APRIL, April,
Laugh thy girlish laughter;
Then, the moment after,
Weep thy girlish tears!

April, that mine ears
Like a lover greetest,
If I tell thee, sweetest,
All my hopes and fears,

April, April,
Laugh thy golden laughter,
But, the moment after,
Weep thy golden tears!

As you see, Sir William Watson, a Yorkshire poet, has set me thinking this month. I'm not sure I care for Watson's assumption that it's women who are always changing their mood - my German grandmother had a proverb, ‘April does what he feels like!' which reminds us that men may also be impetuous and changeable. And I suspect that in St Andrew's we might raise our eyebrows at anyone, male or female, wearing their heart on their sleeve like that - it's not very Presbyterian! But it is a good description of the way April used to be - and the way all our weather now seems to be becoming: spontaneous and variable. And there are good and bad aspects to that.
One of the downsides of April is that because it's impossible to predict how the weather will change, it's very difficult to dress appropriately without being either drenched or stifled, unless we carry lots of clothes around with us. And that lack of predictability can be embarrassing. I don't know about you, but when a sudden cloudburst catches me without my umbrella it's my dignity that's affronted as much as my clothing drenched, as I imagine passers-by tutting to themselves: ‘Didn't she have the sense to see what the weather was doing?'
Of course, the upside is that five minutes later we may be enjoying glorious sunshine and a bright blue rain-washed sky. (Yes, I know some people prefer rain to sunshine - you can imagine I've said this the other way around.) And if five minutes after that the sky is overcast again - well, it gives us something to talk about. I understand from people who've lived in the tropics that the absence of weather - having the same climatic conditions day after day, week after week, month after month - can become surprisingly boring.
Love it or hate it, we who live in Britain are inured to the weather being changeable, and have developed strategies for coping with its unpredictability. But the rest of life can feel much too changeable as well. I won't go through the list of how much in our everyday lives has altered since the Second World War, but today even the rate of change seems to be increasing, and it's not always easy to adjust.
I suspect that's why many would like to see the church as somewhere unchanging, somewhere to be still and catch our breath, somewhere we know what's coming next. And to a certain extent that's true. Coming to church gives us the opportunity to reflect on the events of our week and to look for God's presence and action within them: the God whose mercy is forever unchanging. But if we take up that opportunity, we are also giving the God whose justice is eternal permission to transform us and our lives, in ways that will also change us as a worshipping congregation.
When the poet told April his hopes and fears, she responded with tears and laughter, reminding me of a Spanish proverb: ‘How do you make God laugh? Tell him your plans for the future.' Like the weather, God is beyond our prediction or control, though we are never beyond God's love. So let's get out our spiritual sunhats and our metaphorical Wellingtons - and prepare ourselves for change ahead!