Notices for Sunday 18th June 2017

For instance, you come upon an old friend dressed in rags and half-starved and say, “Good morning, friend! Be clothed in Christ! Be filled with the Holy Spirit!” and walk off without providing so much as a coat or a cup of soup—where does that get you? Isn’t it obvious that God-talk without God-acts is outrageous nonsense?
James 2:15-17 (Message)

Forgive us Lord when we do not put faith into action. Help us to be generous in our support of those who are in need.
Amen.

Welcome to our preacher this morning who is Ms Kate Lewis
After service tea hosts Warren and Vera

Our thanks for the flowers which are given by Val Jones in memory of her parents Mr and Mrs Wythe
Organist: Lydia Edwards

Sunday 25th June
11.00am          Rev Marian Jones (Communion)
Vestry Steward – Bob
Door Steward – Chris
Tea Hosts – Chris and Joan

Diary Dates

June
Tue 20th      Oasis of Silence – Regent Street at 12.30pm         for 20 minutes. Bring lunch to share afterwards
Tue 20th      Social afternoon with Strawberry Tea at Rhosymedre 2.00pm £3.00 per person
Tue 20th      Circuit Bible Study at Regent Street, James 3: ‘Speech and Wisdom’. 6.30pm food, 7.30pm study
Wed 21st      Centenary College Choir at Regent Street 7.30pm
Fri 23rd       Friday Lunch Club 12 noon in the hall £3
Sat 24th       WI Strawberry Tea in the hall 2.00pm £2
Sat 24th       Skittles Stall at Overton Village Fete
Sun 25th       Messy Church in the hall 4.00pm to 6.00pm
Wed 28th     Midweek Communion at Regent Street, 11.15am

Please pray for the following:
Isobel Holroyd
Michael Shipley
Keith and Myra Baugh
Evelyn Taylor
Gwyneth Williams

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.

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,”

Emma Lazarus
From the poem “The New Colossus” at the Statue of Liberty

My Inheritance

A lot of my attitudes come from my granny and grandpa. They came to this country as children from Russia. My granny’s parents had died in a pogrom and the people in her village put a paper round her neck with her name and clubbed together to buy her steerage ticket to Lon­don. There, it was said, she had an uncle who wore a gold watch and chain and ate chicken twice a week. My grandfather was a young lad fleeing from conscription to Siberia and hopefully trying to get to America. In fact, when he landed here, he thought it was America and only discovered the truth some years afterwards, but by that time it was too late. He had married Granny (as they never knew their age, I wonder what birth dates they gave to the marriage registrar) and had set up as a cobbler near the docks in London. I don’t think Granny ever worked out where she was.

I learned to swear in Polish, Russian and Yiddish from Grandpa. I have not the slightest idea still what the words mean, but I once tried them out, experimentally, at an international conference. You read about some­one’s jaw dropping, but have you ever seen it? Well, I have.

I also learned from him how to make a good breakfast. He wasn’t into cereals and fruit juice, but black bread, raw onions, pickled herring and Russian tea laced with lemon and rum. They left me a strange inheritance. It didn’t consist of goods, because they hardly had any, and the little they had was blown up in the Blitz. It consisted of a bundle of attitudes I have never been able to change.

Granny, like many Eastern people, thought beggars were holy, and I was always instructed to give a small coin to every one I met because they were the closest we ever got to meeting God. This still makes a walk down Oxford Street torture. I have to provide myself with a bag of change, and the policemen get suspicious because I am constantly crossing to the other side of the street. Not being as generous as Granny, I try to walk down Wigmore Street instead. My fellow pedestrians there might feel down and low (all those psychiatrists lurking around Harley Street) but they are certainly not down and out, so I can still afford a cup of coffee by the time I get to Marble Arch.

I used to know an old beggar woman over thirty years ago when I studied at the Seminary in Upper Berkeley Street. She completed my religious education by telling me sharp truths my professors didn’t know or didn’t care to communicate. She once confessed her sins publicly in a local church and it brought the house down. She was ejected because they sounded far too lush.

I never got too near her, because she scratched a lot, but when I proffered a coin with an outstretched arm she burst into fits of laughter at my timidity.

‘Don’t worry, dearie,’ she cackled. ‘I’ll open a bank account, and that will let you off the hook nicely.’

Thank God Granny wasn’t there for she would have spotted the calculation in my charity and my coldness of heart. I could not have stood it.

Rabbi Lional Blue, “Bolts From The Blue”

 

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