Notices for Sunday 14th June 2015

By the Holy Spirit you spoke through the mouth of your servant and our father, David: Why the big noise, nations? Why the mean plots, peoples? Earth’s leaders push for position, Potentates meet for summit talks, The God-deniers, the Messiah-defiers!.
Acts  25:26 (Message)

Show us Father God how to be led by your Holy Spirit and not by the powers of the world.
Amen

We welcome our preacher this morning who is Mr David Young
After service tea hosts Warren and Vera

Our thanks for the flowers which are given by Joan Anderton in memory of her husband Ken
Organist: Lydia Edwards

Sunday 21st June
11.00am        Rev Neville Pugh
Vestry Stewards – Ian and Sheila
Door Steward – Bob
Tea Hosts – Bob and Evelyn

Diary Dates

June
Sun 14th       Circuit Service at Gresford 6.00pm
Mon 15th       Every Day with Jesus Bible Study in Lounge 10.30am
Mon 15th       Lunch at Gresford 12 noon £5
Tue 16th       Tea & Raffle at Rhosymedre 4.00pm
Wed 17th      Bible Study at Avril’s home 7.30pm
Thu 18th       Cafe Service at Hope Parish Church 3.30pm
Fri 19th        Friday Lunch Club at noon in the hall £2.50
Sat 20th       Circuit BBQ at Gresford 4.00pm – 7.00pm
Wed 24th     Midweek Communion at Regent Street 11.15am

Please pray for the following:
Richard Down
Phyllis Davies
Isobel Holroyd
Ernest Tait
Maurice Anderton
Seren Williams
Vanessa Woolrich
Kay Davies

All those who care for those in need.
We thank God for answered prayer and ask that he helps us to understand that all things do work together for good.

Tuesday Concert
A full hall enjoyed the concert given by Cor Y Pentan and the Northop Youth & Training Band last Tuesday. Our thanks to all who supported and helped out at the event. £260 was raised for church funds and Action for Children.

Louis and Lottie

I first met her about twenty years ago. She was clothed in a black bombazine pup tent and on her head she wore a stiff starched white creation, like the frills on lamb chops, though she was not lamb but tough mutton.

With a slight guttural accent, she informed me her name was Sister Louis Gabriel, which seemed improb­able as she remained a German-Jewish refugee to the end of her days.

She also didn’t look at me directly but averted her eyes, which made her appear shifty. Perhaps she was overcome, I thought, at meeting a real rabbi and felt guilty about her conversion to Christianity.

I underestimated her completely. She had seen her synagogue set on fire in Berlin. She had married unsuc­cessfully, and fallen in love successfully. She had also fallen into the arms of the Church, and since she did nothing by halves, became a Catholic nun in Jewish Jerusalem teaching Arab children. She had been rescued by an Italian princess who had shipped her to Palestine, and there she had worked for British Intelligence. Hav­ing faced Nazis, Fascists, and clerical disapproval, one immature rabbi was nothing to her. Being shifty wasn’t in her nature; she was just being thorough and old time and keeping custody of her eyes.

She told me she disapproved of converts. People should stay in the religion where God had put them.

I swallowed hard, and said gravely, ‘Except you of course.’

‘Of course,’ she answered without batting an eyelid.

I saw Sister Louis Gabriel some years later after she came back from America. ‘I am no longer called Louis,’ she announced, ‘but Lottie, my birth name.’

Sister Lottie was into liberation theology from Central America and wore long pants which she had battled for at a Harrods sale.

She was as thoroughly modem as Sister Louis had been old time. She puffed at a cigarette in a long holder while she sipped a weak whisky ‘on the rocks’.

‘Lionel, why don’t you have a highball?’ she said.

‘Louis,’ I said, ‘no, Lottie, what on earth happened to your habit?’

‘Hm . . . Let them use it for demonstrations,’ she said. She also gave me a book she had written about anti-Jewish prejudice in the Church. It didn’t surprise me that she wasn’t the establishment’s favourite nun. It was a courageous book which said things that needed saying and only Louis/Lottie could have said them. Being a German-Jewish refugee was tough. Being a German‑Jewish refugee who became a Catholic nun was even tougher.

She taught me that religion was not about security or popularity, it was about courage, and witnessing to the truth as you knew it, not as someone else had told you you ought to know it. She was the only person I’ve ever met who could interrupt a sermon and say, ‘Father, this is not so!’ — something I’ve always wanted to do but never dared.

I used to collect refugee jokes for Charlotte and saved this one for her, a version of which I had heard from her friend Rabbi Gryn.

Two Jewish refugees in Milwaukee debated as to how you pronounced it. Was it Milwaukee or Milvaukee? In the synagogue they asked a warden which of them was right.

‘Oh, it’s Milvaukee,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ they replied.

‘You’re welcome.’

Before I could tell it to her she died. Jesuits and Dominicans said a requiem Mass for her. Rabbis said Kaddish for her, and Sisters and unbelievers, addicts and the alcoholics she had helped, mourned for her.

The Sister had guts!

Rabbi Lionel Blue, ‘Bolts from the Blue’

 

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