I enjoy hugely having people to dinner, a friend on their own or a number of friends. It is wonderful. I don’t even mind doing the washing up.

I also enjoy larger groups of friends and family. Sunday lunch is a particular joy especially when we include a range of ages from great nephews and nieces and their friends to my contemporaries. The food is fine, (usually chicken from the Saturday market, which works with preparation before church and cooking after) and the conversation wide ranging.

And I enjoy eating alone. I prepare the tray. I like it to look good. I set out everything before pouring myself a glass of wine and in due course taking the tray through to the sitting room and enjoying my meal. It may be just cheese on toast and salad but that suits me.

My mother, when on her own, followed a similar routine in the evening except that she always changed for dinner. I do not.

And then last week I gave myself a special treat which I may do of necessity when travelling but not when at home in London. I went out to dinner on my own to a restaurant, St John, at Smithfield.

I was not celebrating anything except the enjoyment of going out to dinner. It was so good. I had three starters and then the wonderful Eccles Cake and Lancashire cheese. I had my cake and ate it.

Friday last, I went, with friends, to the First Night of the Proms. The concert included music by Bliss, Mendelssohn, Sibelius, and Vaughan Williams. There was also a lively and enjoyable newly commissioned work ‘The Elements’ by The Master of the King’s Music, Errollyn Wallen. It was a great concert.

In the programme notes for her work Errollyn Wallen comments that its prime concern is “the fundamentals of music, life and love.” For me it lacked one such fundamental – silence.

By contrast the final work of the evening, Vaughan Williams ‘Sancta Civitas’, ‘The Holy City,’ contained and ended in silence that was profoundly attentive and still. We thousands who packed the Hall, some of whom had stood throughout the concert, were wrapt and silent..

I was reminded again that silence is not only an essential part of music but also of life. More and more I am aware of the different silences into which one can enter and their importance.

There is the silence of expectation, that of hope, the silence of fear, and the silence that goes with companionship. There can be a silence of despairing emptiness.

Nature knows of the silence which precedes disasters, such as tsunami.

For many who are religious quietness and silence allow an encounter with God. I have always valued the story of Elijah who escaping the anger of Queen Jezebel and, fairly fed up with himself and his lot in life, runs away. He is at Mount Horeb.

He does not find God in the noise and drama of earthquake, wind, and fire but in ‘a still small voice.’

The Church of England is busy appointing a new Archbishop of Canterbury.

The 100th Archbishop of Canterbury, Michael Ramsey (1961 to 1974) died in 1988. I met him when he came to my Theological College in Cambridge. He and Mrs Ramsey later invited me to tea at Lambeth Palace.

A friend in Sri Lanka has just sent me a quotation from Michael Ramsey:

“We are apt to think that tradition is inevitably a thing which enslaves and holds in bondage. In truth, tradition can be a gloriously liberating thing for us. It frees us from the dominance of some passing fad or fashion or enthusiasm; it liberates us into a larger realm wherein we are free from the tyranny both of today and of yesterday.”

I put this along side an insight attributed to Gustave Mahler which may have originated with Thomas More:

“Tradition is not the worshipping of the ashes but is the passing on of the fire.”

I certainly believe that tradition has something to do with keeping my roots alive. I know that without healthy well-watered roots plants die.

Four of us went to Verdi’s La Traviata at the Grange Festival in Hampshire last Saturday. On one of the hottest days in the year we were all appropriately dressed – ‘black tie.’ I might have resented being ‘dressed up’ had I not overheard a conversation between an older friend and a much younger great nephew. My friend recounted that her school music teacher had explained that the reason an orchestra dressed formally was ‘to honour the music.’ That was a new thought for me. I realised that how I was dressed for the Grange Festival was not about me at all. It was about the music, the artists, the event – which was wonderful.

I am preaching this Sunday at St Agnes. It’s Whitsunday, Pentecost, the Feast of the Holy Spirit. The word ‘love’ features in the readings set for the day. I cannot get out of my head one of the songs from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s ‘South Pacific.’

It is the love song ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ which includes the words –
‘Who can explain it, who can tell you why?
Fools give you reasons, wise men never try.’

It will be a short sermon.