The good shepherd

Sharing another of my "Tuesday evening reflections" in case it's of interest to anyone:

Today we reflect on John chapter 10 verses 11 to 18, the passage in which Jesus states, “I am the good shepherd”

The images which instantly spring to mind when I hear this statement are of fluffy cotton wool sheep, of idyllic pastoral images with gambolling lambs, of a nineteen seventies Jesus beatifically smiling with sheep at his feet and a lamb around his neck or tucked under one arm. A quick google search of the words good shepherd suggests I am not alone in this!

But rereading the text, these images are pretty distant from the more extended image Jesus describes here. When Jesus describes himself as the good shepherd, it is an altogether more violent and dangerous image. What makes Jesus the good shepherd is not happy days on the hillside in the sunshine: it is his response to threat and danger, to the vicious attack of wild animals. It is an image of self-sacrificial love to the point of death for those weaker, more vulnerable than oneself.

None of the images on the google search show a Jesus mauled to death by wolves. I’m probably quite grateful really. I suspect it would not be a pretty sight. Not dissimilar, in fact, to a scourged and crucified Jesus, another image we often choose to sanitise.

At the time, undoubtedly, Jesus hearers would have instantly understood the shepherding imagery, the wildness and the danger of it, the standing in the face of threat nature of it. But perhaps my own images, informed by children’s farmyard storybooks and stained glass windows is just too far away for it to easily transfer.

Perhaps here and now, I need something different to make sense of what Jesus is trying to say.

I know there is value in repeating the age-old words, but I wonder if there is also a value in seeking out other, fresher, more relevant images to our time and culture. That is after all, often, what Jesus was trying to do with the images he chose so I’m going to assume this particular rewriting isn’t heretical.

So, for what it is worth, I’m going to share the image which came to mind when I started really reflecting on this text: that of the Syrian White Helmets.

In one of the most dangerous places on earth these are they who chose to stay: to stay not in order to fight, but in order to save lives. To stay and not take sides. To stay and dig kids out of the rubble. To stay and patch up the wounds. To stay and rebuild that which others are constantly seeking to destroy.

And yes, in many cases, they have lain down their lives for others. 252 (and counting) have died on duty… many in so-called double-tap airstrikes where warplanes return to the site of an earlier bombing to deliberately target recue workers.

But they have also saved thousands of lives.

Their motto “to save a life is to save all of humanity” carries echoes of another Jesus and sheep story, that of the lost sheep.

Maybe today a middle-eastern Jesus would say not that “I am the good shepherd” but something more like …

“I am among the white helmets, I lay down my life for the children who did not choose to live in a warzone. When they see the warplanes coming, those in the pay of various forces, abandon place and people; turning their eyes away for they have grown bored of this never-ending conflict. Then those from all sides attack the cities, killing and maiming; and scattering the people, where fleeing from danger, they find they are unwelcome where they wash ashore. The others run away because they are motivated only by money and care nothing for these foreign victims. But I am the good shepherd and I lay down my life among them.”

Perhaps this image helps you too in understanding what Jesus is saying of himself and, by extension, what he is calling us to. Perhaps it doesn’t. Perhaps it sparks the idea of finding other images which also help deepen our understanding of this text and its promise of and call towards radical, self-sacrificing love.

(https://www.whitehelmets.org/en/) 

Happy Birthday Birch!

Looking back over recent posts, one aspect of life I don't think I've even mentioned is my "new" job working a few hours a week for Birch. I say new ... because while I have worked for them since January 2020, the weirdness of the intervening year means it all still feels quite, well, new. 

Birch (which stands for Birmingham Community Hosting) was originally founded to match destitute asylum seekers to empty bedrooms of those in Birmingham who were willing to offer a space and a welcome to someone who would otherwise be on the streets. That is still a core part of the charity's work, but there is also a befriending service for young unaccompanied asylum seekers and a "meet and greet" for newly arrived families housed in temporary initial accommodation which was the part I am employed to support. it is a small, grassroots organisation which grew out of a small number of local people caring enough to want to make a difference. It still has very much that feel, and I am very happy to be a part of it.

This month, Birch is celebrating its tenth birthday, and we were invited to write two or three sentences sharing something of what we value about working for Birch. Turns out (who knew?!) I'm not very good at "two or three sentences" but this is what I wrote and I thought it might be appropriate to share it here too:

I started working for Birch in January 2020 ... I think it is fair to say the first year has not entirely gone as I expected! For the first few weeks I had the privilege of meeting an incredible team of volunteers, many of whom brought their own experience as sanctuary seekers ... and who also brought a huge amount of energy, generosity and above all joy. This wonderful team of people were able to restart the meet and greet for families in initial accommodation which had had to close down some months earlier. Short-lived though it turned out to be, I have snippets of beautiful memories from those few sessions: such as spending most of one session with an initially very shy six-year-old who reappeared the following week with his much older brother who came to ask if we were sure we were only there once a week because it had been such a highlight for him; or the shy young woman who after living in the hotel for several weeks finally dared to venture out of the building for the very first time to come to our session. That was early March.

Despite the fact that everything then got turned on its head, and only now are we able to begin making tentative plans for reopening anything even vaguely similar to what we had before, I have really appreciated being part of the Birch team over the last twelve months: a team who are passionate about the issues faced by asylum seekers and doing what is possible to make them welcome, whatever the circumstances; a team which is open and flexible and responsive to whatever is thrown at it. I am looking forward to what the next year, or ten, might bring! 

Who knows, perhaps later in the summer a birthday party may even be possible! In the meantime, as part of the celebration, we are inviting people to donate "£10 for ten years" to support the (sadly still much needed) work of this tiny charity. No pressure ... but all birthday presents welcome! ... and here's the link, you know, just in case!

to be a (virtual) pilgrim

As some of you will know I have often in recent years spent Holy Week walking to Walsingham with Northern Leg of Student and Pilgrim Cross. 

It is an intense community experience which involves a whole lot of time spent intensely in the close proximity of others, a whole lot of walking across swathes of the country and a whole lot of accepting hospitality from pubs and churches along the way. Nothing about its usual format, really, is compatible with our current reality.

For the second year in a row it was, obviously, impossible for it to go ahead as normal. For the second year in a row, it took place online as a virtual pilgrimage.

Last year, I remember being very unsure how a pilgrimage based primarily around the very physical act of walking on the road, and the very physical building of community would work from behind our individual computer screens, in our own little zoom squares.  

I remember being very pleasantly surprised.

We committed to the pilgrimage and to each other. We spent a quite frankly ridiculous number of hours on zoom. We stayed up late. We chatted about the substantial and the inconsequential, the serious and the very, very silly. We sang and prayed and talked. We created a space which held fears and uncertainties, as well as lots of laughter.

But that was back in the days when lockdown was a very new thing. When we were finding our way. When we had few expectations. When zoom was new to almost everyone and zoom fatigue had yet to be discovered. When I, but I think probably we, were less tired of this whole reality.

For these, and other reasons, this year was always going to be different. I approached it, once again, unsure how it would be.

Both last year, and this, there were things I very much missed which are integral to what this pilgrimage usually is. I missed the all-consuming reality of it. I missed being outdoors all day on the road whatever the weather. I missed the deeply humbling warmth of the welcomes we receive along the way. I missed the physical exhaustion and the accompanying sense of satisfaction. I missed singing together. I missed those little one-to-one conversations which are so much more possible on the road than on zoom. I missed the hugs. 

All this is true. And yet, albeit imperfectly, I still felt held as part of this very precious community, held in a safe space which allows for both laughter and tears. 

I felt at least partly, transported to being in a different "space". I felt it helped set Holy Week apart from the mundane reality of every other week stretching back in time and on into the foreseeable future. I felt connected to a community of friends who really matter to me and felt able to get to know some new people (or those who were previously just remembered names from somebody else's stories). I felt able to share in the stories, and memories, and in-jokes that are part of our oral history and shared identity. I felt connected through the shared creation of and participation in creative prayer and liturgies and the reflections they engendered. I felt valued, supported and cared about, in the conversations, the messages, the small gestures of others. 

I felt, mostly, able to be honest to whom I am.

Thank you. 

Little joys

Back in early February, with Ash Wednesday fast approaching, I decided I was not giving anything up for Lent this year.  Getting through winter, and lockdown, felt quite hard enough already.

However I did want to mark the season in some way, not least because last year's Lent gratitude diary, begun in that pre-pandemic reality that now seems so far distant, and continued through the early months of lockdown, felt like a very positive thing.

So this year, throughout Lent, I have been collecting "little joys" ... recording each day something that has brought me joy. Each day I chose something different, even if certain things brought me joy over and over again. Each day only one and always one ... because highlights can be identified on both the brightest and the dreariest of days.  

The colourful leaf-shaped post-it notes on which I wrote them are now adorning my wall, little reminders to keep seeking out and celebrating that which brings joy!