Finding hope in a field

Over August bank holiday weekend, for the first time since before the pandemic, I headed to Greenbelt Festival. It is a place I have been often over the years, though not for a while. The world, and my own life, have changed significantly in the interim.

Over numerous return visits, it has given me many different things. It has been a place where I have heard amazing speakers who have opened my eyes, expanded my knowledge, added depth to my understanding, and left me asking important questions (in a good way). It has been a place where I have caught up with many friends, where I have had good conversations, and where I have sensed that I am surrounded by other people who care passionately and deeply about important issues. It was the place I learned that hot water bottles can transform the experience of camping; and that there is something sublime about Christmas carols, belted out with abandon, under bright blue summer skies. It has been a place of not shying away from the big topics: of facing up to the harsh realities of the darkness in the world but still holding on to belief in the light. It has been a place where I have found hope. 

When the opportunity came up to return this year, all of that suggests I'd have immediately jumped at the chance, but in reality the decision was a little more complex, and in the last couple of days before I set off, when I felt both more tired than I wanted to and somewhat overwhelmed by all the things still on my jobs list which I had convinced myself I'd have ticked off before September rolled around, I did find myself questioning whether it was really what I needed. The forecast of more-or-less solid rain for the duration possibly didn't help my motivation! Despite my hesitations, I knew I'd regret it more if I didn't go than if I did, and that I'd undoubtedly enjoy it once I got there. 

When we arrived amid incessant rain, I was immensely grateful (and yes, possibly slightly smug) that my nephew had already set our tents up. My sense of gratitude to those I shared the weekend extended far beyond just that: I appreciated having a motorhome to sit in when the rain came back, I appreciated that other people did a lot of the thinking, planning and organising of the practicalities; above all, I appreciated the quality time spent together, the conversations, the laughter and the care, the maintaining and building of relationships.

There were plenty of other things to be grateful for too: the weather turned out to be much better than the forecast had threatened, and while there were some significant downpours, there were also long swathes of time bathed in warm sunshine. I suspect there were people for whom the lack of WiFi couple with the terrible mobile signal and limited charging possibilities felt like a negative, but to be honest, I embraced it as a gift. (Needless to say, in the fortnight since, I have failed to stick to my resolution of cutting down on screen and scrolling time.)

Before setting off, I made a conscious decision to give myself permission to do what I termed, in my own mind 'Greenbelt light'. 

Often I have prioritised the intellectual input that Greenbelt has to offer, embracing the privilege of hearing speakers I would have few other opportunities to encounter, filling every possible moment with all the content and conversation available. Sometimes that has been exactly what I have needed, and I have soaked in the inspiration like a sponge, coming away reinvigorated and ready.  

This year I knew I needed something different. I went to a handful of talks, some carefully selected, some more because that's just where I happened to be; but there was also lots of undoubtedly excellent and important input that I opted not to engage with. Instead I allowed music and poetry to wash over me; I sang songs, and played with words; I spent time chatting, and playing card games, and eating together, and sharing laughter; and one afternoon when I was already damp and the rain showed no sign of abating, I spent a couple of hours in my tent doing really very little, and that was ok too.

My ways of engaging may have been a little different, but my overall experience was the same. By the time we left, in more ways than one, there'd been enough rain for the parched grass to be beginning to turn back to green. I was reminded, again, that hope is renewed not by denying that our world is deeply flawed, and that people and our planet face immense, seemingly insurmountable challenges; but by engaging with all of that messy reality and finding that there is still potential and possibility. I was reminded, again, that we can only do that together. 

Thank you, Greenbelt, you did it again! 

It's not a competition

This blogpost was prompted by an interaction I was on the edge of recently. I came away wishing I'd found the right words to challenge the speaker at the time: I didn't, but I have been reflecting since on what made me feel so uncomfortable and what I wish I'd been able to communicate. And while I probably won't share it with the person concerned, who is not someone I really know, for what it's worth, I'm sharing it here.

In the conversation a member of Christian clergy was inviting someone, who they were meeting for the first time, to attend church. Fine, I don't have a problem with that, especially as the person they were talking to was expressing interest in a conversation about faith. The invitation included sharing what they valued about their own church. Also fine. 

But they continued by actively denigrating another denomination. Absolutely not fine. For all they knew, the person they were speaking to, or any of the other people within earshot might have been deeply committed members of the denomination they chose to insult and might have been deeply hurt by the comments; but even if not, there was no justifiable reason or need to use criticism of another group as a way to celebrate their own.

As someone who has spent much of my adult life trying to engage in ecumenical and interfaith settings in ways which have been at times painful, but which have been about seeking common ground and celebrating difference in healthy ways, I found the throwaway dismissal of an entire swathe of people who share the same faith but express it differently to be deeply problematic.

On further reflection, though, this overheard conversation was symptomatic of something that is so much bigger than just the church, and the Christian failure to live out the commandment to "be one." 

It reminded me of one of the core ways I think we have gone wrong as a society: that we have somehow learned that celebrating ourselves, individually and collectively, relies on criticising or condemning others. 

Too often, as we seek to celebrate what we value about our own communities, we do so by some sort of compare and contrast with another. We resort to we are ‘this’ because we are not ‘that’, and we celebrate the ‘this’ because it is superior to the ‘that’. 

And if religion / faith is one space in which this attitude is so often apparent, it is far from the only example. My work life in the migration sector is, obviously, littered with examples. But they aren't the only ones either. Othering has become (or perhaps has always been) so deeply ingrained in the way society works that we often barely even notice it. It seems to pervade the ways almost every community interacts with others. This conversation was a case in point: I don’t think this person was deliberately setting out to insult another group, they just hadn’t paused to reflect on how their words were so reliant on criticising someone else. This competitive us versus them rhetoric is so embedded as to be entirely natural to a point where we don’t even identify it as problematic. 

Despite being expressed as derision or dismissal, it is often, in my opinion, more likely to be the result of ignorance and fear than of intentional, thought-out malice. I also suspect that despite surface level appearances to the contrary, it does not, in reality come from any deep-seated sense of self worth either. In my experience, those who are most confident and secure in their own identities, as individuals and communities, are in fact those least likely to need to vaunt their superiority over others. And I worry that this combination of fear and fragility risks being extremely toxic in the ways we relate to each other, individually and collectively.

It is to my mind, the antithesis of what the gospel calls us to: the building of diverse, inclusive communities where all are recognised and celebrated as beloved children of God, each with their individual stories and unique identities.

Don’t get me wrong, I think celebrating what we love and value about ourselves is entirely valid, perhaps even essential. I don’t really believe pride, in that sense, is necessarily inherently a deadly sin. I also think there are of course times and spaces when questioning or challenging others around their beliefs or practices is entirely justified. I just don’t believe that our celebration of self has to rely on contrasting or criticising the other. 

I also know that I am far from perfect on this score. I know I have also fallen into the temptation of believing and expressing that my / our version is good because it is not theirs. 

But I’m trying. I’m trying to live in ways which celebrate what I love about myself and what I love about the various different communities I belong to, and to do so because of their inherent worth or value in and of themselves, not in some imagined competition with another. I hope that, little by little, we can all find more ways to learn and to communicate, individual and collectively, that celebrating ourselves and valuing others are not mutually exclusive.

Christian Responses to the rise of the right

A few weeks ago I was invited to take part in a discussion about Christian responses to the rise of Reform and more generally the swing to the right in UK politics for the FaithJustice podcast, alongside Sally Mann, a Baptist minister from East London. 

I did have some reservations, but I agreed because I also know these are important conversations that we need to be having. I was not entirely convinced mine was the voice that most needed to be heard, and I went into the recording spectacularly unprepared, with neither political or economic facts and figures, nor any great theological insights at my finger tips. I did however, I guess, take my lived experience of working with and walking alongside people seeking sanctuary, some of the most marginalised of our society, and the personal reflection and discerning I have done in relation to said experience over a period of several years. 

There were, needless to say, probably things I could or should have said and didn't, and others I probably didn’t express as clearly as I’d have liked. I also don’t particularly like listening back to the sound of my own voice, but those things aside, I think / hope, you may find it worth listening to. We recorded it in one sitting, but it is split into three episodes of more manageable listening length:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

(Also available on Spotify and iTunes)

It's all a grey area

The RomCom "Saved!", set in an American evangelical Christian high school deals with a bunch of teenagers struggling with questions of faith and doubt, of sexuality and relationships, of image and self-worth, of (dis)ability. It is as light and fluffy as most RomComs are, but it deals with, or perhaps more accurately, touches on, some big subjects. 

In one interaction the headteacher says "this is not a grey area" to which his teenage son responds "Dad, it's all a grey area." That phrase "It's all a grey area" comes back to me so often in all sorts of very different contexts. To my mind, that teenager has grasped the essence of human existence and of Christian faith in a way his father has very much failed to, or chosen not to, understand. 

Time and time again, in my own experience, children and young people show a huge a capacity for empathy with those whose experiences differ from their own and an ability to grasp things which adults so often fail or refuse to understand. They are prepared to allow different ideas and perspectives to shift and shape their world view. They are willing to believe that the status quo doesn't have to be immutable. Don't get me wrong, I know young people are just as capable as those of other ages of being intransigent and difficult ... but I am reminded, frequently, by the children and teenagers I meet through my work, that the world would probably be a much better place if we had all managed to preserve a little youthful curiosity, humility and openness. 

In many ways, black and white of course feels much easier. I think it is probably human nature to be drawn towards clear cut lines, towards right and wrong answers, towards the creation of borders and boundaries and definitions. 

Easier but ultimately a lie.

Because the real world just doesn't fit neatly into straight-edged boxes. The real world isn't black and white, it is every shade of grey in between, and every shade of every colour on the spectrum. That is, ultimately, what makes it so beautiful. 

We are, I believe, collectively, at least marginally better than we have been at some points in our history at understanding the concept of spectrum, and paying lip service to it, whether or not we are able to fully embrace it. But we, each, all, individually, collectively, still have a very long way to go.

I started writing this post many months (maybe even a year?) ago, when the high court was asked to rule on the legal definition of gender and did so along purely biological lines. Often, I suppose, we want or need the law to deal in black and white ... but so much, even of issues covered by legality, doesn't sit neatly on that binary. The trans rights issue, which is what that court case was ultimately about, even if some other people who don't fit neatly into boxes were inadvertently effected too, is one such case ... but it is far from the only one. There are plenty of migration stories where the black and white lines of immigration law deny the complexities of individual human experiences, and while that is the area of which I have the closest experience, I am sure others could find similar stories from other domains. So even though the specific moment that prompted me starting this has passed (though the issue has of course not gone away, especially for those living with the daily pain of feeling their reality is not being recognised and valued), it still feels relevant to wrestle this post into shape.   

Whatever the law says or does, I believe our human experience doesn't or shouldn't be dictated by a black and white binary, by an expectation of experiences, situations, relationships or people fitting into neatly defined boxes. And, to my mind, our faith shouldn't either. Almost daily, I am reminded that so many aspects of my life, and I am sure I am not unique in this, don't really fall along binary lines: from what counts as work, to how I define the relationships with the many people who make up my communities, to simply answering the question "How are you?" ... 

It is often those things, experiences and people who don't fit neatly into black and white that give nuance, complexity and beauty to our experiences. But it is often these things, experiences and people that suffer most when we deny the in between spaces and try to put everything and everyone into confined columns. And so it is often those things, experiences and people we need to be attentive to trying to protect: not by squeezing them into an ill-fitting box, not even, I would argue, by creating new boxes, but by allowing and enabling them to exist outside the box altogether. In doing so we give not only "them", but all of "us" permission to exist outside of the boxes, and life will undoubtedly be the richer for it. None of us, I suspect, fit comfortably into boxes all of the time: our identities, our activities, our relationships are all, ultimately, way more complicated. Some more so than others, and some of us are undoubtedly better at (or more willing to put up with the discomfort of) the contortions required to squeeze ourselves into those we don't naturally fit. 

I do appreciate that there are times where boundaries can be useful, and where definitions can help us make sense of the world. But I think we need to hold them lightly, and be willing to acknowledge all the times when they can't hold the fullness of our experiences. 

And where does God, and faith, then, fit with all of this? For some, faith in God is about defining truth and in some cases much of this 'truth' is expressed in very definite black and white. For me, faith only really finds a place in the midst of doubts and grey areas: not as the answer that fills the gaps where human logic fails, but in the trusting that allows us to sit with the mystery. I don't actually believe these have to be mutually exclusive. I don't believe the pursuit of truth has to rule out the possibility of doubt. I don't believe the potential existence of absolute truth means there is not space for different routes towards it with all the seeming contradictions we find along the way. I don't believe that having a deeply held sense that I am right, means someone with a different view is automatically wrong. I don't believe that something being genuinely, fully and completely right for me, suggests there's a one-sized fits all that means that same thing is automatically fully right for anyone else.

There are of course, things which I believe, fundamentally, to the core of my being to be true, and to be of God. There are things, too, which I believe to be false or wrong. Some of these things have changed over time, and certainly the expression or articulation of them has, but there are fundamental aspects of my beliefs and behaviours systems which are pretty deeply engrained. Maybe that's also part of the spectrum: for a scale of grey to exist, perhaps there does have to also be black and white. It is a question for me, as much as one I pose for others, as to how we sit comfortably (or uncomfortably) with these hard edges and blurred boundaries. What happens when my blurred boundaries are someone else's hard edges, and vice versa? 

Partly, I believe, it comes down to the opportunity (and willingness) to engage with people and perspectives that are different from and that challenge our own, and to embrace them with empathy, humility and a spirit of openness. I absolutely don't agree that we should "never talk about religion or politics" (although there are certainly contexts where I would avoid doing so). On the contrary, I think we should learn to approach such conversations ready to share our own deeply held convictions but also to listen to those of others; not in order to convince each other, but recognising the possibility that we might all learn and grow: that fullness of truth is beyond any of us. 

Perhaps this then, is the "childlike faith" towards which we are called. Too often, childlike faith has been equated to blind obedience to texts or institutions, but anyone who has had much to do with children will know this doesn't entirely ring true. On the contrary, I wonder if childlike faith is about asking more questions, being curious, testing our own views against those we encounter, being open to the possibility of change and transformation, accepting that we don't have, or need to have, all the answers, being willing to admit that there are in fact a whole lot of grey areas, celebrating that they can, in fact, make life beautiful. 

Epiphany Reflection

We have just passed the feast of Epiphany, of "revelation from above". 

This was written last year as a reflection to lead in to a Stories group encounter, sharing their experiences with a group of teachers and inviting them to reflect on how we welcome travellers from afar ... It is, yes, a reflection on the journey and arrival of the magi, but primarily a thinly veiled reflection on the journeys and arrival of people seeking sanctuary. I failed to post it last year, and am already late posting it this year, but I want to put it here at some point, and refuse to leave it in my drafts folder until 2027!

'Today' is the day when we celebrate the arrival of the Magi in Bethlehem, possibly to the stable, possibly to whatever humble abode the holy family went to next.

We don't exactly know, but the Magi were, most likely, Zoroastrians from Persia … Gentiles, foreigners who looked to the stars for wisdom, who wore strange clothes, spoke strange languages, and worshipped strange gods.

Gentiles, foreigners who were guided towards this God expressed in vulnerable incarnation. Who travelled great distances, who poured out their gifts.

Gentiles, foreigners who went away by a different route, who were forever changed by their encounter with the infant Jesus.

Imagine seeing the star

Imagine a light that tells you something new is promised. Imagine conversations about whether to follow, or to wait and see.

Would you stay … or would you dare to go?
(Pause)

Imagine setting out on a journey

Imagine not knowing where the journey is leading but trusting in the promise. Imagine crossing borders, going beyond known realities. Imagine holding on to the hope through all the struggles along the way.

Would you keep going … or would you give up?
(Pause)

Imagine arriving at what you thought was your destination only to realise it wasn’t what you thought

Imagine the hope, and the disappointment. Imagine the conversations, the looking for answers, imagine not knowing the motivations of those purporting to help.

Would you press on … or would you stop here?
(Pause)

Imagine arriving, expecting a king and finding a stable

Imagine the star guiding you to the most unexpected of places. Imagine reaching your destination. Imagine it looking like this. Imagine the doubt, and the hope in the promise.

Would you question its validity … or would you accept this reality?
(Pause)

Imagine strangers arriving at the door

Imagine strangers who look and sound different to anyone you have ever known. Strangers from well beyond your sphere of experience. Imagine the sights, sounds, smells they bring with them.

Do you hesitate … or throw open the door in welcome?
(Pause)

Imagine knowing, or hoping, you had found what you were looking for, and pouring out your gifts trusting they will be received

Imagine the encounter between strangers with seemingly nothing in common, no shared culture, language, faith. Imagine finding a way to make a connection. Imagine gifts, poured out in that space.

Do you know what you would give… and what you would receive?
(Pause)

Imagine the gift of gold

Imagine gifts of material wealth. The wealth of money and stuff, but also of time and of talents.

What gold do you bring … what gold are you ready to receive?
(Pause)

Imagine the gift of frankincense

Imagine gifts that speaks of God. Imagine gifts which invite a different and deeper understanding of the divine.

What incense do you bring… what incense are you ready to receive?
(Pause)

Imagine the gift of myrrh

Imagine gifts overlaid with the sadness of suffering. Imagine gifts which come wrapped in stories of pain, gifts which offer and demand sacrificial love.

What myrrh do you bring … what myrrh are you ready to receive?
(Pause)

Imagine Magi
Imagine the Holy family

Imagine strangers bearing gifts
Imagine them welcomed and accepted

Imagine that this is where we find God is revealed

And then imagine that inherent in the revelation
Is a call
To change
To go back by another way

Would you take it?

An examen of the moment

As a student at university I was introduced to St Ignatius of Loyola's 'examen' prayer. It is an exercise which invites you to reflect on things that have brought you 'consolation' and 'desolation' and use both to try and understand what God might be trying to say to you. It is an exercise we shared sometimes at chaplaincy morning prayer, and I often used to struggle to have anything at all to put in the 'desolation' column. I was young and naively idealistic, but it was true: even in things that weren't perfect, I could see enough light, life, learning to hesitate to describe them as 'desolation'.

I would still describe myself as an incorrigible optimist, but I have long since ceased struggling with this. As for this summer, there have been times when the balance has felt very different. Don't get me wrong, I still consistently have plenty to put in the consolation column. But there have been days when the desolation side has weighed far heavier.

I find this hard to admit, to myself or out loud, and I think there are a number of distinct but interrelated reasons why...

By almost every set of criteria, I am incredibly privileged. I am, I like to think, deeply conscious of my privilege, and I aspire for that to drive me to use it well, but that doesn't change the fact of it. I am white, British, well-educated, neurotypical, cis-gendered, middle-class. I have never experienced any significant trauma. I have had amazing opportunities to travel and to learn and to have many beautiful different experiences. I have a comfortable home, am financially stable and get paid to do what I love. I have good physical and mental health. I have a supportive family and an incredible community of friends around me.

The same cannot be said for many, perhaps even the majority, of those I share my life with, many have whom have experienced, and continue to experience, multiple forms of disadvantage. 

Over the summer I have been deeply affected by the hostility towards people seeking asylum and other people who have migration as part of their story. But I have also carried a nagging sense of guilt that I *shouldn't* be finding it so hard. I am not the target of any of this hostility in the way that many of my friends are. I am not being targeted by the flag-waving or the hate-filled rants which mis-represent entire communities, nor will I be personally impacted by the endless stream of hostile policies being spewed out of Westminster. When all of this leaves me feeling, to stick to the theme, 'desolate', a voice in my head nags me that, from my position of privilege, I have no right to feel less motivated, to have less energy, to want to just curl up in a corner. That instead I have more responsibility than ever to be a source of light and hope and support for others. And while the guilt may be unhelpful, it also carries truth within it: in many of the situations and relationships in which I exist, I do have a greater capacity and therefore greater responsibility to be the carrier rather than the carried. If I lack the energy, or motivation to do the thing, whatever the thing may be, that almost invariably impacts on someone in a far more difficult situation than I am. 

I guess this links to my other main about this, which is my realisation of just how much my role and my very identity feels tied up in my boundless positivity. As I said further up, I describe myself as an incorrigible optimist and I think that is how most other people think of me too: as someone who is full of joy and recklessly hopeful. I picked up the nickname Tigger at university and the image of irrepressible energy, if not the nickname, have followed me ever since. A fellow English teacher at St Chad's Sanctuary once used me as an illustration / definition to explain the word 'enthusiastic' to language learners. This is who I am, and it is who I want to be. I am, for the most part, honoured that it is what others see in me ... but there is a certain pressure here too. If this is who I am, then what is my role or my identity or even my worth in the moments when those things desert me? Of course I do know, rationally, that my inherent value is not tied up in this, but what we know rationally and what we experience don't always correlate!   

Plus let's face it there's probably just some plain old pride and ego mixed in there too. Maybe none of us like to admit to the things we perceive as weakness or failure.

But while I may not like the fact, and may not like admitting the fact, the reality is my desolation column is overflowing at the moment. I have had days when it has been much harder than usual to identify signs of hope. I have had days when I have felt sapped of energy. I have had days when I have cried. Being as I'm in my forties, I could probably blame it all on hormones and the perimenopause, but frankly, objectively, I think it is all an entirely rational response to the state of the world. I don't think this is the place to go into why (I have another partially written post dealing with that which may or may not see the light of day some point soon if I can wrestle it into some sort of coherent text from the swirl of random snippets of words it is currently!). This is simply about acknowledging the struggle and accepting the vulnerability implicit in doing so. 

I could end there. 

But the wisdom of the examen is that there are always two columns. In a way that I perhaps didn't in the naivety of my youth, I do now understand the value in identifying and naming the desolation. But that certainly hasn't replaced seeking out the consolation. It might take a bit more effort right now, but it is still there, so much of it is still there (a more upbeat post outlining some of this will come soon too, I promise!). 

The general principle of the examen is to aim to do less of the stuff that brings desolation, and more of that which brings consolation, because God wants us to find our joy and to have fullness of life. That isn't always possible. We, I, can't always avoid the stuff which is causing desolation; nor is doing more of anything, even that which brings consolation, always quite the right answer either. But there is definitely a place for making space to intentionally recognise and appreciate more the signs of love and light and life and for cultivating hope and gratitude wherever I can. 

I have recently started using the Carrs Lane Community morning prayer book again. For many years it was the anchor of my days and I am grateful to still be able to return to it periodically. The opening prayer each day is borrowed / stolen from Br Roger of Taize. A couple of mornings ago it started with words which felt very apt:   

God of consolation, even when we feel nothing of your presence, still you are here. Your presence is invisible but your Holy Spirit is always within us. Amen

There is always consolation. I will keep seeking it out. May you be able to do the same.

An advent poem

Winter definitely isn't my favourite meteorological season, but I think Advent possibly is my favourite liturgical season. Advent is filled with so much imagery which resonates with my sense of faith: images of light shining in dark places; images of a sense of anticipation and that there is so much more still to be revealed; images of trust, of promise and of hope.

While I love the one and am not a massive fan of the other, it does work for me that, here, Advent and winter coincide. My faith is not one which seeks to deny the darkness; it is one which recognises that God's promise comes into the midst of our messy reality. It is a faith of starlight, candle-light and fairy-lights: that while the dark is still there, fragile lights flicker and somehow manage to make everything more beautiful. My hope is not some naïve belief that everything will magically all turn out ok, but that in some mysterious way we will never fully understand, love does still triumph over hate. 

This poem attempts to capture something of those sentiments.

Shrouded in darkness
Winter comes
Weighing 

Damp and heavy on the earth

Huddled together
Exhaling clouds of breath

A whispered invitation

To tilt our faces

Look up

The dark is still dark
But as clouds part
Winter sun breaks through
Pale but promisingly present

The dark is still dark
But casting its warm glow
A candle flame flickers
And pierces the gloom

The dark is still dark
But twisted into branches
Colourful lights twinkle
To raise a smile

The dark is still dark
But reaching across time and space
Stars, bright and burning, shine
Pinpricks of light in the night sky

An intake of breath
The glimmer of a promise

Look up

The dark is still dark
But gestures of love stubbornly sparkle
An invitation to trust 
To cling to tentative hope

And so
with bated breath
we wait

together

in hushed silence

Dawn breaks
And the spring will come

Look up

Sometimes we belong

At the Northern Leg reunion, back in the autumn, the theme we agreed to explore through our liturgy this year was something to do with what it means to belong, or not belong, and the comfort, and challenge of how we feel about inclusion and exclusion, our own, and that of others.

In preparation for the week itself, throughout Lent, I have been sharing some reflections helping me (and hopefully others) consider what it means to belong (or not to) for ourselves and for those in the world around us. Whether or not any of the words I have written have spoken to anyone else, I have very much enjoyed the reflective and writing process. And for what it is worth, I am sharing them here too.

Week 1

I invite you to think about the communities / places where you "belong" and that sense of belonging is something you value; and the communities / places you "belong" but about which belonging you feel slightly uncomfortable.

Week 2

I invite you to think about the communities / places where you feel you "do not belong", whether that is by your choice, or by other people’s. I invite you to think about the times and places and ways which feels challenging, those that feel freeing, and those that uncomfortably straddle the two.

Week 3

Reflecting on our own experiences of inclusion / exclusion is important, but so is looking beyond our own experiences to those of others. I invite you to think about who our society excludes, perhaps digging a little deeper, beyond those who immediately spring to mind. I invite you, if you dare, to allow yourself to reflect honestly on who you personally, consciously or subconsciously, struggle to include.

Week 4

I invite you to reflect on how we can create communities of meaningful inclusion for those who are excluded, marginalised and on the edges, of our communities and societies. Is tolerance enough? Is integration to be encouraged? What does it mean to be truly inclusive? What does it take for everyone to be able to say "I belong"?

Week 5

You may have seen this poem before: it is the only one of this series not written specifically this Lent. I wrote it a few years ago and it has been posted on my blog previously as both a text and a spoken / video version, but it seemed fitting to share it as part of this series. 

I invited Northern Leg to reflect on the ways in which we feel we belong to this little community, and the role we each have to play in helping others feel they belong too: but I guess the same process of reflection could equally apply to any of the other communities to which we feel we belong. 

And that's it, because next Friday we will be wending our way to meet in person and the reflections and ponderings will move from the virtual world to the real one. 

There may be further reflections on the theme to follow here post-pilgrimage. Or then again, there may not. Watch this space. 

What does the cross mean to you?

I was asked recently (actually, not very recently, I started writing this ages ago, but it's Lent so perhaps now is a reasonable moment to drag it back out and try and make it vaguely coherent): "What does the cross mean to you?"

The question came from someone who thinks deeply about life, someone who grapples with faith and doubt, someone who is constantly seeking meaningful answers about our human existence. It also came when they were going through an exceptionally dark time in their life. For all these reasons, it mattered how I answered. In the space of a few seconds I wanted to come up with an answer that was both honest and helpful. Who knows whether what I said, to a degree, was (I can't even actually remember what I said); but it also prompted me, as these kinds of questions sometimes do, to write a longer, more considered response here.

To be honest, despite being the central tenet and symbol of the Christian faith, the cross is not an image that is the foremost part of my faith: there are other parts of the Jesus story that resonate with me more, other images of God which are more significant in my understanding of God's identity. Around the same time as the aforementioned conversation, in the church's lectionary was the gospel that includes Jesus asking his disciples "Who do you say I am?" to which Peter answers "you are the Messiah, the son of the living God". It is a question, "Who do you say I am?", what is the fullness of the identity of God?, that we used to regularly reflect on in our prayers at Carrs Lane and that I have explored in other ways, times and places too. "You are the Crucified / the God of the Cross" is only one facet of my very multi-faceted answer. 

I think it is partly because I have been fortunate enough to never have experienced real, deep suffering. I fully appreciate that there are people who need this image of the cross more than I ever have, to need this God who suffers alongside, this image of com-passion. 

I think it is also partly because of how much of the theology of the cross I have heard explicitly or implicitly taught which makes me feel deeply uncomfortable and doesn't sit easily with what I believe about God. The cross I believe in, and the theology that accompanies it, is not reflected in much of what I hear or see preached or practiced in the church. I often feel the need to premise what the cross means to me by first ruling out all the things it doesn't: I don't believe the cross was a punishment, substitutionary or otherwise, any more than I believe the suffering endured by millions around the world and down through history is a punishment. I don't believe God willed Jesus' suffering, any more than I believe God wills ours; I don't believe God / Jesus sought out suffering for its own sake any more that I believe we are called to do so when we are called to "take up our cross".   

With that preamble aside, the cross does still have a place in my understanding of God: certainly the answer to the question isn't "nothing", even if it isn't always the part of my faith which is front and centre, and even if it isn't something easily expressed or explained. Like all words and images, anything I can say in answer to this question will, I know, fall short of encapsulating the incomprehensible mystery that I call God. At some point I have to stop trying to wrestle the uncontainable into words that will hold it, release those words to the world, and hope it sort of says some of what I want it to.

For me, the cross is primarily a symbol of the depths of love of which God is capable and of which we are called towards: not because suffering is ever willed or wished for by love but because it is the unintended consequence of great love. 

We suffer because of who and what and how we love. 

The cross is not about seeking suffering for its own sake, it is about loving to the point of being willing to suffer with or for those we love. And I believe we are called to this great love, which will inevitably hold within it great suffering. I believe this is what it means to go to the cross: to love so deeply, so fully, so completely that we will experience the grief and suffering of ourselves.  

The whole incarnation story: birth, life and death reminds us that, however much we dress it up in theological language and fancy images, God's love for humanity isn't something theoretical and ephemeral. It is deeply real. The reality of that love doesn't start or end with the incarnation of God in human form: it is eternally true, but our little human brains struggle to grasp it. We still struggle, even when it is turned into a deeply human story, but it offers a glimpse we can perhaps begin to try and understand. The incarnation story, and inherent within it the story of the cross, makes visible God's love for humanity. In the incarnation God says "I love you so much I want to be you". On the cross God reminds us "I love you so much that this pain which you inflict on one another, you inflict it on me." The cross is a symbol that while suffering is not willed or wished for by love, it is an unintended consequence of both great love and of its absence. God feels the pain of the cross because of his deep love for the humanity that inflicted it and on whom it is inflicted.

Jesus died on the cross because something: political power, religious bigotry, a desire for order, ignorance, herd mentality, fear .... or all of the above, veiled the possibility of the love that would have prevented it. It stands as a reminder of how often the same continues to be true in the deeply broken world in which we live. It is a symbol of the depths of evil of which humanity is capable when we turn our backs on love. But it also makes visible how much that hurts. Far worse is the bland indifference to suffering. The things which should hurt but don't because we have lost sight of the relationships, the connections that would make us weep for the pain we witness. The cross is our reminder that God is never indifferent to humanity's pain.

If we believe in a trinitarian God in which the fullness of God is present in all three persons, an incredibly complex thing is happening on the cross which reveals something of God's, and our, identity. God is simultaneously both experiencing the physical pain of dying and the emotional torment of watching the one he loves die. As God both dies and watches the one he loves die, helpless, or choosing to be helpless to intervene, the cross bears witness to the suffering both of our own pain, and watching the pain of another we love. It reminds us that God's com-passion is deeply present in our experiences of both.

When Jesus cries out "My God, my God why have you forsaken me" he calls out both from and to his own deepest self: he expresses a sense of abandonment even by his own essence and being. Perhaps those who have experienced intense physical pain or emotional torment can understand that more than I can. When he later says "into your hands I commend my spirit" there is a sense in the coming back to God of the coming back to self: a reminder that when we find ourselves, deep within we find the essence of God. It also offers up a mystery we perhaps know to be true even if it one we can never understand: that even though our deepest suffering is the consequence of how deeply we love, the response to suffering isn't to close off to that love but to open up to it even more. That even from the depths of a suffering that we only feel because we have loved deeply, we still have the capacity to trust in love. 

For me, then, more than being a symbol of hate, suffering and death... and I acknowledge it is all three, the cross is an inspiration for life, a witness to why life is worth living. Not because of the resurrection, but in and of itself. This love which is the root of suffering is also the same love which enriches our human experience. The cross stands as witness that love is present and love is possible. That we can hold the other close enough that we will suffer with and for them, and that it will hurt, but it will be worth it.

Bless this house

A few years ago I was introduced to the Epiphany tradition of house blessing. I can't remember who it was I heard about it from, but I remember we did it a couple of times towards the end of our time at Carrs Lane.

For those unfamiliar with the idea, you mark the threshold to your home with numbers representing the year in question and the letters CMB, which are the initials of the names which legend has given to the Magi who visited Jesus: Caspar, Melchior, Balthazar; but also the initials of  the Latin phrase: Christus Mansionem Benedicat.

In both 2022 and 2023, Epiphany arrived at a point when I had relatively recently moved into a new home. The tradition of blessing the space, felt particularly pertinent in a particular way. A gesture of dedicating the space I was going to make my own, to being a space in which I, and others might feel blessed and beloved of God. 

This year the context is a little bit different. I have been here for a year, have made this space feel like a home and already made many happy memories with many different people. For myself, and I hope for others, it has already been a place of blessing. There was, this time a looking back in thanksgiving as well as looking ahead in hope. And there was a heartfelt prayer that this space might continue to be a blessing for myself and for all who cross its threshold. 

There are all sorts of versions of the prayers and blessings that can be used but the common thread which runs through many of them is about Christ being present in the offering of welcome and hospitality. The blessing is not of the bricks and mortar as such, but of the spaces within. The spaces where encounter is possible, where memories are made, where safety is found, where refreshment is offered, where tears and laughter are accepted, where love is shared. 

I feel incredibly privileged to have a safe and comfortable home where I am very happy. I feel that comes with a level of responsibility to make good use of it. Rededicating it, as the new year begins, to being a place of refuge and welcome, of peace and of joy, for myself and for others, feels like no bad thing. 

Submission, but not submissive

This week, for the fourth Sunday of Advent, the lectionary invites us to read the story of the annunciation. Last time it came around, three years ago, I wrote a reflection. I still stand by what I wrote then, and this is, in some ways, the continuation of it.  Like all the texts we read this time of year, this is a deeply familiar one and there is probably nothing to say that has not already been said (which doesn't going to mean I'm not going to add a fair few words of my own to the conversation.)

The annunciation scene opens with the angel greeting Mary, “highly-favoured one”. I know I am not saying anything new, but I think it bears repeating that this greeting, the acknowledgment of Mary as highly-favoured, comes first. God’s blessing already exists. It is not earned. It is not consequent on her choices or actions or response. I do not believe that it would be withdrawn if Mary had said no.

And I believe this to be true for our own lives too. Whatever we are called to, and I am in no way detracting from the reality of that call, the nature of being beloved of God, of being “highly favoured” precedes and is not dependent on anything we might do in response.

And I do absolutely believe that this, the annunciation story is the story of a response, a choice: to accept or to decline the invitation, the challenge, the promise. Perhaps the God who exists out of time did already know that Mary would acquiesce, perhaps. But I don’t think that means Mary wasn’t free to make her own choice. This act of incarnation relies on Mary’s cooperation. She chose to say yes. She could have said no.

The church often focuses on the many ways in which humanity “needs” God, but perhaps speaks less about the possibility that God needs us too. But for me, the story of the annunciation, is the story of God needing, or choosing to need, humanity. The outworking of the incarnation, of God becoming present in the world in this way, is only possible with human agreement. Perhaps that too remains true today: that God can only be made incarnate in the world, again and again with the cooperation of humanity. I wonder if we shy away from this idea because deep down, however challenging we find it to get our heads round the idea of an almighty God, the idea a vulnerable one, reliant on our fragile humanity is something we struggle to get our heads round even more. And perhaps we shy away from it because deep down we are not really sure if we want to accept the responsibility that comes with it.

The other thing that I wanted to reflect on, which is perhaps in some ways related, is the image we have of Mary in this scene. I think, generally, we have a picture of a very submissive Mary, head meekly bowed as she accepts the angel’s instruction. A quick google image search would certainly suggest that’s how it has mostly been portrayed down through the ages. It is there in the lyrics of the angel Gabriel carol “Gentle Mary meekly bowed her head”, but it is not there in the biblical text.

Despite their shared root, I think there is quite a difference between submission, and being submissive. And I think that in Mary’s submission to the will of God, there is nothing that implies she is, or becomes, submissive.

I like to think instead of Mary looking straight at the angel with fire in her eyes as she accepts this mission. There aren't many artistic interpretations which show this, and I don't have the talent to draw or paint the picture in my head... but I’m not sure I believe Mary looked down at her toes. I don’t believe this was a whispered, “ok, I will,” I believe it was a much more feisty, “ok bring it on!” 

Mary doesn’t have a major starring role in the gospels, but she does have a speaking part, and she does have a voice. If we listen to that biblical voice of Mary, I think we find it is quite different to the one that has been culturally created ever since. I suspect we would do well to scrape away the layers of medieval paint and Victorian values, and to rediscover this Mary who submits but whose voice is never submissive. The Mary who dares to question God’s messenger, and who at times challenges and even defies God. The Mary who actively chooses to play her part in the incarnation story, and who does so willingly but not naively.

I wonder if we are called to this kind of submission too: a submission that is chosen, that is a shared responsibility with God and which we are allowed to approach with our heads held high. I wonder how such an invitation feels?

The gift of the ordinary

At the church I currently attend, last Sunday (actually, now, the one before because I hadn't got round to finishing this, but my point still stands) was announced as "the fourth Sunday before Advent" in the lectionary, following on from the "twenty-something after Trinity". This way of naming Sundays isn't new to me, but I was remined of it, and aside from being in denial about how quickly Christmas is approaching, I baulk at it.

I want ordinary time back, please. 

I know there are other denominations where ordinary time still exists, and others still where it never has. I also know that even in my church it is only the nomenclature which has changed, this is, really still ordinary time, still liturgically green. 

But names matter. And I believe we need the ordinary. 

Don't get me wrong, I think we need special and unique and extraordinary too. I am very much in favour of marking special occasions, of finding ways to celebrate and ways to acknowledge suffering. But not all the time. I think we should also be prepared to embrace and enjoy the ordinary. I don't think we have to pretend everything has to be anything other than, well, just, ordinary.

If we didn't know it already, surely 2020 taught us that we actually do want and need the ordinary; the dull, humdrum reality of the familiarity and normality of every day life. 

The various versions of a gratitude diary I have kept periodically have always been about reminding me to focus my gratitude and joy not on the big things, but in those little every day moments. They haven't been about trying to find or create something special to happen each day, but rather about seeking out or just recognising the positives in my everyday normality. Some days they are harder to find than others, I know, but every day holds things within it that are beautiful and precious. Ordinary things, in ordinary times are also a gift. 

In terms of the church embracing ordinary time, though, for me, it goes deeper than that too. 

I think there is great value in the church calendar witnessing to and celebrating the importance of the ordinary. For me the great beauty of the incarnation story is that it is a story of God's presence within the ordinary. That it makes real a God that is found in the every day: in human relationships and human realities, in shared meals and shared stories.

I believe in a God who is present in the ordinary. Of course God is present in the big newsworthy events too, in the high points and the low points of our individual and collective human existence. But God is also present in our every day and I fear that in squeezing out ordinary time we risk squeezing out the reminders that this too, maybe even this above all is where God belongs, where God is incarnate, where God is with us. 

And that, (though I doubt the writers of the lectionary are listening) is why I want ordinary time back, please. 

The Labourers in the Vineyard

Ahead of our bible discussion yesterday, I had been reflecting on this Sunday's gospel reading, Matthew 20, verses 1 - 16. Like most parables it is a rich text open to various different interpretations and inviting us to reflect on various different themes. It can be explored through the theological lens of how it reflects the kingdom of God and what the generosity of God looks like and how we respond to it. It can be seen as a socio-economic commentary: on the ownership of land and wealth, on exploitative employment practices, on what privilege looks like and how we respond to it. 

But the main thrust of my thoughts this week has related to neither of these things. As well as the reflections themselves it was a reminder of how much our current reality and experiences effect how we read biblical (and probably other) texts and how they speak to us. If this text had come up in the lectionary a few months ago, my thinking would undoubtedly have gone in an entirely different direction. 

Imaginative contemplation is the act of putting oneself into a biblical story and allowing the text, and God, to speak. Like many texts, how we read this one, and what God might seem to be saying to us through it, very much depends on where we place ourselves in the story: and where we place ourselves (or perhaps even find ourselves) in the story very often relates to where we find ourselves in life at the point where we read it.

In the text, there are labourers who work the full day in the field, and others who join them at intervals, including the latest comers who are employed for just the final hour of the day. At the end of the day's work, they all receive the same pay: the standard daily wage. We hear how those who have worked the full day, despite having agreed to work for that wage, grumble expecting more, because the latecomers have received the same; but we do not hear how the latecomers, those who worked only a little, felt about and responded to receiving a full day's wages. 

Leaving aside the economic issues and arguments (I'm sure on another week I could use this same story to write about the value of a universal basic income or the iniquity of zero hours contracts...)

This is the part which has been playing on my mind this week ... How do we deal with reward or credit or praise which feels unearned, undeserved? It was something I was already wrestling with before this text came up in the lectionary, but this seemed to potentially be a frame for exploring it (although the text offers us no answers, except perhaps an acknowledgement of this reality). 

I know myself to be immensely privileged in all sorts of ways, much of it entirely unearned. I am aware I live an extremely comfortable life and most of what I offer to and share with others comes from a place of excess and requires very little sacrifice.  

All of my work, and many of my friendships are among those who have far, far less than me. 

And yet I have been welcomed into people's homes with incredible generosity, where hospitality and good food are offered without counting the cost by people who have to watch their budgets much more closely than I do. I have received gifts which, however small, I know have come from a place of genuine sacrifice. A couple of weeks ago one of the mums in the hotel came over and gave me a small bottle of juice. I could have bought something similar without a second thought. For her, it probably cost more than 10% of her weekly income but she wanted me to have it. I have an ever growing collection of pictures and notes from small children created and offered with deep affection. 

This is not just about those tangible things though.

All too often I find myself in situations where I feel like there is very little I can do to help, very little difference I can make. I find myself saying I'm sorry, no I can't far more often that I would like.  I watch people struggling and suffering and feel powerless to make any meaningful change to their realities. With the continual deterioration of the way in which people arriving in our country are treated, the ever-increasing cruelty and hostility they face and the detrimental effects it has on the people I try to stand alongside, this is more and more my reality. 

And yet overwhelmingly what I receive in return is praise and gratitude. Praise and gratitude which often feels spectacularly undeserved.

Specific situations sometimes shine a spotlight on a more global truth. Recently, I have had quite a lot of interaction with a family who are in an incredibly difficult situation. I have been able to do very little to help. I feel I have failed them in almost every way. I have not been able to give them even a tiny part of what they need. The times I have tried to make even a small difference feel like they have mostly been met by the brick walls of uncaring systems. At times, I confess, I have even ignored their calls because I can't face saying again I'm sorry, no progress, no news, nothing I can do. 

And yet every message I receive, every conversation I have with them is laced with their gratitude for my help.  

The powerlessness to make things better is, at times, very hard. The undeserved appreciation doesn't make it any easier.

There may be times and situations where I can identify with the grumbling servants who have worked all day and aren't impressed by the late comers receiving equal reward. I understand the importance of affirmation, of feeling appreciated for what we do. To feel like our efforts have gone unrecognised and unrewarded is not easy or comfortable. But right now, I find myself very much identifying with those who possibly feel they have received more than they deserve for the little they have done. That is not always easy or comfortable either.

Re-prioritising prayer

For nine years, during my time at Carrs Lane and slightly beyond it, I was committed to a routine of public prayer; in person and later online. In fact, for much longer, because our time in the Philippines was certainly rhythmed around prayer, and to a lesser extent there was a culture of daily reflection time at Corrymeela. Further back, in the privacy of our own home, we had also tried to instil such a rhythm to shape our days. 

And every day, I showed up. Of course there were interruptions and odd occasions where I couldn't but generally, day after day, I showed up. I put myself intentionally in that space. I paused to be still. 

And I knew, as I have written about here more than once, it mattered. 

With varying degrees of success, I found a rhythm that worked towards the end of last year, but thus far in 2023, it is something I have failed to really re-establish. And while I couldn't pinpoint, on any given day, exactly how; over time, I think I am feeling the effects. I think it is a factor in feeling more drawn into and dragged down by the enormity of the world's problems. I think it is a factor in finding it harder to let go of the things I cannot do and in getting the right balance of those I can.  

And so I am reminding myself that waking up to prayer is infinitely better than waking up to a rather depressing twitter feed and an email inbox I never feel fully on top of! The importance of good company and of laughter I wrote about in my previous post are parts of the solution. This is the other bit.

Some people will have made Lenten commitments which are now drawing to an end. I didn't this year, but I am making an Easter one. I am away for the next week, walking Pilgrim Cross, which will be a valuable breathing space, and on my return I am reprioritising prayer. Not at the expense of anything else, quite the contrary. I believe it will help me reprioritise everything else as well. I believe it will help me be the best possible version of the person I am trying to be. 

Salt and Light, Earth and World

Despite being only a short text, Matthew 5: 13 - 16 gives us two powerful images. Hot on the heels of the beatitudes, it continues to explore the types of people Jesus’ followers are expected to be. I say expected to be, but one thing I noticed when reflecting on the text is that, at least in English, the conjugation that is attached to both these images of salt and light is “you are” … not you will be, or you should be, or you must be, or try to be... I wonder if that is significant?

I know the key part of these images is probably salt and light … but the next thing I found myself wondering about was earth and world: you are the salt of the earth, and the light of the world. I have checked, and they are different words in Greek too. Earth and world are not exactly synonyms, although in some contexts they work as such: they have overlapping but different meanings and I wonder whether it is significant that both are used here. To my mind, earth carries more of a sense of physical substance, the very stuff of the planet, whereas world has to do perhaps more with the people. My little bit of research bears out that this reflects the different meanings in Greek too. Earth is used to translate γῆς “ges”, derived from the world for soil and by extension the substance of the globe; world translates κόσμου “kosmou” which comes from a base word meaning “orderly arrangement" but by extension is used to refer to the moral order of the world.

For me, even though it is perhaps not the part of this text we usually focus on, I think it probably matters. I guess perhaps it struck me because I have been thinking quite a bit about what incarnation really means. It reaffirms the centrality of incarnation. We are called to a faith that is present in and of the earth and the world: our faith is to be something physical and embodied not just of the spiritual or moral realm.

The two images of salt and light also mirror this. Salt is very much a product of the physical world: a concrete noun as I would teach children in primary school: something that can be touched, held, felt. Light, meanwhile is ephemeral: something we can see and experience but can’t grasp hold of, something that literally slips through our fingers. What does to mean that our faith is made up of both of these aspects? Is it important?

There is one more thing I want to say about this pair of images. I think our, or at least my, first response to them is to think of the immediately positive associations with both salt and light: adding flavour, making visible colour and beauty… and I am certainly not questioning the validity of these aspects of what these images represent.

But they are both images that have a potentially more uncomfortable side too. Salt, rubbed in to wounds, as it would have been at the time, would be excruciatingly painful: which is not to deny it’s valid antiseptic properties … although I’m glad we have found better solutions! The use of bright or continuous light is a recognised form of torture but even without going to those extremes, we probably all have the experience of emerging into very bright light after being in darkness, which leaves us blinking and shielding our eyes.

I am convinced that being salt and light means adding colour and flavour and life and joy to those around us; but I am also convinced when there are times when being salt and light does not mean shying away from the discomfort they may bring.

I wonder how easy is it to simultaneously do and be both?

(https://faithjustice.org.uk/bible)

Finding church again

My faith is very important to me but church ... I often struggle with church.

When I first moved out from Carrs Lane, I continued to exist on the edges of it for a while before leaving completely; and actually, since long before that, running Sunday school gave me an excellent excuse to rarely have to sit through a Sunday service.

And then I walked away, and had a bit of a gap where I didn't go to church at all. But this blogpost isn't going to be about all the things I find difficult about the institutional church, of which there are many. 

Rather it is to reflect on the fact that, in some indefinable way, I missed it ... and not just for want of having something to moan about ... because frankly politics provides plenty of material for that!

There is a church a few doors away from where I live now. It is ever so slightly further than I had to travel from the flat to the church room, and I can't quite justify going in my slippers, at least not at this time of year, but I could probably roll out of bed fifteen minutes before the service starts and still make it on time.

I think partly, as I am aware I am intending to live here for the foreseeable future, I want in some way to connect to, belong in this local community and church may be one way of doing that. I think also, for all the failings of the church, I do, it turns out, sort of want to be part of a faith community.

And so, after moving in, I went along. My intention was to slip in quietly at the back, get a feel for whether it was somewhere I might want to attend, wander away again if it wasn't, perhaps try somewhere else. I took the total attendance that morning to 8. I was never going to be anonymous or unnoticed.  

In many ways it is, as you would perhaps expect or hope for a congregation that size, very informal. The chairs are in a semi-circle around the altar, I have heard the person leading ask who wants to do a reading just before the service starts, and even ask what hymn we should sing next part way through. Some of the reflections or sermons have felt very conversational in style. And yet in the midst of that informality, there is also a sense of reverence and prayerfulness which feels fitting.   

There is value in going somewhere new. It has made me think about the fact that I have definitely spent time in churches where that balance has felt the opposite (and to me at least wrong) way round: a lot of formality of styles or structures, but somehow without managing to create an atmosphere of prayerful reverence. 

I am not particularly musical: my vague attempts at learning an instrument as a child were never very successful and although I did sing in a church choir when I was younger, I'm under no illusions that they weren't exactly picky; and I know that my leading of the singing assemblies and school choir at one of the schools I taught at was far more to do with being able to command a hall full of kids with energy and enthusiasm than to do with musical ability! Lack of talent not withstanding, I do really enjoy singing with other people. Church is one of the few places, at least in my experience, where that is a thing and although I hadn't really realised I'd missed it, I was glad to be back sharing in that experience. 

The church is a joint URC / Anglican one, but the liturgy I have experienced there so far has been predominantly Anglican. It is a long time since I have regularly attended an Anglican church (and aside from my general issues with church I have plenty of specific complaints about the Church of England!) and yet I think I may have to admit to something reassuring and warm in the familiarity of words, prayers and responses which, many years later, still roll off my tongue. Perhaps, for all my recognition of the richness of the different churches which have fed me and expanded my understanding and experience of my faith over the years, I am more deeply rooted in a tradition than I care to admit.

With a congregation of about a dozen, max, there is certainly nowhere to hide, but as far as I can tell, no-one is trying to. I was greeted by a slightly shocked (but not unfriendly) sounding "you came back!" when I appeared the second time. I have been only a handful of times. There may be people I haven't met yet, but I think I have had at least a brief conversation with all those I have. Most of them know my name, I know many of theirs. I suspect most of them have known each other for years but they have drawn me into conversations and made me feel welcomed and included.

All in all, it feels like it might just suit me.

It is early days. I'm sure before long I will find plenty of things which irritate me. But for now, I am glad to be back.

Don't be scared of me

This weekend was #pray24brum, Birmingham's celebration of the week of prayer for Christian Unity, with the theme "Do Good, Seek Justice." 

At the prayer breakfast that began the second day I was one of several people asked to speak for one minute, reflecting on the theme, about my vision for the city / country / world in 2023. 

I didn't write a script, so I don't have a record of exactly what I said, and it probably wasn't entirely coherent anyway; but this is the recent encounter I reflected on and the dream it inspired ...

A couple of weeks ago I was leaving and locking up at the end of a Stories group session in the city centre. It was early evening but, being December, pitch dark. I happened to glance across at a guy who was sat on the steps nearby. As I looked across he said "don't worry, you don't need to be scared of me"

As it happens, having spent many years living in the city centre, encountering all kinds of people, I wasn't in fact, scared. I didn't glance across in fear. But I was struck by how he felt he had to engage with me. That his assumption was that my assumption would be that he was someone to be nervous of.  

It saddened me that he probably lives much of his life assuming other people are afraid or suspicious of him. And it saddened me even more that he is probably right. That many of those who glance in his direction, and let's face it, many of those exiting our church buildings, would indeed be afraid.

As a positive aside, the fact that he opened a conversation, (which I confess, I probably wouldn't have done), meant we had a brief chat that would probably otherwise not have happened, I learned a little about his life, and I now know how much he likes chocolate milk.

So back to that dream or vision of justice for the coming year ...

There's a quote that says "justice is what love looks like in public". So that implies that seeking justice is about seeking to love.

Very often, I think the opposite of love is not hatred, but fear. The bible reminds us constantly to "not be afraid". If it is there so frequently, I don't think that's because it is something easy or automatic; on the contrary, I think it is because to not be afraid is a radical act which requires choice and commitment. 

But I also think if it is there so frequently it is something that we are called to. If we are to love, if we are to seek justice then we must find ways to be less afraid. Less afraid of each other, less afraid of the world. And we must find ways to communicate that lack of fear, so that those we encounter don't assume we are afraid of them and then maybe in turn may be a little less afraid of us, too. 

So my dream, my vision, my prayer for each of us and all of us: as individuals, as communities, as a world is that we step out with a little less fear of each other and allow that to inspire the ways we live together. Love and justice will follow where our fearlessness leads.

Christmas Poem 2022

Generally, I love Christmas carols and am prepared to park my reservations about the frankly dubious theology in many of them, and sing along with more enthusiasm than talents which is, I understand, exactly how they are meant to be sung.

That doesn’t mean I am averse to picking apart the dodgy theology in between times though!

I have long taken issue with Away in a Manger: a carol doubtless loved and loathed in roughly equal measure depending on whether your general experience of children’s nativity plays gives you a warm fuzzy feeling or makes you cringe.

My own particular issue with it relates specifically to verse two, line two: “but little Lord Jesus no crying he makes”

I witnessed two babies being born this year; one cried at birth, the other didn’t. In the early days, that second baby's survival hung in the balance and he spent a number of weeks in neonatal intensive care. Thankfully he is now a healthy, happy baby … and he cries. While I am prepared to acknowledge the possibility, given the difficult circumstances of his birth, that Jesus was indeed a very poorly baby, I somehow don’t think that’s the point the carol writer was trying to make.

Aside from the very unhelpful implication that babies crying is somehow bad or sinful as opposed to just normal, healthy behaviour; my major issue with this line is it seems to want to mark Jesus out as different from expected human behaviour. Even here, in the season where we celebrate the incarnation, the docetic heresy, the one which denies the humanity of Jesus, rears its head.

I think, though it would of course be explicitly denied, in many subtle ways this ‘heresy’ is still very much present in much of our Christian thinking. While it is the idea that Jesus is “fully God” that perhaps most challenges the rational thinking parts of our brain, I wonder whether in many ways it is the idea that Jesus is “fully human” that we actually find more inherently challenging: if we mark Jesus out from babyhood as different and special, it gives us the excuse we need to shy away from his instruction to “go and do likewise”.

***

Small children played a significant part in my Christmas celebrations this year: and it was wonderful! There was lots of noise and mess and laughter. Perhaps inevitably, there was a little bit of crying at times too. It was all part of being fully human in the world.

***

All of which is a somewhat probably unnecessarily lengthy introduction to this year’s just-in-time Christmas poem:

***

The child cries

Because the child is human

And the child is hungry and wants to be fed

He cries to be nourished for the journey ahead

For the wine, and the fish and the broken bread

And the stars still look down

The child cries

Because the child is human

And the world is a confusing and scary place

He cries to seek the safety of a familiar face

From the depths of darkness, for the promise of grace

And the stars still look down

The child cries

Because the child is human

And the child wants to be noticed, and wants to be known

He cries to belong, to be wanted, to not be alone

For welcome to be offered, for love to be shown

And the stars still look down

And the child cries

Because the child is human

And the child is God.

Merry Christmas!

And the Word was God

This week, it was my turn to lead our bible reflection. We usually reflect on the following Sunday's gospel, but, it being Christmas, I probably had a choice of readings, and it may seem strange that I opted for the prologue of John: but I love this reading. 

I love it for its mystery and complexity. I also love it because, as a lover of language and someone passionate about words, God being identified as the word deeply appeals to me. It is a text so rich and deep and complex that of course we cannot unpack it fully in a short space of time so I am just going to focus on that single word, the word.

The original Greek word in the text is logos, and I have commonly heard it said that “the word” is an over simplified translation of a word that holds much deeper meanings within it. In some ways, I would take issue with that, because I think “word” also holds complexities within it: but the point that a word from one language cannot be adequately translated into another still stands.

I remember when I first read this text in French where logos is commonly translated as “le verbe”: a small change that instantly implies something slightly different, something more active. Hearing that made me reflect on my understanding of the text. I think it would be fascinating to know how other languages translate it, and to think about how each translation might shape how we hear this reading.

The word that is God also cannot be adequately translated into our language or culture: our understanding of God is, I would argue, all the richer when we understand that all the words we use can only ever be an approximation: at its best, describing God as the word could perhaps help remind us of this: In the beginning was the untranslatable word.

Logos could, I am told also be translated as “meaning”: and again, if we put this in place in the text I think it adds another layer to how we hear and understand this text: If each Christmas we heard the familiar words: “In the beginning there was meaning” and “the meaning was made flesh”, or “the meaning was made tangible or real” would it change how we understand what John is trying to say?

Apparently the etymology of logos goes back to ‘to pick up, to collect, to gather together’. The gathering of our thoughts of our sense of meaning. Words.

Linguists have long argued about whether language describes reality or whether it creates reality and I suspect while there are probably people on both extremes, consensus is that it does something of both. The words we hear and the language we use shape our understanding of the world around us as well as being the means by which we describe our reality and experiences. There are lots of examples of the ways people speak or the different words they have access to leading to them understanding things differently. There are also plenty of examples of how language is used both unintentionally and deliberately to shape people’s thinking and their action and behaviours.

If God is the word, God is present in how we do both of these things. God as word, God as language helps us to describe and make sense of our experiences and our reality; but God as word, God as language also shapes and co-creates our reality, but perhaps in ways that are subtle and unnoticed, much the way we don’t always notice how the words we use are shaping our sense of our selves and our world.

And then sometimes, we also need to challenge the way words are used: or allow and accept them being challenged by others; and through those challenges to our language, subtle shifts occur in how we understand the world. The same is undoubtedly true of the word that is God: there are times when we also need to challenge, or allow ourselves to be challenged about the way God is used too, and allow our understanding to shift.

So perhaps, just as having access to more words allows us to better describe and make sense of and create our reality; perhaps growing and deepening our connection to God, gives us the same gift.

Do we need God?

This blog post first came about after a conversation (quite some months ago now) with a very good friend for whom I have a huge amount of respect. 

She does good things in the world. She cares about humanity. She does not have a faith.

I am not entirely sure how we got on to the topic of religion but somewhere in the mix was what I took to be a very genuine question, which went something along the lines of "what is the point of religion and do we really need God?" It is not the first time I have faced such a question: from someone else or at times even from myself. 

I had no immediately coherent answer to offer. And not only because it was late in the evening and I was tired.

She is just as capable as me of doing good in the world. According to my theology, her chances of finding herself in heaven (if it exists) are just as high as mine. I am not somehow her superior ... there is nothing about me that is better than her because I have a faith and she doesn't. I have friends of many faiths and of none who have just as much to offer to the world as I do. 

And to be honest I can find much to criticise about the role of religion in our lives, communities, world. Over the years I have cried many tears over the church and its (as I perceive them) failings.   

And yet it is no secret that my faith remains important to me. I wanted to be able to try and explain why. 

I guess I started writing this as my attempt to do so: to myself, to her, and to the world. Many weeks later, more recent conversations with another friend prompted me to try and draw my scattered thoughts together. I have struggled to do so, because the mystery I call God defies explanation and eludes description in mere words, but this is my best attempt.

It comes with multiple disclaimers. My faith and my theology have changed significantly over time so if this stands as a (slightly blurry) reflection of where I am right now; it may not sum up where I was yesterday, nor where I will be tomorrow. Nor does it reflect a set of beliefs of anyone else or any institution: my faith has been shaped by my experiences of several Christian denominations but has also been worked out through reflection, conversation and encounter so doesn't sit easily in any of the pre-designed boxes different churches present to us and I like to hope that I would be seen as mildly heretical by at least most models of church. And just in case anyone is in any doubt, my explanation or defence of my own faith does not hold within it any criticism of anyone else's journey along this very winding road we call life. 

*     *     *

Undoubtedly, part of my reason for being an adult with Christian faith is that it was the faith I was introduced to as a child. I have no recollection of a time before church was part of my life. I do, though, have fairly clear recollections of the first times church was an active choice. 

At some point as a (probably slightly precocious) primary school child, I decided I would rather go to church than to Sunday school: I have no idea, now, what drew me to sit through the probably fairly dull church services instead of doing colouring in ... these days, I much prefer Sunday School! More significantly, when I was in my early teens, my parents stopped going to church. It was no longer something we were expected to do as part of our weekly routine as a family. If I wanted to be part of this thing, it became my own responsibility. I sometimes joke that going to church was my teenage rebellion. As my faith has developed and I have understood more about who I believe Jesus to be, I have realised maybe it wasn't as much of a joke as I thought.

My faith today is unrecognisable from the nascent faith I had then: my journey has taken me far from what I would probably describe as "dull, bog-standard Anglicanism" and the church which was such a haven for my fourteen-year-old-self would undoubtedly now be a place which I would find intensely frustrating ...  but the essence of perhaps the most significant aspect of why my faith still matters does seemingly date to those days, though I certainly wouldn't have articulated it thus at the time. 

I was an unhappy teenager. At home, though I never questioned the love of my family, I carried a deep resentment about being moved away from a place where I had convinced myself I'd have been happier; and school was a fairly miserable experience where I was torn between the desperate desire to fit in and the desperate desire to be true to the person I was who didn't. And then there were hormones and the general unease that probably afflicts all teenagers as they grow out of being children long before they grow into being adults.

Church gave me the incredibly precious gift of being a place where I didn't have to "fit in" in order to belong and a place where somewhere deep within I felt like I had inherent value, just as I was. I associated church, and therefore God, as a place of safety and acceptance. I have changed a lot since those days, as has my faith, but I still deeply believe that, at its best, an experience of God is an experience of learning that you can belong and have value and be loved, just the way you are.

*     *     *

The world can be a very dark place. Throughout history, and in the world we now inhabit, we can scarcely fail to notice the destructive capacity of humanity: the myriad ways in which people can commit acts of utter evil against each other, and even against ourselves. All too often there can seem to be so much to make us angry and so little in the world that inspires hope.

We have put our planet on a collision course for climate catastrophe. Dictatorial regimes and human rights abuses abound. Conflicts are proliferating. Far-right ideologies are increasingly unchecked and accepted in the mainstream. The rich and powerful continue their love affair with an economic system which thrives on an ever widening divide between the haves and have nots.

Many of the core messages which surround us, both the explicit and the implied are ones which want us to believe that the only thing that matters is looking out for ourselves and our own interests, or, potentially, by extension, those perceived as belonging to our group or sharing our identity. They are messages which tell us the pursuit of material wealth is the route to happiness, that we will find our worth in what we possess. They are messages which tell us the weakest and most vulnerable are at best, not our problem or responsibility, and at worst to be cast as scapegoats, blamed for a variety of social ills and subjected to further suffering. They are messages seeking to divide, telling us to fear or to hate those who are in any way different to ourselves.

Social pressure of this sort is insidious and, whatever we tell ourselves, nigh on impossible to entirely resist. We are products of the societies that form us. 

I do not want to believe this is all there is to the world. And for me it is God and the message of the gospels that allows me to hope in an alternative. I fear that without that sense of the divine, that sense of something beyond ourselves, I might just lose hope.

Faith is what gives me the strength to, however imperfectly, stand up as best I can to the rhetoric the world wants us to believe and to try to stand for something different. 

Faith is what makes me trust that, even when it doesn't feel like it, "the arc of the universe bends towards justice" (MLK)

Faith is what constantly reminds me that no human has any less worth or value than any other, that reminds me to stretch out a hand in warmth and welcome to the "other", because they are, as I am, loved and worthy of love. 

Faith is that which which ensures and assures me that good is possible. 

*     *     *

For many years my life has involved a routine of prayer and specifically, times of silence integrated into my day. I struggle to articulate how or why but I remain completely convinced my life would look different without it. It is my space to be reminded, or to remind myself of the possibility of joy, hope, goodness and unconditional love even when they seem so far from the reality every time we switch on the news. I believe those reminders come from somewhere beyond myself.

The essence of my faith remains that God is and only can be love and nothing we do, nothing we are can exclude us from that unconditional love. The essence of my faith remains that, created in the image of God, we are called into the experience of love and called to offer it onwards and outwards to others. The essence of my faith is that we exist to love and to be loved. 

Others perhaps have a different explanation, but for me, my way of making sense of the world and holding on to the possibility of hope, is the existence of a mystery I choose to call God; a God who is and only can be love, a God who ensures there is always a force for good in the world, a God who flares or who flickers in the darkest of places. A God from whom I acknowledge religions, as much as the wider world, have ofttimes turned away. 

I don't think having a faith in God has made my life any easier: nor should it: there is plenty of challenge inherent in the gospels. But I think it has been one of the ways in which I have discovered a deep joy that exists despite, beyond and in the midst of the world with all its broken beauty. 

So back to those conversations with friends that inspired me to write this ... 

Does she need God? Does he? I don't know and it is not for me to say. 

But do I need God? ... Yes, I think I do.