Pastoral Letter for the Month

 At Synod recently I caught up with Hornsea legend, and friend to the Hull Area churches Rev'd Stephen Knapton. “I get the newsletters,” he said, “so I keep up with the news about the cat.” “Ah…” I said. “The cat.” 

A couple of weeks ago I realised I hadn’t seen the grumpy cat for a while. Which is unusual, because it generally skulks past the back door at least once a day. Some times it sits by the door, looking in with a scowl on its face. If I dare open the door it looks at me with such shock, alarm and wounded dignity on it’s face that I am forced to apologise to its retreating form. 

But recently, of the grumpy cat, there have been precisely zero sightings. Other cats have continued to make their presence known, treading such a consistent path through the lawn that it has hampered the growth of the grass. A lanky black and white youngster is the most charismatic of the animals that use our garden as a transit route. He visits most days to have a drink from a plant tray which he seems to consider to be his personal water fountain. Sometimes black birds bath in the same tray – maybe that’s why he likes it, because it tastes a bit like bird. 

Another, older, black and white cat, which considers itself something of a predator, likes to stalk along, head hung low below the shoulder blades, tail twitching – ready to pounce on anything it can. The squirrels don’t like that cat, and if they see it they start loudly scolding him, with a cacophony of squawks and screeches. 

But the grumpy cat is conspicuous only by its absence – no accusatory looks as it visits the door, no skeptical investigation of the bird flavoured water in the plant tray, just an absence. “I hope the grumpy cat is ok,” I say. “I thought you didn’t like it,” my wife says. “I don’t, really – but if it’s gone – what will I write about?” 

I could, of course, write letters about Bible passages. Perhaps a reflection on the Easter story, and the promise of hope that it extends to us as we face the harsh realities of the world in which we live. 2 Maybe I could write about current events, something like a critique of Western adventurism in the Middle East, lamenting the willingness of leaders to go to war and expressing a hope that leaders will rise up who speak peace, rather than escalate violence. Or perhaps I could update readers on the latest goings on in the United Reformed Church as the denomination attempts to navigate the tensions and challenges of a changing world, embarking on the latest stages of a wider ‘church life review’ which will, hopefully, enable churches to get better, more targeted support. Alternatively I could talk about the series of Lent Bible studies that have taken place in each of the team churches – bringing members from all three congregations together for sessions that have explored different approaches to ‘finding hope in the wilderness.’ I might, even, give some sort of update on the state of play concerning the so called ‘Quiet Revival’ the much reported apparent return to church of the young people of Generation Z, a subject thoroughly explored at a special event at Westminster College in March. (In short - it’s all still pretty confusing.) 

I could, perhaps, talk about the sermon recordings that I’ve started posting online as a podcast. “Do people actually listen to them?” One of my kids asked. “Yes,” I said. “Some do.” “Well then…” she said, raising her eyebrows. But the trouble is that none of these have the sort of appeal as the grumpy tabby cat that scowls on demand, and seems to consider us a perpetual nuisance, living, as we do, in the very place it likes to walk, sit, and prowl. 

Perhaps that’s because for most of us, the wider world is so far out of our control, that it seems almost unreal. Or maybe because all the challenges of the world can leave us feeling anxious and unsettled so that thinking about something small, furry, and bad tempered is, frankly, a blessed relief. It’s as I think about these things that I get my shoes on, preparing to head outside into some welcome sunshine for a lunch time walk. 

As I open the door I see a familiar skulking figure. “Oh! Where have you been?” I ask. The grumpy cat gives no answer, yawning once before scowling at me for disturbing its peace and then, looking fed up, walking away. “So you got what you hoped for, then,” my wife said. “One of the things I hoped for,” I said. 

 Simon