Kester Brewin

Author: KB

  • Advertising Makes Us All Poor

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    KB
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    David Sheppard, the recently deceased England cricket captain come radical Bishop, once said that ‘advertising is tantalising the poor.’ I’m wondering if we need to go further than that. For those who can remember far enough back to ‘3 Feet High and Rising’, you’ll remember that "We’ll be back, right after these messages." Not any…

  • “We Knock Upon Silence for an Answering Music”

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    KB
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    May sees the creative act as an encounter between two poles. A dialectical process between the subjective pole – the artist – and the objective pole – that which the artist is contemplating. It is in the moment of encounter between them that newness occurs. He quotes Archibald MacLeish on this, who sees these two…

  • Liturgy for the Dedication of a Child

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    KB
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    As requested, (see previous post) the files from the dedication service we wrote. For background info, it was held in a CofE church one Saturday (ie not in a normal service) and was led by the Vicar… It happened literally the day before the last Vaux wake, so was in the Spirit of Vaux, though…

  • Birth | Life | Death / Emerging Church and Rites of Passage

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    KB
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    Interesting piece on the radio this morning about the rise of road-side ‘shrines’ in the UK. Flowers, weathered photos, crosses peek out from lamp-posts and hedgerows, marking sites of fatal crashes and lives cut short. One man interviewed had lost his nephew in a car crash, and now visited the site daily, keeping the flowers…

  • A Dirt Laureate?

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    KB

    “The poet”, Rollo May writes, “is a menace to conformity. We cannot escape our anxiety over the fact that the artists are the possible destroyers of our nicely ordered systems. For the creative impulse is the speaking of the voice and the expressing of the forms of the preconscious and unconscious; and this is, by…

  • Dirt | Individualism | The Rebuilding of New Orleans

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    KB

    //// The clear-up begins. The autopsy. The media attempt to deflate the pompous politicians in their teflon suits, who hope the dirt won’t stick, that they won’t be a casualty. The volunteers still up to their necks in filth, delicately orange-crossing the ex-houses housing the inflated bodies, hoping the dirt won’t stick, trying to enumerate…