‘Imagine’ Revisited

Just a little ditty I wrote a while back. I think you all know the tune.

‘Imagine’ Revisited
©2013 Tim Chesterton

Imagine there’s no heaven – it’s easy if you try
Love always ends in graveyards – you have to wonder why
So many suffering people, but that’s all there is to say

Imagine there’s no countries – it isn’t hard to do
The world is ruled by Google – Big Brother’s watching you
Imagine all the websites eating up our days

You may say “It’s a nightmare!” Well you’re not the only one
I think it’s best if you don’t join us, or your world will come undone

Imagine no possessions – I wonder if you can
No one to buy our music – we’ll need a brand new plan
Imagine all the rock stars begging in the streets

You may say “It’s a nightmare!” Well you’re not the only one
I think it’s best if you don’t join us, or your world will come undone


Siobhan Miller ‘Bonny Light Horseman’

When I introduce this song I usually say “It’s an anti-war song, but the war it’s ‘anti’ is the Napoleonic Wars”. It’s a traditional song that exists in English and Irish versions; I learned it from James Keelaghan, but Siobhan Miller and her boys do a nice job of it here.


This is number two in my series of ‘Songs of War and Peace 2017’.


One of my fundamental convictions is that life goes much better for us in the long run if we tell the truth. Don’t try to gild the lily. Don’t make promises (about the spiritual life, for instance) which aren’t going to be fulfilled. Be a real human being with others, not a fake superhero.

What stops us doing that? I would suggest two things: having something to cover up, and having nothing to cover up.

The first is obvious, of course: if I’ve got a skeleton in my closet, I don’t want you to know about it. If I’m in a relationship with you and there’s a big, dirty secret about my life, my fear is going to be that if you find out about it, you’ll end the relationship. So I’m going to do all I can to keep that secret in the dark. In other words, the root of my lie is my fear of being rejected.

But what does the second thing mean: ‘having nothing to cover up’? I mean that we’re trying to cover up ‘nothing’. Or at least, we think it’s ‘nothing’. I don’t see myself as a particularly impressive person – not especially smart, or particularly good looking, or unusually clever in any obvious way. I think I’ve got ‘nothing’ to offer, and I want to cover up that fact (at least, in my own mind it’s a fact). So I’m going to play a role, pretending to ‘have it all together’, in an effort to pull the wool over your eyes and make a good impression on you.

I think the second factor may be far more powerful – and far more common – than the first. And at its root, it’s about fear too – the fear of being tried and found wanting. The fear of being discovered to be the fraud we believe ourselves to be, deep down inside.

I think in some people these factors may lessen with age. I’d like to think they are lessening with me. I don’t have that many people left in my life I need to impress. I think that pretty well all the people I want to love me, already love me, and have proved over and over again that they’re pretty stubborn about loving me. So there’s not a great amount to gain for me in lying. As I get older, it’s harder for me to keep track of my own lies, anyway; it’s far easier just to tell the truth!

But it’s not that way for everyone. The current occupant of the White House, for example, seems to have an enormous need to fake his own impressiveness every hour of every day. Sometimes (often) I think the only reason he’s in politics is to shore up his own desperately fragile self-esteem.

The problem with getting people to love a fake identity, of course, is that you then have to sustain that fake identity. And that takes a lot of psychological energy – especially if, like some people, you have a number of fake identities, depending on the company you keep.

I believe it’s much better – and in the long run it may even be much easier – just to be real. Jesus said “And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32, New Living Translation). Seeing the world as it is, and accepting that reality and living accordingly – that is a liberating thing. And who is the one who truly knows the world ‘as it is’? Surely the one who made it has the best view!

That includes seeing myself as I am, knowing that God sees that reality and loves me anyway, and being willing to be that person in the sight of others as well. This is me, warts and all, fears and hopes, successes and failures, loves and hates. God loves me despite all that, and God calls me to love the other imperfect human beings in my life, too, and to let them love me. And if we can do that, I believe that in the end life will be a lot better for us.

Tripolar Spirituality (a sermon on Matthew 22:34-40)

Today I want to talk to you about ‘Tripolar Spirituality’. If you don’t have a clue what that means, don’t worry about it – you will when I’m done! 

The words ‘spiritual’ and ‘spirituality’ are very slippery; they seem to change their meaning depending on the company they keep. I hang out with a lot of people who would probably describe themselves as ‘spiritual but not religious’. When they say they’re ‘not religious’, they mean they don’t identify with any specific religious tradition like Christianity or Islam, or any organized religious institution. But what do they mean by ‘spiritual’? That depends on the person. Some mean they believe in a spiritual world that exists in parallel with our material universe. Some mean they believe in some sort of God, although they would resist any attempt to define that God. Others simply mean they believe there’s more to life than material success – there’s feelings and relationships, art and music and all these other things that make life worthwhile.

The word ‘spirituality’ doesn’t appear in the Bible, but that doesn’t necessarily mean we can’t use it. We need to be careful, though, because it’s such a slippery word. The Bible resists any notion of a spiritual life that’s just about spiritual thrills, or that sees this material world as less important to God than some other, non-material place. In the Bible true spirituality is always earthed in present reality. It’s not just about feelings but loving actions. 

In today’s gospel reading Jesus puts these loving actions right at the centre of God’s will for us. He’s standing in the Temple in Jerusalem; in two or three days he will be hanging on the Cross. The members of the religious establishment have been challenging him and asking him all kinds of trick questions to try to trap him into saying things that will get him into trouble. In today’s reading an expert in religious law is the one asking the question: “Teacher, which commandment of the law is the greatest?” Jesus is quick with his reply – in fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had answered this question several times over the course of his ministry:

Jesus replied, “ ‘You must love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind’. This is the first and greatest commandment. A second is equally important: ‘Love your neighbour as yourself’. The entire law and all the demands of the prophets are based on these two commandments’ (Matthew 22:37-40, New Living Translation).

So the essential centre of the spiritual life, in the teaching of Jesus, is loving relationships.

The word ‘love’ in the original language is ‘agapé’. For those of you who don’t know, I should explain that the Greek language the New Testament was written in has several different words for love. There’s ‘storge’, which means the affection that members of a family have for each other – parents and children, brothers and sisters and so on. ‘Phileo’, from which we get our word ‘philanthropy’, is usually about friendship. And of course there’s also ‘eros’, which doesn’t just refer to what we would call today ‘erotic’ love – it means the love that responds to some beauty or goodness in the beloved.

Agapé is different – it’s about practical, self-sacrificial care for another, whether we like them or not, whether we feel like it or not. It’s Jesus washing the feet of his disciples at the last supper. It’s the greater love that causes someone to give their life for their friends.

Now I want you to notice that in Jesus’ teaching this love-centred spirituality is tri-polar. In other words, it’s a relationship between three entities – the self, the neighbour, and God. These three relationships can’t possibly be separated in the teaching of Jesus. If one of them is missing, what we’re talking about is not true biblical spirituality; it’s some aberration of it.

Let’s explore this for a minute; in fact, let’s build it from the ground up.

Let’s start by thinking about monopolar spirituality. Monopolar spirituality has only one focal point: the Self. It’s all about me! 

In monopolar spirituality there isn’t necessarily a god out there anywhere. There might be, and there might not be, but even if there is, he’s secondary to the main character on the stage: me! To the person who takes this approach, spirituality is primarily self-exploration.

This seems strange to us, but there’s a logic to it. What would motivate a person to want to explore this kind of spirituality? Often it’s the failure of the materialistic approach to life. They’ve trodden the well worn path – get a good education, get a good job, work long hours, earn good money, buy the nice things everyone says you deserve – but they’ve found something’s still missing inside. Maybe at first they didn’t want to believe it; maybe they resisted it. But eventually they admitted to themselves “I’m not happy. The conventional way of living isn’t satisfying me. There’s a great big hole inside, and I need to learn how to fill it”. 

So they think about it, and they come to the entirely accurate conclusion that in the end who you are is far more important than what you own. But they’ve spent so long defining themselves in terms of work and success and possessions that they aren’t really sure who they are, so they go on this journey of self-exploration. “I need to get to know myself; I need to find out what’s really important to me. I need to learn to like myself and love myself”.

I don’t want to be dismissive of this; I think it can be very valuable. And I also want to point out that people who take this approach aren’t necessarily ignoring the other people in their lives. In fact, their motivation can be very good. They might say, “There’s no one in the world I can change except myself, so I want to work on myself so that I can be the best possible ‘me’ for the sake of the people I love”. Which of course is true and admirable.

But it does fall short of the spirituality Jesus commends to us in today’s gospel. And if it’s left to itself, monopolar spirituality can be a prison in which the whole focus of my life is me, and everyone else is just a supporting actor in my play. And in the end it will disappoint us, because we weren’t meant to live unto ourselves alone. 

Alright, so let’s go on to bipolar spirituality. Bipolar spirituality has nothing to do with bipolar disorder, which we used to call ‘manic-depression’. Bipolar disorder is a mental illness, a personality disorder in which the person alternates back and forth between two poles – euphoria and depression. Bipolar spirituality is spirituality that takes place between two entities – God and the self, God and me. In bipolar spirituality the focus is on my private relationship with God. God loves me, and I learn to love God and live my life in relationship with God. Other people may be present but they’re not essential; in fact, they might even be a distraction.

So a person who’s into bipolar spirituality will be very interested in disciplines and habits that help them grow their private relationship with God. They’re happy to read the Bible by themselves and they might get very good at it. They learn how to pray alone, and maybe they learn how to use silence and meditation to develop a close sense of God’s presence with them. Maybe they discover that silent retreats can be helpful, and off they go for two or three days to a retreat house where they don’t talk to anyone else – they just explore the silence and listen for the voice of God. Maybe, if they’re not careful, they even start to see their neighbours and their family as a bit of a distraction from God – something they have to get away from if they’re really going to feel God close to them. 

I’ll let you in on a little secret: some of the classic books of the Christian tradition were written by people who were masters of bipolar spirituality. But when it comes to teaching us how to live in families with small children who take up all our possible time for silence – or how to live as a Christian when we’re trying to hold down a demanding job – they don’t have much help to offer. Nor are they really all that interested in making this world a better place for others. They’ll do it – they’ll even do it gladly – but they see it as an optional extra, not an essential part of their spirituality.

I’ve learned a lot from bipolar spirituality through the years; you could say it’s my native country. I was a classic introvert when I was a child – so shy that when we had visitors I was the one who would slip off to my room, close the door and read a book. I’m quite happy in my own company and it’s natural for me to pray alone and read the Bible alone. And I’m sorry to say I’ve sometimes fallen into the trap my friend Harold Percy once described in these words: “I can have a great relationship with God all by myself, as long as people don’t keep getting in my face!” 

The skills we can learn from bipolar spirituality are good ones – how to pray and read the Bible for ourselves, and how to listen for God in silence. But they aren’t enough. Why not? Because the New Testament writers clearly indicate that we’re designed for something more. Do you want to love Jesus? Well, in the parable of the Sheep and the Goats Jesus says we do that by feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting the sick and the prisoners and caring for those in need. This is part of our spirituality; it’s one of the ways we love God. ‘If we don’t love people we can see, how can we love God, whom we cannot see?’, says John (1 John 4:20, NLT), and he goes on to say, ‘And he has given us this command: those who love God must also love their Christian brothers and sisters’ (1 John 4:21 NLT). 

And not just Christians, of course. In Luke’s version of this gospel passage the two great commandments are followed immediately by the parable of the Good Samaritan. In that parable a foreigner – one outside the Jewish faith – reaches across the religious boundary and helps a Jewish traveller who’s been beaten up and left for dead on the roadside. This man, Jesus said, was a neighbour to the man who was attacked by bandits. So the call to love your neighbour crosses boundaries of race or nationality or religious tradition; anyone who needs our help is a neighbour to us.

So Christian spirituality isn’t monopolar or bipolar: it’s tripolar spirituality. It’s about the relationship between God, my neighbour and myself. It starts with God. John says, ‘This is real love – not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as a sacrifice to take away our sins. Dear friends, since God loved us that much, we surely ought to love each other’ (1 John 4:10-11, NLT).

God is the source of all love. He pours out his love on us, sending us all we need for daily life on this planet, and then he comes among us in Jesus as one of us and offers himself on the Cross for the forgiveness of our sins. We’re all in debt to that love. We’re alive because of it. We have eternal life because of it. That’s the solid ground everything else is built on.

So we respond to God’s love by loving him back, and we do this in actions, not just feelings. We ask his guidance for our daily lives. We learn to live by his commandments. We learn to pray and spend time with him, and listen to his voice as it comes to us in the pages of the Bible and in the silence. We love him, says Jesus, with all our heart and soul and mind – thinking and feeling and choosing, all in the service of God.

And that service leads us to others. Just as God loves us, he also loves every single person on this planet. Everyone is made in his image; everyone is special to him. And he has a special care for the poor and needy: that comes loud and clear through Old and New Testaments, through the voices of Moses and the Prophets and Jesus and his Apostles. We can’t be in right relationship with God if we refuse to be in right relationship with others. So we learn to spend time with others and listen to them; we learn to be kind to them and serve them in practical ways. We learn to forgive them and receive forgiveness from them. And as Christians we come together with them to pray and hear God’s word and share the sacraments. 

This is Jesus’ vision of what life is all about. The expert in religious law asked him which commandments were the greatest; today we might ask “What are the most important things in life?” Jesus responds by telling us what he thinks life is really all about. 

So let’s learn to live this tripolar spirituality of love – God, my neighbour, myself in right relationship with each other. This morning perhaps we need to ask ourselves ‘Which pole is the weakest for me?” Am I absorbed in God and my neighbour but so neglectful of myself that I sacrifice my health and ultimately my ability to help others because I don’t pay attention to my own physical and mental and emotional well-being? Am I what’s sometimes called a ‘second-commandment Christian’ – really into caring for others, but nervous and unsure of myself when it comes to relating to God? Or am I a ‘me and God’ sort of person who sometimes unconsciously sees others as a distraction from my true spiritual life?

Where are you in this picture? Where am I? What help do I need to grow in the area I’m weakest in? Who should I ask about that help? Let’s think about these things in silence for a moment, and then take it to God in prayer.

‘A Time to Mend’ Chapter One

When I finished ‘Meadowvale’ it turned out that there were some inconsistencies with ‘A Time to Mend’ (which I wrote first, over ten years ago, even though chronologically it comes after ‘Meadowvale’). So – I’m having another go at ‘A Time to Mend’ to bring it back in sync with ‘Meadowvale’. Here’s the first chapter.

If you take the gravel road that runs straight north of Meadowvale and stay on it for about twelve miles, you will find yourself dipping down into a shallow valley and crossing a narrow creek. Spruce Creek; that’s the name it was given by English-speaking settlers in the Meadowvale area, and the name stuck, even though the first people to homestead in the area spoke German, not English. They were Mennonites lately arrived from Russia, and they cleared the land and established their farms north of that shallow valley. At one time there was a corner store, a log church, and a one-room schoolhouse, but they are long since gone. The farms are still there, though, and some of them are still being worked by descendants of those early Mennonite settlers.

If you take the first right turn after the creek and go east three miles, you will come to the old Reimer homestead, first settled in 1924 by Dieter and Erika Reimer. Nowadays their great-grandson Dan Rempel lives there with his wife Cara; they run the old Reimer farm and also the Rempel operation four miles north, the home of Dan’s parents, John and Erika Rempel. Erika, who is a Reimer by birth, drives into town each day to her job at the Meadowvale library; John tries to help his son, but a heart attack several years ago has severely limited the amount of work he can do without a rest.

If you go back to the main road, head north another two miles and turn left, you will come to Spruce Creek cemetery; the old church used to stand there too, but it was pulled down in the late 1970s, having been disused for a number of years. The cemetery is a peaceful sort of place, the crosses and gravestones in orderly rows, and a stand of poplar trees bending around to the north and east. If you park your car in the little gravel parking lot, go in through the iron gate and walk north on the main path about fifty yards, you will come to the area of the cemetery where most of the Reimers are buried. Dieter and Erika’s graves are side by side in the centre, and next to theirs you will find a newer grave with a simple granite headstone. On the stone you will find the following inscription:

Kelly Ruth Masefield (née Reimer)
September 16th 1958 – May 26th 2001
‘Behold, I make all things new’

And so my own very English name, ‘Masefield’, has found a home among all those Mennonite names in the Spruce Creek cemetery.

At first Meadowvale was just a name on a map to me, a dot in the wide open spaces of the prairies, where towns were separated from each other by distances I had never imagined in my early life in England. I remember the time I first glimpsed its four grain elevators on the horizon as I drove up from Saskatoon with Will Reimer, my new principal. He gave me my first tour of the town, showing me the stores and businesses and the quiet residential streets, so different from Oxford where I had spent the previous five years, and different again from the village of Northwood where I had lived as a teenager. Gradually, in my first year in Meadowvale, I found my way around the community and the surrounding area, learning where people lived and where they gathered, and where I could go when I wanted to get away from people and make contact with the older world of fields and trees, narrow creeks and shallow lakes, coyote and beaver and white-tailed deer, ravens and chickadees and red-winged blackbirds.

Over time I came to love the vastness of the prairie sky and the open landscape beneath it; I loved the patchwork quilt of different-coloured crops in the late summer, the thunderstorms you could see twenty miles away, the red-tailed hawks circling on a hot summer’s day, and the clear winter afternoons with the mercury hovering around minus thirty and the sun shining down on the dazzling white snow. I loved the smell of the fields in the summertime after a heavy rain, the feel of the wind on my face on a hot day, and the bite of cold on my cheeks when I was out cross-country skiing in winter. I loved the old grain elevators standing tall against the horizon, and I was sad to see them gradually being torn down and replaced by the huge concrete grain terminals.

But gradually, over the years, I learned that there was much more to Meadowvale than geography. In the early 1980s, when I first arrived, there were people still living who had homesteaded there in the 1920s; from them I learned the history of the community and the people who built it, their stories stretching through the decades as their family trees reached out and connected with each other. I got a sense of the community as a living organism stretching out through time and space; people who had lived here all their lives were part of it, but so were the many people who had moved away, whether they cared to admit it or not. The Cree and Metis were part of it, whose families had travelled in this area for centuries, and new arrivals like me were part of it too, as we made connections and found ourselves gradually absorbed into the various circles and networks that made up the Meadowvale extended family. ‘The Meadowvale web’, my sister Becca called it, and I liked to remind her that she was part of it too, because she was related to me, and by then I was related to some of the biggest families in the community.

I came in 1982, having just finished my teacher training at Oxford University. I had no thoughts of staying permanently; I had things I wanted to get away from, and Saskatchewan seemed as good a refuge as any. But then I met Kelly, and in 1984 we were married, and suddenly I was related to the Reimer and Wiens clans, with connections to at least half a dozen other Mennonite families in the area. And so to my surprise I found myself settling down here, and over the years I gradually came out of my introverted shell and learned to find my place as a member of this farming community. I found a new faith and a new family, and a contentment and a sense of belonging that was entirely new to me. Kelly and I had a daughter, Emma, who we raised in our faith community and in the wider Meadowvale family, and although like me she grew up to be something of an introvert, nonetheless she always knew herself as part of that connecting web.

Over the years I got to know Meadowvale too well to be romantic about it. I was a teacher after all, and through my students I was connected to most of the families in the area. I knew about the alcohol and drug problems, the broken families and the ones I wished would break up so that their pain could end; I knew people who were well off and people who struggled to make ends meet. I knew when people were talking to each other and when they weren’t; I knew people who cared faithfully for loved ones with chronic illnesses and people who struggled with demons they could not get the better of. I knew people of faith and people of no faith, people who talked incessantly and people who barely spoke two sentences in a half-hour visit over a cup of coffee. English and French, Chinese and Ukrainian, Mennonite and Lebanese, Metis and Cree – I knew them all, the tales they told and the lives they lived.

Over the years I shared the sorrows as they came along, too. We said goodbye to old people in their eighties and nineties, and young people who died before their time through accident or deadly disease. And eventually the community came to share my own particular sadness, as I lost Kelly to cancer at the young age of forty-two, and I was left with the daughter she had given me and the relatives who had adopted me as one of their own.

I had no thought of leaving after Kelly’s death; I had kept up my connections with family and friends in England, but Meadowvale had become my home, its people were my extended family, and I knew deep down inside that to leave them would have been a kind of bereavement too. And so I can honestly say that the thought of returning to the country of my birth had never entered my head until that last week of January in 2003, just over a year and a half after Kelly’s death, when I heard that my father – who was the main reason I had left England twenty years ago – had been diagnosed with terminal cancer.


When I got home from work on that cold and blustery Friday Emma was in the kitchen working on supper. She gave me a warm smile when I came through the doorway; “Ready for a cup of tea?” she asked.

“Absolutely!” I replied, kissing her on the cheek.

“I boiled the kettle a minute ago; I’ll just get this pie in the oven and then I’ll turn it on again”.

“Right; I’ll run down and drop my briefcase in the den”.

I went down the stairs to the basement and through to the back room, which I had used as a home office for over fifteen years. I kept a few shelves’ worth of books down there, with a filing cabinet for my school work, an old-fashioned desk, and a work station for my laptop computer and printer. On the wall above the desk was a crowded bulletin board, with notes and reminders and a few photographs of family and friends. Beside it on the wall was a framed family photograph taken about four years ago, while Kelly was still alive; my eyes lingered on her picture, dwelling on the soft curve of her cheek, the sparkle in her blue eyes as she smiled at the camera, the way her long blonde hair fell on her shoulders. Thirteen-year old Emma, standing between us in the picture, was like a younger version of her mother, a resemblance that had only increased in the intervening years.

I stood there for a moment with my briefcase in my hand, looking at the picture, and then my thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the phone on my desk. I heard the creak of Emma’s footsteps above my head, crossing the kitchen floor to answer the call; I put the briefcase down on the old armchair, and was just turning to go back up when I heard her calling down the stairs: “Dad, it’s for you; it’s Auntie Becca”.

I glanced at my watch: it was five thirty-five, which meant eleven thirty-five at night in Oxford. I turned back to the desk, picked up the phone, and said, “Hi Becs”.

“Hello, Tommy”.

“This is a little late for you”.

“Yes; have you got a minute?”

“Of course”. I pulled out the swivel chair and sat down, my elbows on the desk. “What’s up?”

“I just got back from Mum and Dad’s; they asked me to ring you before I went to bed”.

“Something wrong?”

“Dad’s been diagnosed with lymphoma; I’m afraid the prognosis isn’t good”.

I glanced up instinctively at the bulletin board, at the photo my mother had sent with her Christmas card a few weeks ago. My father had been retired from his legal practice for a couple of years now, but he was still wearing a charcoal grey suit and a dark maroon tie; I noticed for the first time that his face looked thinner than I remembered, and his thick wavy hair was almost completely white. My mother, standing beside him, was dressed in a comfortable skirt and sweater, her reading glasses hanging from a thick cord around her neck; she was smiling cheerfully at the camera, her hand on my father’s arm.

“Are you there, Tommy?”

“I’m here. So he’s just found out about this?”

“Yes. Mum says he’s been having symptoms for some time, but of course he’s been ignoring them and hoping they’d go away. Then about two months ago he started having night sweats and that really worried Mum, so she insisted he go to his doctor. He was referred for tests, and they just got word of the results”.

“Did you know before today?”

“No, I found out when Mum called me at the clinic this afternoon”.

“And you went out this evening?”

“I went and cooked a meal for them, and stayed for a couple of hours afterwards”.

“How are they doing?”

“They’re in shock”.

“I guess. Do they know what stage he’s in?”

“Stage Four; it’s in the lymph nodes on both sides of the diaphragm, and in his bone marrow too”.

“How has it been able to spread so fast?”

“It probably hasn’t; I suspect he’s had it for two or three years. Indolent lymphoma doesn’t present obvious symptoms, so it can sneak in under the radar screen. I think that’s what happened to him, but at some point in the past few months it’s transformed into aggressive lymphoma, and now it’s started to present more serious symptoms”.

“Are they saying how long he’s got?”

“You know they’re reluctant to do that…”

“Yeah, I know”.

“Mum insisted, though, and the oncologist said she thought he might have as long as two years. But she stressed there are always unpredictable factors”.

“Still too early for a treatment plan?”

“I think so”.

“How did he look?”

“Exhausted, and he didn’t have much to say, either. To be honest, I don’t think he really wanted me there”.

“Mum probably appreciated your company”.

“That’s why I went”.

“Was she the one who asked you to call me?”

“Yes. I rang Rick earlier on, while I was still with them”.

“How did he take it?”

“He was shocked, of course; he asked if he could talk to Dad, but neither of them really wanted to talk to anyone, so I had to say no”.

“Should I call them tomorrow?”

“Yes, please. Mum told me she wasn’t ready tonight, but she thought that by morning she’d want to hear your voice”.

“I’ll call her”.

“Thank you”.

“Should I tell anyone else?”

“I think they’d be alright with you telling Emma, but maybe no further than that until after you’ve talked to them”.


“Well, I should go, Tommy; it’s been a long day”.

“Do you want to talk to Emma again?”

“Do you mind if I don’t? I love her to bits, but I’d rather not go through the same story a second time”.

I hesitated briefly, and then said, “What about you, Small One; are you okay?”

I heard her give a little sigh; “Not really, but there’s nothing to be done about it”.

“It’s complicated, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is”.

We were both quiet for a moment, and then she sighed again and said, “I really should go”.

“Okay. Will you be home tomorrow?”


“I’ll call you again after I’ve talked to Mum”.

“Alright. I love you, Tommy”.

“Love you too, Becs”.

“Good night”.


Emma was just pouring the tea when I came back into the kitchen; she smiled at me and said, “Everything okay?”

“Apparently not”.

She put the tea pot down on the counter. “What’s wrong?”

“Grandpa was diagnosed with lymphoma today”.

I saw the sudden stillness on her face; “How far along is it?”

“There’s already cancer in the bone marrow”.

She handed me a mug of tea; “So it’s metastasized, then”.


I took my seat at the small round kitchen table; she picked up her own mug, came and sat down across from me, and put her hand on mine. “Are you okay?”

I shrugged; “Yes and no”.

“Tell me what Auntie Becca said”.

I repeated what my sister had told me as briefly and factually as I could. When I was finished we both sat silently for a moment, our thoughts far away, and then she said, “I guess you’ll want to go over”.


“No word yet about treatment?”

“No, but I assume it’ll include chemo, and maybe radiation. I’m not sure how they’ll treat it in the bone marrow”.

“I wonder how Grandma’s doing?”

“Becca said they were both in shock today. I remember those hours after the first diagnosis; you feel numb, and then you start playing head games with yourself”.

“Head games?”

“Denial, bargaining, that sort of thing”.

She looked at me in silence for a moment, and then she got to her feet, leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. “I love you, Dad”, she whispered.

“I love you too”.

“Are you okay?”

“You already asked me that”.

“I know”. She shrugged; “I guess I’d better finish working on supper”.

“Do you need any help?”

“No, but I wouldn’t mind if you’d stay and keep me company”.

“I could do that”.


We ate our supper in the kitchen as usual; Emma lit a candle and I said grace, and then as she served the shepherd’s pie and we began to eat, she said, “When do you think you’ll go for a visit?”

“Probably during spring break”.

“When is that this year?”

“Middle of April”.

“Still three months away”.

“Yes; it’ll go fast, though”.

“I know; I’ve got a lot of studying to do before then”. She frowned; “Do you think I should come with you?”

“Do you want to?”

“Sort of. But I don’t know if it’s a good idea, with my finals coming up. I’d like to see Grandma though, and Auntie Becca”.

“I’m sure they’d be glad to see you too, but they know it’s your Grade Twelve year”.


I grinned at her; “Of course, I need to be careful about spending lots of money on airline tickets, since I’ve got this expensive grad coming up”.

“It doesn’t have to be expensive; I’d be happy to go in a denim skirt”.

“Somehow I don’t think your mum would have approved”.

“No; she liked getting dressed up for the grad banquets, didn’t she?”

“She did”.

“I liked watching you guys dancing together”.

“Thanks. I’m quite looking forward to dancing with you at your grad, if your date will let me share you for a few minutes”.

She smiled ruefully; “When I know who that’s going to be, I’ll let you know”.

We ate our food in silence for a moment, each of us occupied with our own thoughts. I could see that she was avoiding my gaze, and eventually I put my hand on hers. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “There’s not much more to say. Russell and I are done; I’m sad about it, but that’s the way it is. He’s made it pretty clear that he’s moving on and I’m going to have to figure out how to do that too”.

I squeezed her hand. “Are you okay?”

She nodded; “I am, Dad. I’m sad, but I’ll get over it. And now do you mind if we talk about something else?”

“Sure; that would be fine”.


The next day was a Saturday, and I got up at around eight, showered and dressed and went for a two-mile walk. The storm had eased off, the eastern sky was just beginning to get light, and the temperature was hovering at around minus twenty.

Meadowvale was situated on a main road about seventy-five miles northeast of Saskatoon. The highway ran just east of the town, with the railway line running parallel to it; that was where the two concrete grain terminals and the Esso station and the ‘Travellers’ restaurant were located. Emma and I lived on the northwest end of town; a couple of blocks west of our house, a narrow creek bordered the town from north to south, before bending around to the east, flowing under bridges for the railway line and the highway, and emptying into Roberts Lake southeast of the community. I followed the snow-packed trail along the creek until it reached the highway, and then I came back into town on one of the main north-south avenues. Trucks were already beginning to move on the streets as people made their way to the cafés and restaurants for their Saturday morning coffee. I knew all the drivers, of course, and most of them exchanged cheery waves with me as they passed me on the road, bundled up in my parka.

When I got back to the house I made a pot of tea and dropped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. I was just spreading peanut butter on the toast when I heard Emma coming into the kitchen behind me. I put the knife down, turned and smiled at her; she was wearing her old bathrobe over her pyjamas, and she had obviously made an attempt to run a comb through her hair. I put my arms around her; we held each other tight for a moment, and I kissed her gently on the top of her head. “Good morning”, I said.


“Want some toast?”




I poured tea into a mug and handed it to her. I pushed the plate of toast and peanut butter over to her, popped a couple more slices of bread into the toaster for myself, and sat down with her at the kitchen table. “You okay?”

“Oh yeah”.

“Still kind of sleepy?”


“Have you got plans for today?”

“Jake’s coming up for the weekend; I think I’m supposed to be getting together with them at some point. How about you?”

“The usual Saturday stuff – clean the house, do the laundry, shop for a few more groceries and all that”.

“I’ll do the cleaning if you want to do the laundry”.

“It’s a deal.”


After she finished her breakfast Emma had a second cup of tea, and then she excused herself and went off to take her shower. I went down to my den in the basement, sat down in the armchair beside my desk, picked up the phone and punched in my mother’s number. When she answered the phone I said, “Mum, it’s me”.

“Hello, Tom – I was wondering if you’d call today”.

“Are you okay?”

I heard her give a heavy sigh; “Well, you know how it is…”

“I know. How’s Dad doing?”

“He’s having a nap at the moment. He did well earlier on, but he ran out of steam about an hour ago”.

“Is he in pain?”

“Not really; it’s more the tiredness that’s dragging him down”.

“How long has he had the symptoms?”

“He’s been ignoring them for quite a while. I’ve noticed over the past few months that he’s been losing weight, and he’s been getting persistent fevers on and off. But it was the night sweats that made me insist he see a doctor”.

“How long ago was that?”

“He had his first appointment about two months ago. He insisted I not tell anyone until there was a definite diagnosis”.

“He probably didn’t want to be deluged with people asking him how he was doing”.


“So this is Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma?”


“Becca said he’s in Stage Four”.

“That’s right”.

“But they haven’t given you a treatment plan yet?”

“No; there are still a few more tests to be done – I can’t remember what they’re about. But she did say a cure is unlikely”.

“Becca said he has about two years”.

“Yes, although the doctor told us that wasn’t a hard and fast prediction”.

“It must have been a shock, Mum”.

“It was, but I’m relieved to know what’s going on. I was frightened by the symptoms, especially the sweats; he’s sometimes woken up in the night with the sheets totally drenched”. She paused for a moment, and then said, “Have you told Emma?”

“Yes. She’s actually in the shower right now, but I’m sure she’ll want to talk to you later. She wasn’t sure whether you’d feel like talking to her yet”.

“I’ll be glad to hear her voice. Give her my love”.

“I will. Listen, Mum, do you mind if I tell a few other people? I’m sure Will and Sally would want to know, and Joe and Ellie”.

“Of course. Please tell them not to send cards, though; if they want to send notes addressed to me, that would be fine”.

“I understand. And I think maybe I’ll book myself a flight to come over during spring break”.

“Is that after Easter?”


“It would be really good to see you; do you think Emma will come too?”

“She’s thinking about it, but she’s got her finals coming up, so life’s going to be very busy for her”.

“I understand. I had thought of coming over with Becca for her grad, but now with this news…”

“That’s fine Mum; you need to stay with Dad. But don’t forget to look after yourself; make sure you get plenty of rest, and take advantage of all the support the medical system can give you. I was lucky; I had a huge family circle full of willing helpers. You’ve got a much smaller group there”.

“The problem is that your dad isn’t going to like having strangers coming in”.

“I know. Just try to be wise about it, okay?”

“I will; thank you”. She was quiet again for a moment, and then she said, “Well, I’d better go; there are things I need to get done around here while he’s sleeping”.

“I understand. I love you”.

“I love you too”.

“Give Dad my love”.

“I will, and thank you for that”.

“No need. I’ll talk to you soon”.

“‘Bye for now, Tom”.


A few minutes later I went back upstairs. Emma was sitting in the living room playing her guitar; her hair was up in a towel, and her head was bent over the fretboard as she moved her fingers over the strings. The guitar was an old Martin 000-18; I had bought it second-hand in 1977 and had played it myself for many years, but I had given it to her not long after her mother died. Over the last couple of years she had been practicing a lot, and she had begun to create instrumental versions of some of the traditional folk songs I liked to play. I stood there quietly for a moment, watching and listening as she picked out a melody.

“That’s excellent”, I said when she was finished; “‘Plains of Waterloo’, right?”

“That’s right”, she said with a smile; “I’ve been working on it for a few days”.

“Open C tuning?”

“More or less”.

“You’re getting to be such a good player”.

She smiled shyly; “Thanks. Did you talk to Grandma?”

“Yeah”. I sat down across from her and told her what my mother had told me. “She’s going to have to be careful not to tire herself out”, I concluded; “She’s got that enormous house to look after, and the home help only comes in once a week, and now this”.

“Is she seventy-one now?”

“She’ll be seventy-one in April, and Dad’ll be seventy-two in August”.

“Like Grandpa and Grandma Reimer”.


“But Grandpa Masefield’s been slowing down for a while, hasn’t he?”.

“Yes; Becca says his arthritis has been progressing”.

“Are you definitely going over?”

“I told her I’d come in spring break. I’ve got a feeling I’m going to be spending a lot of money on airline tickets over the next couple of years”.

“Whether Grandpa wants to see you or not”.

“There is that”.

She frowned; “This thing with you and Grandpa, Dad – you’ve never really told me much about it”.

“It’s a long and complicated story”.

She looked at me in silence for a moment, and then she nodded. “Okay, I get that you don’t want to talk about it. But it goes back a long time, right?”

“It does”.

“Do you think it can be fixed?”

“I honestly don’t know, but I suppose I should keep trying”.

“Seems to me you’ve tried a few times over the years”.

“Yes, I have”.

“Maybe with this news, he might be a little more receptive”.

“Maybe”. I sat back in the chair and stretched my legs out; “With Dad, I tend not to get my hopes up”.

“I know”. She got to her feet slowly; “Well, I’d better go dry my hair”.

“Oh, I almost forgot – Grandma told me she’d be glad to hear your voice”.

“I’ll call her as soon as my hair’s dry”.

Link to Chapter Two

Conversion and Growth (a sermon on 1 Thessalonians 1:1-10)

Today we start a series of New Testament readings from Paul’s first letter to the Thessalonians, which was written to a group of people who had only been Christians for a very short time – perhaps only months.

Paul and Silas arrived in the city of Thessalonica in about 50 A.D.; they came from Philippi, where they’d been thrown in jail because of their missionary activity. But they were stubborn, so they got busy again right away spreading the gospel. They found a Jewish synagogue and for three successive Sabbaths they went there and shared the good news of Jesus with Jews and Gentiles; they pointed to the Old Testament texts about the Messiah and said, “It’s talking about Jesus of Nazareth; he’s the Messiah”.

Some people believed them, and a little church was born. But the Jewish leaders got jealous and formed a mob; they tried to find Paul and Silas, and when they couldn’t, they found Jason (who had been hosting them) and they took him and a few other Christians before the city council. ‘These guys are breaking the emperor’s laws! They’re saying there’s another king, called Jesus!’ So the other Christians quickly sent Paul and Silas away for safety, and the young church had to face a time of persecution without the help of their founding missionaries.

We know Paul was worried about these baby Christians and he tried to get news about how they were doing. Eventually he took the risk of sending his young assistant Timothy back to see how they were doing. When Timothy returned Paul was overjoyed to hear all was well, although the new church did have a few questions they wanted to ask him. So right away, Paul sat down to write them a letter, one of the first letters he ever wrote; that’s the letter we read from this morning.

It can be hard for us to connect with this letter, for two reasons. First, the Thessalonian Christians had had a definite ‘darkness to light’ conversion experience. Most of them had been worshipers of idols, but when they heard the message Paul preached, they left their false gods behind and turned to the one true God who had been revealed to them in Jesus. But many of us haven’t had this sort of experience. We’re followers of Jesus, but we came to it much more gradually; perhaps we’d even say we’ve been following him our whole life long.

Second, their church was very different from ours. Paul uses the Greek word ekklesia; we translate it ‘church’, but it actually meant a gathering, even a town hall meeting. Their ekklesia had only been in existence for a very short time – probably less than a month – when Paul had to leave it behind. There were probably only a few of them, meeting in the round in someone’s living room. They had no organization, no priests, no access to written scriptures, no prayer books or anything like that. All they had was faith in the one true God, commitment to Christ, a real experience of the Holy Spirit, and a shared memory of the things Paul had taught them by word and example. But apparently that was enough! The whole world, Paul said, was telling the story of their conversion.

What can we learn from them today? I suggest we can learn first what a Christian conversion might look like, and second, what Christian growth looks like.

First, what does a Christian conversion look like? The classic description of Christian conversion is ‘I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see’. John Newton, who wrote these words, had been a godless sailor and slave trader, but he had a gradual conversion experience that started when he went through a terrible storm at sea, and eventually he came to faith and commitment to Christ. He would have identified strongly with the metaphor Jesus used of a ‘new birth’ – that would have been a good way of describing what he had experienced.

But for many of us in our church today our experience was not so clear cut. Some of us have had moments of epiphany when our eyes have been opened to new truth about Jesus. Some of us can identify decisive moments in our Christian journey, others perhaps can’t. So does the story of the Thessalonians have anything to say to us? Yes, it does.

Try to imagine what their conversion was like. Their city was full of temples to the Greek and Roman gods. Every civic event would begin with a sacrifice to the gods. Almost all the meat sold in the marketplaces would have come from animals that had been offered in sacrifice in the temples. The trade guilds held their meetings in the temples and started with worship of the gods. Even farmers planting fields went to the temples to ask the gods to grant them fertility; not to have done so would have been as foolish to them as refusing to buy crop insurance would be to farmers today.

To them all this worship of idols seemed good and right and true. To be asked to leave all this behind would be as if a preacher today told us we had to give up our cars and computers and cell phones. Most of us would have a hard time imagining how we were going to live our lives without those things.

So what happened to these Thessalonians? Look with me at verses 9-10:

For the people of those regions report about us the kind of welcome we had among you, and how you turned to God from idols, to serve a living and true God, and to wait for his Son from heaven, whom he raised from the dead – Jesus, who rescues us from the wrath that is coming.

This was their conversion story: they turned away from false gods and put their faith in a true and living God who had been revealed to them in Jesus.

Today we’re surrounded by false gods. They demand our trust and loyalty – and sacrifices. There’s the false god of money and possessions, which often demands that we sacrifice our time and our relationships so we can have all that it offers. Closely related is another false god called ‘success’. A third false god is called ‘nationalism’, and sometimes it asks us to sacrifice our lives – or the lives of our enemies – to its thirst for blood.

For some of us the desire to be liked and respected by others is a kind of false god. Maybe we feel insecure inside; maybe we’re not sure who we really are. But if we can just get others to like us, we think the ache inside will go away. So we bend ourselves into pretzel shapes, sacrificing our true selves as we try to be what others want us to be. But it never works. False gods can never deliver on their promises, because they aren’t real.

We Christians believe there is one true God who created the universe and everything in it. But we also believe he came to live among us as one of us in Jesus. We believe Jesus is our most accurate picture of what God is like. So conversion is a process of turning from false gods to the one true God, and giving our allegiance to his anointed king, Jesus the Messiah.

The Thessalonians made that decision at their conversion, but they probably had to keep on making it. Every day when they walked through the marketplace the voices of the false gods would be calling them back. It’s the same for us today. Think of the false god of materialism. It has its priests – the advertisers who spend their lives trying to make us discontented so we’ll buy more stuff. “If you just buy this”, they say, “You’ll be happy; you’ll finally find what you’re looking for”. And so you and I need a daily process of conversion – turning away from the lies the false gods tell us, and turning back to Jesus and the Father he has revealed to us.

So this passage shows us first of all what conversion looks like: a continual process of turning away from the lies of false gods, and putting our trust in God our Creator, the God Jesus has revealed to us. Secondly, it shows us what Christian growth looks like. Look at verses 2-3 with me:

We always give thanks to God for all of you and mention you in our prayers, constantly remembering before our God and Father your work of faith and labour of love and steadfastness of hope in our Lord Jesus Christ.

Most of Paul’s first hearers were probably illiterate, and Paul knew he’d be moving on pretty quickly to start new churches in different cities. So he got pretty good at developing little summaries to help new Christians remember the important things about their Christian faith. One of those summaries was this triad of ‘faith, hope, and love’. We’re probably most familiar with it from 1 Corinthians 13:13: ‘And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three, and the greatest of these is love’. We find it here in a different order: ‘your work of faith and labour of love and steadfastness of hope in our Lord Jesus Christ’. These new Christians were like newly-planted trees; they needed to grow, but grow in what? In these three cardinal virtues: faith, love, and hope.

First comes faith. To Paul, this means believing the promises of God and trusting the God who made the promises. Paul liked to tell the story of old Abraham in the book of Genesis. He was a wrinkled old man and his wife was long past child bearing age, but God promised him descendants; Abraham believed him, and God credited it to him as righteousness. But this faith wasn’t just a feeling; God commanded Abraham to leave his home in Haran and go to the land of Canaan, and Abraham obeyed and went.

In the New Testament we can think of Jesus walking on the water, holding out his hand to Peter and saying ‘Come’. The feeling of faith wasn’t enough; Peter had to take the step out of the boat, risking a soaking! Or we think of the four men who brought their paralyzed friend to Jesus; it says ‘Jesus saw their faith’, but what he actually saw was the action that their faith prompted.

True faith always leads to action; it leads to a changed life. A few years ago my cardiologist said to me, “Mr. Chesterton, you can get off these blood pressure and cholesterol pills in a couple of years if you want; it’s all to do with getting serious about diet and exercise”. I believed her, but belief wasn’t enough; I had to put into practice the things she said. Those changes were the evidence of my faith in her. I guess that for the Thessalonians, the evidence of their faith was that they didn’t go to idol temples to offer sacrifices any more.

What’s the evidence of my faith in Jesus? What’s the evidence of yours? If we were on trial for our faith would there be enough evidence to convict us? And how can we grow in our ‘work of faith’? What’s the cutting edge for you and me?

Faith comes first, but the next thing Paul mentions is love. Faith is directed toward God and Christ, but love is directed toward others. The Greek word Paul uses for love is ‘agapé’, so he’s not talking about feeling love for someone; he’s talking about a way of life in which we do what’s best for others, whether we like them or not, whether we feel like it or not. It’s what Jesus is doing when he washes his disciples’ feet or when he gives his life on the cross for us.

It’s an active virtue; Paul talks about our ‘labour of love’. In the early church it sometimes meant sharing their possessions with each other, rich members helping poor members so all were equal. This is the love that brings neighbours together to build barns for each other; it takes people into hospitals and jails to visit the sick and the prisoners. It took Mother Teresa to the streets of Calcutta to care for lepers; it takes other people to work in AIDS clinics or to cook meals for church members who are sick. All of this is serving others in the name of Christ.

In his first letter John says, ‘Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action’ (1 John 3:18). People today are tired of empty words; they want to see actions. What’s our labour of love? What’s mine? What’s yours? What are we doing to actively love others? How can we grow in this?

Faith is directed toward God and Christ; love is directed toward other people. Hope is the third thing, and it’s directed toward the future. In the Creed we say, ‘Jesus will come again to judge the living and the dead’, and in the Lord’s Prayer we pray, ‘Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as in heaven’. In other words, we know there’s still something lacking in our experience of God’s plan; even though we know and follow Jesus, there’s still a lot of evil in the world and in us. Those Thessalonian Christians experienced that; they’d only been followers of Jesus for a few weeks and they were being persecuted already! What kept them going through that? Paul pointed to their ‘steadfastness of hope in our Lord Jesus Christ’.

Studies of concentration camp inmates have shown that those who can hang on to hope have a better chance of survival. Christians believe that if it’s true that God raised Jesus from the dead, then nothing is too hard for him – and because of that, we can be people of stubborn hope. We believe his promise of a better future, so when the present looks dark we can still have joy in him. And we don’t give up on people, because we know that God hasn’t finished with them yet.

Is this you? Is this me? Are we people of stubborn hope? And how can we grow more steadfast in our hope?

Let’s go around this one last time. First, the false gods are all around us; they are tempting us all the time. Some of their lies are frankly incredible; I think of the cult of celebrity, which is nonsense when you think of how many celebrities are in rehab, or jumping from relationship to relationship; why on earth would we want to be like them? So our Christian life is a constant process of turning once again from these false gods to the one true God Jesus has revealed to us. What’s your favourite idol? What’s mine? How can we be steadfast in turning away from them and turning to Christ? How can we help one another do this?

Second, our Christian life is about growing in faith, love, and hope: the faith that changes our lives – the love that shows itself in hard work to help others – the stubborn hope that keeps us serving God and loving people, because we believe in God’s future. Which of these three characteristics are we strongest in? Which do we need to work on? How can our brothers and sisters in Christ pray for us and help us grow in faith, hope, and love? Let’s take a moment of silence to think about those questions, and then we’ll pray.