to that morning, that walk, that feeling of a world transformed by love.

Of course, the love that changes our perception of the world does not have to be romantic. While the songs lyrics remind me particularly of that morning, the ways in which my perception was changed after a period of seeing the world as grey and blurred in that spring involve other loves as well. There is the love of friendship, the joy of late nights talking about the deepest of pains and of cross-country dashes on empty roads across highland moors. There is the love of family, the welcoming arms of familiarity and stillness and the opportunity to say nothing because nothing needs to be said. And there is the love that I will call divine – the unconditional love that holds us and enfolds us and reassures us in sudden moments we do not expect, like stepping off a ferry on a jetty and knowing not only that you are welcome but that, despite how everything feels, all will be well.

Whenever I preach on the moment in the Jesus stories that we call the Transfiguration, the moment on the mountaintop where Peter, John, and James see Jesus glowing with divine light and spending time in conversation with Elijah and Moses, I’m reminded of “Mirrorball”. To me, that moment is a reminder that encounters with divine love, the divine love most clearly revealed in Jesus, change the way we perceive the world. That is why, even in a world such as it seem right now, we are able to have hope in a better future, find joy amidst the grief, believe peace is possible despite the deep injustices and violence around us – because we have experienced the way in which love turns dark streets to dance floors and the moon into a mirrorball – we know that everything has indeed changed, and it is our call to live out that change that love brings in the world, so that we might reflect the love of God in the world in a million myriad ways.

Find out more about Elbow at https://elbow.co.uk/

Bridget writes:

‘I’m every woman
It’s all in me
Anything you want done, baby
I’ll do it, naturally
I’m every woman
It’s all in me’

As the first chords of this song play, I smile……. Memories of the brilliant escapades of Bridget Jones…… turn it up loud and dance like no one is looking…… claim who you are and be proud!

I’m every woman, it’s all in me!

As I dance and spin, I throw off the labels of self-deprecation denouncing the drowning voices of others, with unhelpful social stereotypes still at play.

I’m every woman, it’s all in me! …… Anything you want done, baby – I’ll do it naturally…

Go girl! The force of the music sends empowerment swirling with a dizziness.

I’m every woman, it’s all in me!

Oh, whoops. I stumble. Am I drunk on the high? If I fall then they were right.

I must continue to move, to be at one with the rhythm, keep up with the bars of notes marching on.

‘I can cast a spell
Secrets you can’t tell
Mix a special brew
Put fire inside of you
Anytime you feel danger or fear
Then instantly, I will appear’

But can I?… can I really do all of this?… is it in me?… I can, I do… But I am tired… I’m fatigued……I’m bloody exhausted, to be honest!

I’m not sure we are meant to do this alone. And we certainly shouldn’t feel we have anything to prove to the world’s eyes either…

We were created as community people, standing, sitting… Dancing beside others….. Carrying and sharing the conviction to help one another. We don’t need to feel alone in this plight!

Indeed, as people, we have it ‘all in me’; we can do it, we can do so much… You are IMMENSE, but not every battle is yours to fight, or cause is yours to own. 

And it’s not failure to recognise that having others who have got your back is essential, a girl pack, a group of wise women who don’t let us dance alone…

After all, it’s far more fun to dance like EVERYONE is watching, and to be proud, to giggle, cry, fall, slip and slide…

…and be together as created brilliant beings of potential … potential for good, and for change.

Who’s joining me in the kitchen for a Friday Mum Dancing Session?… embarrassed teenagers are provided!

Kristie writes:

I have long been an aurora hunter. Several years back when I started out, I didn’t know that it is easier to see them is through the lens of a camera/phone. Since learning that I have had more joy (literally).  Recently I was lucky enough to have a whole evening of varied displays – each time I went out to look there were different colours and intensities. And the following day I couldn’t shake this Bruce Cockburn verse:

“Little round planet in a big universe

Sometimes it looks blessed sometimes it looks cursed

Depends on what you look at obviously

But even more it depends on the way that you see”

I was very aware that as I gazed upwards in search of beauty, others in the world were fearfully scanning the skies for incoming bombs.  So clearly, it depends on what we’re able to look at. And, I realised that for those of us able to look up at a sky in a place of safety, what we see can depend on what we’re looking for and how we are looking.

Whilst out one time, I explained to a passer-by that I was looking at the aurora, and that if they too looked through their phone they would see what I was seeing. As the night progressed, we were able to see more without a camera, and by then, they knew what they were looking for too. I know that sometimes in life I only see what I’m looking for, and when I open my eyes wider, with curiosity, I get to see so much more.

“There’s roads and there’s roads and they call, can’t you hear it?

Roads of the earth and roads of the spirit. 

The best roads of all are the ones that aren’t certain

One of those is where you’ll find me til they drop the big curtain.”

Aurora hunting has no certainties – for those of us who like predictability, it can involve challenge and disappointment. And yet there is something fabulous about venturing into uncertainty, trusting that God is alongside in that uncertainty, with us in our worries and fear as well as the wonder. 

“Hear the wind moan in the bright diamond sky

These mountains are waiting brown-green and dry

I’m too old for the term but I’ll use it anyway

I’ll be a child of the wind til the end of my days”

 I hope you too get chance to open your eyes wider and be a child of the wind, on uncertain but wonder-filled roads.

Find out more about Bruce Cockburn at http://brucecockburn.com/

Kay writes:

Last week I was at a live music event and this song was played. I remembered it from the Night Owl album by the great Gerry Rafferty. Listening to it again, I concentrated on the words and realised how much they resonate with me in terms of my own family and our experiences.

Right from being very young, I have recollections of family events starting and ending with music and singing, with us all encouraged to take a turn and to share the songs we loved most. Everyone joining our family events was drawn into our own special karaoke (although this was long before this became popular) and we celebrated happy and sad events in the same way, by sharing our love of lyrics and music at every opportunity.

These things were never planned, but at each event this musical warmth enveloped us and drew us all in. It required nothing of us, but each time there were people just humming, others playing instruments, those singing their hearts out and the rest simply immersed in the experience.

It was some time before I realised that this was not what happens in all families, and even longer before I realised how very special it was to experience it and how fortunate we were. As I became an adult and a mother I saw the next generation start to share in the same way and enjoy music as a form of expression of love, and I now see it in my grandchildren.

Families grow and change and events have seen us “go our different ways”. The loss of family members has seen our family get-togethers get less frequent, but as the lyrics say, the tradition of our particular family tree has “left its mark” and when we get together I hope we always continue to “sing out”, because when we do this – as Gerry says – “this is the time and place to bring out our memories” -our way of sharing our history, our togetherness, and our love.

Here’s a rather lovely version sung by The Rafferty Family and Barbara Dickson – Ed

Find out more about Gerry Rafferty at https://www.gerryrafferty.com/

Jane writes:

The Lebanon has been in the news a lot in recent days and every time I hear the name of the country, in my head I hear the refrain from this song

The Lebanon

It’s a kind of reflex reaction I guess, and it made me really think about why it was so embedded in my psyche. I couldn’t even remember who sang it!  It also made me really think about why the song was written and what on earth it was about. The only real bit of it I remember is that phrase

The Lebanon 

and I realise that is not usually how I operate in the musical world.

Of course it took me about 5 seconds to realise that back in 1984, when it was written, the people of Lebanon were living in a war-torn place much as they are now. If I dug deep into my 20-year old soul I knew that, but 40 years later the lyrical content seems once again so very pertinent.

It carries a soft reminiscence for a world without war.  A time when Lebanon was a land of milk and honey. Where you could go to the shops and live a normal life. It also carries the stark reality of what it is to live where your everyday life has been replaced by conflict and soldiers

It’s a story that tells itself and it has so many resonances with every war torn context we know.

Leaving the question hanging:

And who will have won
When the soldiers have gone
From the Lebanon?
The Lebanon

As people of faith we worship a prince of peace. We follow a God of love. We are encouraged to look for signs of hope. It hurts to think that for many across the globe, and particularly around the land we still dare to call holy at the moment, that the only question we can seemingly ask is this stark one

And who will have won
When the soldiers have gone

So this Friday do everything you can to consider peace the best option. Pray, write, campaign, urge, send a note of solidarity somehow so that this song, and all those like it, can be put in mothballs for a while – hopefully forever – and so the people affected by war can sleep at night with a tiny bit of hope in their hearts again.

Find out more about The Human League at https://www.thehumanleague.co.uk/