WHAT an absolutely delightful word, meaning a fear of Friday 13th, which I am learning how to pronounce. Happy Birthday to anyone born today, it’s supposed to be ‘lucky’ ( whatever that means.) The Knights Templar weren’t so fortunate on Friday October 13th, 1307, when the King of France rounded them all up and over the next seven years, systematically exterminated them. The Pope excommunicated him, so serve him right.

The Christian philosopher and Biblical apologist Immanuel Swedenborg once wrote..

Number 13 consists of the number 10 and number 3. Number 3 is a holy number and as it is part of number 13, the holiness of number 13 remains.

Which, I suppose, only goes to show what a little fuzzy logic can do for an argument.

Numbers have always fascinated me, in particular, our attempts to ascribe specific meanings to them. I remember reading ‘The Bible Code‘ with interest until it became clear that the weight of statistical evidence had overcome the tingling bravura of it’s findings and it turned out not to be true after all.

Still, in any given year there can only be a maximum of three Fridays the Thirteenth, so I guess we can all rest easily in our beds for over 99% of the year.

The image is of Rosslyn Chapel in Scotland, a treasure house for Templar-watchers. Oh, and, yes. I have read the daVinci Code (along with about 80% of all sentient life-forms on the planet), believing about a third of it.

Reflections on acquisition

When I was younger, I craved ‘things’. Cold, expensive goods that did little more than tickle my vanity and massage my pride, proclaiming my excellent taste to the world. Yes, sometimes, I acquired such ‘things’, often at the expense of the more prosaic, unselfish and useful. I think it requires a visit to the abyss of near – destitution, together with a sovereign work of grace to break a stubborn, prideful soul……
I still have ‘things’, which I look after. However, if it came time to leave them behind, walk away from them and not look back, I believe that I have moved far enough along my pilgrimage to be able to do so without regret. Which is quite a liberating feeling….


Gateways. Entrances and exits. I have always been fascinated by gateways, doorways, windows half-shuttered…They inspire curiosity about what lies beyond, suggest a leaving behind of one state or condition and a moving into something new, fresh and, possibly, interesting. A half-open door.. What lies beyond it? Who waits in the shadows and for what purpose? Do they look at me as I look at them? Others might think of the door half-closed, themselves within. I never do. I always imagine myself on the outside, watching.
Gateways suggest leaving and arrival. Leaving – sometimes a matter for regret; I wonder if those walking towards us in the image, like Lot’s wife, ever looked back? Or, are they leaving with a sense of accomplishment, work well done, completed.
Arrival.. are they ‘turning for home’?

“I can tell by the way you’re standing with your eyes filling with tears
that it’s habit alone keeps you turning for home when you know that your home is right here.
Where the people who love you are gathered under the wise wishing tree. May we all be considered then straight on delivered down to the Jubilee…….”

Thanks, Mary

In the movie “Summer of ’42”, there was a line..’life is full of small comings and goings…’ Perhaps that’s why I love airports so much.

Origins and pathways

Where we come from is less important than where we are going.

I wonder, nevertheless, what the odds are….

From Steilacoom to Jerusalem

I wonder how often Susan has seen this sunset? Puget Sound as dusk falls, the snow geese calling as they return home.

What particular cosmic wrinkle caused this unique juxtaposition of lives?

Einstein famously remarked that ‘God does not play dice’. In that case, he’s very good at cards.

Five people you’d like to meet in Heaven

Dear old Uncle Albert Einstein (Jewish but will probably make it)
King David (so he can tell me all about Bathsheba, was she really worth it?)
My real father (whoever he is)
Galileo (anybody who can talk back to the Pope gets my vote)
and, of course…Yeshua Sabaoth (who has fought for me all my life, as a good elder brother should)

Chronicles of Narnia…? Not.

Well, here we all are. At the moment, ‘all’ happens just to be me on a Saturday morning, one of sixteen million others in Karachi, Pakistan. A comfortable 68 degrees outside and the birds of prey hover menacingly.
I wonder what my lovely ball of fire is doing at the moment. She’s from America, you know, so whatever she’s doing, wrinkles will appear in the fabric of the Universe, rippling outwards and rocking small, unstable spacecraft. Oh. Me? I teach physics and mathematics, the music of the spheres, the subversion of Galileo and the existence and awesomely intimate abilities of God to look after, husband, prune and harvest the creation it took him all of 144 hours to stitch together. Stay with me. Push through the furs. You might find the scenery interesting. Where we go from here in the diary depends on Ruach ha-Kodesh…