Falcon Lodge Chapel

A small church with a BIG heart...

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DAY 68:    Monday 25 May





Good morning on this, another unusual Bank Holiday Monday


I am never surprised at the frequent hypocrisy of the British Press especially at the scenes yesterday. Whilst the questioning of the PM yesterday afternoon understandably was about certain Cummings and goings, the Press are having a field day over the fact that a man with his wife and child drove 260 miles in a car.


But the rights and wrongs of that were overshadowed by the scenes we saw on TV news later with a scrum of the press corps, only one wearing a face mask, pushing and shoving one another outside Mr Cummings’ home. The Press rightly report groups of people who meet up in parks and on beaches when the instructions are to keep 2 metres apart and only meet up with 1 person from another household.


So, more than a dozen individuals, presumably from different households, came into physical contact with lots of shouting and pushing, then would have returned to their offices and later to their homes in the evening presumably to spread the germs they had shared during the day.


We could expect the newspapers to apologise for exposing their employees to working in this dangerous environment, but I very much doubt we will see anyone admitting they were wrong (just another thought, will the police be issuing a bunch of £1000 fines to the culprits?)



Here’s another of those stories from Jeff Lucas -


I could still be wrong.

Men can be irrational creatures. to say the least. One of the more bizarre evidences of weird life on planet male is our deep reluctance to believe what the petrol gauge on our car is desperately trying to tell us. Despite the ominous sight of the white needle hovering just above the ‘E’, the yellow flashing light in the shape of a petrol can and (in the case of some higher end European luxury cars) the terrifying voice of a German woman booming words like Achtung through our car stereo and barking that we are getting low on fuel, somehow we take this as a personal challenge and do everything we can to get home without taking the two or three minutes needed to do the obvious.


We were in the West Country and were about to venture onto Dartmoor. Despite the fact that we were moving into foggy, treacherous territory where the Hound of the Baskervilles roams free, I decided to ignore the fact that we only had a quarter of a tank left.


But that was my first mistake of the day - there would be a trinity of errors. The second lash up came when, unsure about our route once we were actually on the Moor, I took a turning that I felt convinced was right (because I have an intuitive sense of direction, not) and it took us down what felt like a waterlogged pot-holed farm track, which was probably because it was a waterlogged pot-holed farm track.


We then found ourselves in an area which sported lots of red flags that fluttered bravely along the roadside. We marvelled at the loveliness of the locals gathering together for frequent fetes and carnivals and then realised that we were slap bang in the middle of an army firing range. My confidence that we were on the correct road had led us into a place where we could easily end up in the sights of a goggle-wearing military man in a tank; a chap with a lifelong ambition to fire an armour-piercing shell at a moving target; like us.


And so now we were lost on the moors with the petrol gauge on ‘E’, praying that the Lord would miraculously provide us with a large petrol station (and preferably one that served cappuccinos) and stranded in the middle of a potential war zone. But there was yet more to come.


We finally made our way back to civilization (and filled up with petrol) and then noticed the house for sale. We stopped and eagerly jumped out of the car and wandered up to the ‘For Sale’ sign, which also contained some leaflets that showed us the price. Thinking of myself now as an expert in the UK housing market, I turned to my friend and made a solemn declaration of absolute certainty. ‘Mark my words this house will never, ever sell. It's just priced way above the market. These sellers are crazy.’


At that exact moment, a car drew up that had an estate agent’s sticker on the driver’s door. A suited man hopped out and walked swiftly over to the ‘For Sale’ sign and tacked a huge ‘Sold’ board over it as I looked on.

It was then that I realised once again a truth that is unpalatable to most of us and quite unthinkable to some: that is we can be wrong.


Perhaps we get used to the feeling that we are in the right. The fact that we hold the Bible in our hands, which we rightly insist is the inspired word of God, gives us a sense of consistently being in the know. Then we rush to the conclusion that our choice of music, our understanding of the Bible, our brand of church and our entire worldview on life - in all of these areas we basically are in the right, most, if not all of the time.


And while we stubbornly insist on being experts, our churches implode, our marriages erode and others around us take a vow of silence rather than take us on.


Take notice of the fuel gauge. Read the map. Don't jump to swift conclusions about property prices. In short, know this and it might just prevent you from getting shelled by a British Army tank: = just admit you could be wrong.


James 3:2 - For all of us make many mistakes. If someone does not make any mistakes when he speaks, he is perfect and able to control his whole body.


In yesterday’s virtual service, Ravi Zacharias stated he had learned that there are times when he needed to not only accept his critics with love, but even to shake hands with his enemies.


Luke 6:27-28 - “But to you who are listening I say: Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you.


A song to sing to help us through uncertain times – >>>    FATHER I PLACE INTO YOUR HANDS



Sheila is still receiving care in the ICU ward but despite the occasional setback is doing OK



MAKE YOU SMILE: (thanks to Joy Phillips)


Growing old

Some say I’m growing old, well that’s all right with me,

I’m getting on with things I’d not time for previously.

Some say that I am aged, there’s nothing wrong with that,

the finest wines are aged before they leave the vat.


Some might call me wrinkly, but I’m proud of every line,

you have to live a lot of life to have a face like mine.

And some may call me oldie, but in my book of age,

I feel a golden oldie for there’s love on every page.


But when they say I’m past my best,

they’re really being dumb,

they should know I’ve seen nothing yet,

the best is yet to come.





More tomorrow