Thoughts, images, and all sorts of things.....

John McKay Smith. (1920-1993) Mary Rae Smith.   (1923-2015) On All Saint's Day 2019 I was at worship in the Transitional Cathedral, Christchurch. New Zealand.  A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since then.  

 Today I was asked to record a brief greeting to be used at the forthcoming 50th anniversary of the remarkable Eric Liddell centre.  Here's what I had to say Eric Liddell Centre from John Smith on Vimeo .

With Halloween so close, it’s probably a good moment to mention a ghost story. I’ve long been a reader of M R James. Montague Rhodes James (1862-1936) was an academic medievalist who lived in scholarly institutions for most of his life. He was Provost of King’s College, Cambridge, and of Eton College. He had also been Vice- Chancellor of the University of Cambridge. His academic work remains highly regarded in scholarly circles, but his true reason for fame lies in his ghost stories, regarded by some as the best of their kind. When he was at Eton, he wrote a ghost story every year, and at Christmas would read it to the assembled boys - in a room illuminated mainly by firelight. The Jamesian style of ghost writing relied on a formula where a naive gentleman scholar would find himself in a village, seaside town in England, or in France, Denmark, or in Sweden; or an ancient abbey or university. Very often the gentleman would discover an old book or similar, that somehow attracted a horrif...

Several years ago we visited Little Bemerton, not far from Salisbury.   George Herbert, priest and metaphysical poet, died there in 1633 - loved and lamented by his parishioners.  This is one of my favourite poems.   A conversation between the poet and Love - representing God   Love   bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back Guilty of dust and sin. But   quick-eyed   Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning If I lacked anything. ‘A guest,’ I answered, ‘worthy to be here.’ Love said, ‘You shall be he.’ ‘I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear, I cannot look on thee.’ Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, ‘Who made the eyes but I?’ ‘Truth Lord; but I have  marred  them; let my shame Go where it doth deserve.’ ‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘who bore the blame?’ ‘My dear, then I will serve.’ ‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my  meat :’ So I did sit and eat.

  It was a perfect early October morning. Autumn was rejoicing that it was her moment come. Wraiths of mist were breaking up over Venlaw Hill, and here was I, accompanied by Finbar the one year old black Labrador, making my way back home for co ff ee and breakfast. After the morning walk that was. When I say “one year old” I’m being very precise. It was his first birthday just last week. He was born in early October on an Upper Tweeddale farm. I was doing a locum stint there, and going into the primary school one day I met Lynn on the doorstep. The farmer’s wife said to me “Are you looking for a dog”. Well I wasn’t, and then I was. So here he is. On the farm they called him “Mr Wiggly”, because he had to take his enthusiastic part in any fuss that’s going. With his wholly beautiful, silky black coat wriggling and twisting under any hand prepared to give him a pat. A year later he is still Mr Wiggly. Enthusiastic with his love. While he was being born in the Scottish Borders, our th...