Last Sunday was a tense affair in our house. It started off well enough; a thought-provoking sermon at church supported by lively worship. After lunch, however, things went quickly downhill, although on this occasion it had nothing to do with my culinary skills.
They’d never let me on Masterchef…
No, this was much more serious: England were playing Wales at Twickenham in the Six Nations competition (rugby union, for the uninitiated) – and England won. Hubby may not have lived in Wales for over 40 years, but he was born in Cardiff, and that’s what counts. If I cut him in half (yes, I know it’s illegal), he’d have leeks in his veins. He’s one of very few Wales supporters at our church, so I guess he’ll be keeping his head down this Sunday.
This only comes out on special occasions!
I have to confess (sorry, Darling) that I don’t really care who wins the rugby…or even the FA Cup. But it did make me think about my roots, and how others see me. Lots of people know that I am a wife and a mum, and that I work as a music teacher. All of these things are important to me, and are labels I use to identify myself.
But what about my faith? At the risk of this turning into an X-rated post, what would you find if I was sawn in two? Does Jesus run all the way through me, like the writing in a stick of rock? Do people look at me and see him, or at least someone who is trying to follow him? St Paul wrote that “…if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!” (2 Corinthians 5: 17.) I’ve been asking myself a lot recently how I can ensure that others see this “new creation”? Because if they can’t, it means I’m like a disappointed Welsh supporter in the midst of the England fans: I’ve been hiding my true identity.
I am a new creation