Cantate Domino!

Next (short) installment from my Taize poetry book:

While melodies sing

Unknown sounds dance

From twisted tongues

As words which mean

So little

Say so much

To our silence

And laughter sings

In souls that dance

To a beat of joy

A harmony of hearts

Finds voice

To the tune

Of shared silence

Together with useless fact of the day: in the Taize songbook (at least this year's addition, I can't vouch for any others) there are four songs, in four different languages, which contain the words "Sing to God" (Cantate Domino, Spiewaj Panu, Cantarei ao Senhor, Singt dem Herrn). And during the time I was there we sang all of them.

A simple place of meeting

After three weeks in my favourite place on earth, we are back in the UK and back on the internet! Those of you who know me well will know I could talk (or write) at length about why I love Taize so much ... but breathe a sigh of relief because I intend to resist the temptation to do so here. Instead, over the next couple of weeks, I am going to post the poems I wrote while we were away which may or may not capture something of what Taize means to me.

This simple place

Of meeting with the other

To find I also meet

The myself I thought I knew

To know who you are

Is to discover who I am

As both offering and open

We meet here

Face to face

Where language sometimes falters

But simple words speak trust

And found in broken English

Is the wholeness of a soul

From which is born

The fragile friendship

Of our shared humanity

And so I leave

This simple place of meeting

The same, but changed

More fully

Me

A Hand of Blessing

You are blessed

In your tears

And heartfelt fears

And in your dreams

Of a better way

Which feed your thirst

For rightful

Peace

The Beatitudes; Matthew 5:1-11

Blessed

You who stands

With open heart

And open hands

Which offer love

And cradle

Life

Blessed in your poverty

In how you live

And all you give

Of what you have

And what you haven’t

Blessed in your gentleness

And in your righteous rage

Which call for justice

Which challenge power

Which speak of

Love

You are blessed

By tiny fingers curled

Tentatively

Seeking certainty

And by calloused palms,

Blemished by life

And cracked by age

Bearing oft-silent wisdom

You are blessed

By the hand of God

Which is felt

In the tender touch

Of human hands

Outstretched

In love

And Blessing

The Next Adventure

This time last year we were about to leave the Philippines. In some ways, the memories are still fresh, in others our last days there already feel a long time ago. Either way, it is once again time to prepare for our next new adventure.

Our immediate next adventure is three weeks in Taize, starting at the end of this week, but the longer term next adventure is also now fast becoming a reality. In August, maybe even the end of July, we will be moving on once more. After all, this was only ever intended to be a temporary stopping place.

After our recent wanderings our next move will keep us much closer to "home" (whatever that is supposed to mean!) as we move in to Carrs Lane Church in the centre of Birmingham.

The congregation have a vision of turning a flat in their church building into a Christian Community which lives and prays together at the heart of the city. Hopefully, we are going to be part of making that vision a reality. It is a vision which encompasses a shared life, daily prayer, hospitality and service to the city. Already doors are opening and ideas flourishing as to how this vision might become a reality and be something we can live.

It is an exciting prospect.

Being in at the very beginning of something new offers huge potential for shaping the future. Opportunities abound for creativity and imagination. Challenges will likely abound too, as we struggle, together with others to shape what we want the community to become. But at this stage, both opportunities and challenges feel like exciting stepping atones on this next part of our journey.

So once again exciting new adventures lie ahead.
Watch this space ...

A FAIRly Good Idea

It is now about three months since we left Corrymeela, and other than going on a couple of protests, it might appear to the casual observer that I haven't been doing very much. And in one sense, maybe you're right.

I acknowledge the luxury of being more or less completely master of my own time for a few months. I acknowledge the privilege of having a supportive family of in-laws who have housed us and put up with us! But I hope at least, I will get to the end of this few months and feel it is a privilege, yes, but one which has  not been wasted. It has been a chance to catch up with friends and family: a few visits and a good number of long overdue emails (requests accepted if you feel you've missed out!) ! It's been a chance to read some very good books.

But the main way in which I hope this time will have been useful, is the work I am currently doing for Fairgrounds, producing some educational resources to help children understand the importance of ethical trade and our global interconnectedness and responsibilities. That all sounds very highbrow: there's also a fair amount of glue and mess involved too so it won't get too heavy!

Some of you will have already heard me mention Fairgrounds, but I don't think I've written about it on here before, so this seemed like a good occasion to do so. Fairgrounds is a social enterprise based in Bradford, West Yorkshire, which imports and sells fair trade products from all over the world, as well as committing to educating young people, about fair trade and making ethical choices.

We have been involved in Fairgrounds for quite a long time now: from its fragile beginnings, through a few ups and downs, and watching it grow from strength to strength. When I say involved in, I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea: I take zero credit for its success which has been down to the hard work and dedication of Nina (with a lot of family and friends around her) but primarily Nina with her determination to turn a vision into a reality.

Now, with a bit of time to spare, I am able to play a very small part in hopefully helping it to continue to grow. I am currently putting together a series of lesson plans, exploring themes of fair trade and recycling by learning about the production of recycled magazine jewellery in Uganda. The scheme will include literacy, geography, art, ICT, even some maths: and hopefully a lot of thoughtful reflection on making a difference.

It is an interesting process: reflecting on how to create resources which invite children to reflect on important issues at an appropriate level, simplifying themes and material while not underestimating their powers of reflection and intuition; designing something which will appeal to teachers among a myriad of pressures on their time; planning in the abstract without a single group of specific children I know well in mind, but knowing that while designed in the abstract, it will be taught in the concrete.

It seems this blog post is one of two things: either I am trying to justify my current existence: well, yes, possibly; or it is a shameless plug for a company I care about: well, yes, probably. Go to the website. Buy some stuff. After all, it is FAIRly good.

And then there was Belfast!

The crowd was smaller than the week before, the journey longer, the sleep deprivation greater and the weather worse, much worse. The atmosphere of fear and "security concerns" meant the ticket-only event kept passers by away and potentially reduced some of the strength of the message.

Nonetheless, I enjoyed Belfast. I enjoyed the warm hospitality of Newtownbreda Presbyterian church who not only provided us somewhere to sleep, but fed us with very welcome bacon sandwiches for breakfast after our night on the ferry. I enjoyed meeting old friends and new ones and lots of good conversation. I enjoyed being interviewed by UTV and radio Hereford and Worcester to explain what I was doing and why. I enjoyed being in Belfast Botanical Gardens in spite of the pouring rain and the fact that I hadn't heard of almost any of the celebrities on stage. I even secretly quite enjoyed being stopped and searched by the police, who seemed to think carrying a banner inviting an end to world hunger meant we might also be carrying an offensive weapon.

I enjoyed, once again, being inspired to continue doing what tiny bit I can to make a difference and use my voice to speak out for what I believe in.

The campaign continues

So far this year, Britain has committed to increasing its aid budget to 0.7% of its GDP, the first of the G8 country's to meet this international target, and on Saturday committed to an extra 375 million of core funding to help eradicate hunger and malnutrition. Tax avoidance and transparency are on the agenda for discussions at the G8. Of course, there is more to be done, and of course the government needs to be held accountable for how its aid is allocated, but there are reasons to celebrate, and to be proud to be British.

Perhaps David Cameron is just a jolly nice chap who cares deeply about the starving of the world. Maybe. Or perhaps the thousands of people in Hyde Park on Saturday; and in Edinburgh 8 years ago; perhaps the thousands of signatures on petitions and postcards sent to MPs; perhaps those little actions when the public say they care; perhaps they really do count for something. Perhaps democracy works, at least a bit.

45 000 people turned up in Hyde Park on Saturday. OK so it wasn't as great as the 225 000 who turned up in Edinburgh when we last hosted the G8, but still quite a sizeable number who gave up a day, who put aside whatever else they were busy with, who travelled long distances, who stood up to be counted, who wanted to be heard.

If 45 000 can make a difference, just imagine what could happen if there had been 450 000, or 4 500 000, or even 45 000 000 people. Let's aim big. There is enough food for everyone. And with everyone, we can make it happen.

The question is how do we call on to the streets not just the 45 thousand, but the 45 million?

Some of those who weren't in Hyde Park genuinely don't care about such issues, others, maybe, (although  I find this relatively hard to believe) just don't know. Convincing them may be a long hard road. But then there is everyone else. All those who are deeply saddened by the idea of children dying of malnutrition, who believe in a more equitable distribution of land and resources, who are angry when multinationals fail to pay their taxes, who want big money to be held accountable for its actions around the world... Who weren't in Hyde Park.

Maybe they had something else on. Maybe they thought it would make no difference. Maybe they'll be in Belfast next week instead. Maybe they thought someone else's voice would be as good as their own. Maybe something else was a higher priority. Maybe I could have done more to persuade others to be there. Maybe.

Maybe many of those who weren't there were busy making a bigger difference somewhere else. I hope so.

And maybe I should concentrate on celebrating the 45 000; maybe I should write about inspiring people like Ernest, who didn't let being in his eighties stop him joining the march from Westminster to Hyde Park; because sure, I know I shouldn't judge, and that really isn't my intention. But I can't help feeling that with the G8 only coming to the UK once every eight years, it's a great opportunity to let our voices be heard. I can't help feeling that we have a huge responsibility to save lives that shouldn't need to be lost. I can't help feeling that if we had been 225 000 again or even more, we might have had a louder voice and made a bigger difference.

We live in a democracy. It may not always feel like it, but we are the most powerful people in this country. We need to think hard about what is really important, and then do something to make sure that our voices are really heard.

That's what Hyde Park was all about. Next stop, Belfast. Let's keep speaking. All of us.

Enough Food for everyone If...

Last time the G8 met in the UK, we had the Make Poverty History campaign.

Poverty was not made history, clearly; but either because I'm naive, or because I'm an optimist, or just maybe because it's true, I can't help feeling it probably did make some kind of difference.

Eight years on, the G8 leaders are back in the UK and charities and campaign groups are once again uniting their voices to make sure big business and the rich are not the only ones who make their voice heard.

The Enough Food for Everyone If ... Campaign is a campaign for both dreamers and realists. It is for the dreamers who dream it is possible to eradicate hunger; and for the realists who know that it is easily within our 21st century means. It is for the dreamers with a vision of equality and global justice, and for the realists who identify the tiny steps which could change millions of lives. There is Enough Food for Everyone.

I probably am a little bit more cynical than I was eight years ago. But I am still going to be there. In two days time I will be in London, in 10 I will be in Belfast. I don't know if it will make any difference at all: but I sure as hell know that staying at home doing nothing won't make a difference. I know that I don't want to let money and mainstream media be the only voices that are heard. I want my voice to be heard too. I want to stand up and be counted. I want to be allowed to say I believe in a different way of doing things. That's why I believe in democracy. That's why I will be in Hyde Park and Belfast's Botanical Gardens.

Today is a good day for me to write about this, because it is the IFast day, and in solidarity with the 1 in 8 of the world's population who don't get enough to eat, I am fasting. And I am hungry. It is a symbolic gesture. I know it is no more than that. Tomorrow, I will not be hungry, and others still will.

The event planned for Saturday in London is just a symbol too, and so is the gathering in Belfast. But to say "just" a symbol, perhaps denies the very real power of symbolism. Symbols are powerful. People have lived and died for them. They find their power in the sharing of their message.

And if no-one knows, then yes, it makes no difference. But I know and you know, and that's already a start.

A taste of art

A fair amount of my creative output this year hasn't lasted as long as most of the paintings I produced last year; with the originals having disappeared into tummies and a selection of photos all that is left to show for the hours and hours which this collection must have taken altogether. That said, this year's art has also generally tasted much better (which, I admit, is an assumption, as I never tried eating any of the paintings!)

I feel like I should be able to make some deep and meaningful point about putting so much time and effort into something so transient and short-lived ... but I can't think of anything, so insert your own philosophical point here.

Anyone for cake?

Happy Pentecost

It has been a while since I posted any artwork on here, so here is my latest offering, in celebration of Pentecost. 

Living in the spaces

A week ago the church celebrated the feast of the Ascension, marking the end of God's presence on earth in human form, and we still have a couple of days to go before celebrating the decent of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost.

I remember reflecting last year on the significance of Holy Saturday: the sombre emptiness between the grieving of Good Friday and the explosion of Easter joy. Once again between Ascension and Pentecost we find ourselves with ten days to commemorate the absence of God; but this time, still within the season of Easter, we find ourselves with that absence juxtaposed against a backdrop of celebration and feasting.

Perhaps it is a time which has a particular resonance for me this year. Our early departure from Corrymeela left us with five months which were supposed to be already accounted for but which, as of mid-March, appeared as a glaring blank in our diaries ... which is before we even began to consider what we're going to do come September. We arrived back in Halesowen with a choice between fearing or embracing the empty unknown.

Empty spaces, white pages, blank canvases, are both daunting and exciting. They are the places which allow the spontaneity of an immediate yes to fill the gaps. They are the places which encourage a patient waiting for a future to unfold. They are the places of anticipation in which hope is possible.

I have never liked the "God of the Gaps" theology of a faith which pops up to supply the answers where human logic fails us; but pausing to reflect on these ten days: a time which is a celebration filled with emptiness and absence, makes me think maybe I can believe in a the God of these gaps. The God who accompanies us as we face our blank canvases: whether we choose to scribble all over them in thick black markers, or gradually fill them up with carefully planned intricate designs. The God who accompanies us too, when the blank canvas remains blank.

It is easy to leap from one major event to the next. Perhaps it is also important to sit with the spaces in between. Maybe the church has recognised in its calendar, that blanks in the diary aren't so bad.

Thatcher's place in heaven

While others condemn her to burn in the fires of hell, I honestly believe Margaret Thatcher is probably in heaven.

Anyone who knows me well, or even a little, has probably guessed that I am not exactly a great advocate of Thatcherite politics so perhaps I need to explain myself.

Like millions of others, I do not like the legacy of self-centred egotism which Thatcher has left our country. Though I am too young to properly remember most of the eighties first-hand, I think her actions on both the national level and on the international stage were harmful and destructive. In many cases, I do not think evil is too strong a word for the views she espoused and the crimes she committed.

But I still believe she is in heaven.

I believe she is in heaven because I believe in a God who is Love and a Heaven which is the place, or state of being, that is fullness of communion with a God who is and only can be love and would not, does not, even by his very essence cannot exclude anyone from that love. I believe she is in heaven because my belief in a God of Love precludes the possibility of believing in eternal damnation.

I believe she is in heaven because it is evil which builds the walls which separate us from one another whilst love extends outstretched arms of inclusive welcome which draws us together. It is evil which turns the key to lock the gates with some kept on the outside. In the all encompassing love of heaven, there is no-one or nothing to shut the gates and turn the key. The gates of heaven are resolutely open to all who would enter.

I believe she is heaven because if she is not, and heaven is merely the exclusive club of those who think and feel as I do; where entry is about striving for personal salvation and individual gain to the detriment of others left to one side along the way then how is it any different from the Thatcherite principles I wish to condemn?

I believe she is in heaven although actually, I can well believe it may be her own personal purgatory of realisation, as she finds herself rejoicing in the socialist, perhaps even communist society of heaven; and recognises the gift of a love which drives out the fear which was the very basis on which she built her life and her political career. But while I can believe it may take some time for her to accept and fully appreciate the joys of a society built on love, justice and compassion; I don't believe that she died to find the gates of eternal paradise locked against her.

I believe she is in heaven; which is not, of course, to say that I am going to suddenly love and accept all that she did and stood for. Because I also believe that whatever may be going on in heaven, wherever that may be; back in our own real world, there is still plenty to be done challenging the insidious integration of Thatcher’s individualistic ideals into the accepted rhetoric of our society.

Perhaps it is time to leave Thatcher to God but to deal with society ourselves.

Walking towards Easter

One positive side effect of our premature departure from Corrymeela was being able to walk Student Cross again during Holy Week. After an emotional couple of weeks saying goodbye to a community of people I love, it turned out to be exactly what I needed, even if waking up to several centimetres of snow on the day you are due to set off on a 120 mile walking pilgrimage is not exactly an auspicious start!

In my search for genuine Christian Community, Northern Leg, although only a brief interlude, expresses much of what I seek. While I am not going to pretend that it would be possible to live year round as we lived last week: that level of sleep deprivation can only be suffered for so long, maybe it is closer to "the real world" than it first appears. In its ability to create an intense community experience and build genuinely close relationships in the space of just one week, Student Cross surely holds lessons for what is required to build community.

Student Cross is Christian to its very core: carrying a life size wooden cross for over a hundred miles could hardly be anything other. The very act of being part of student cross is already a prayer, an act of faith. But because the Christianity is so ingrained in its very being, Northern Leg has no need to pretend to be any more, or any less, than it really is. We are pilgrims throughout the week, in all that we do: we are pilgrims on the road, walking with the cross, and pilgrims in the churches we visit and the prayers we say. But we are no less pilgrims when we are drinking in the pubs in the evening, or singing irreverent songs. The irreverence is deeply ingrained with a faith we are already living.

For a whole week, we walk. We stay up late and sleep on hard church hall floors, and then walk some more. This shared physical challenge and discomfort is an important element of building a community that is mutually interdependent. A community that learns very quickly to care for and support each other. A community that is too tired to hide behind masks and pretend its emotions aren't real, that sees each other in its moments of vulnerability and weakness: and loves each other anyway.

In the space of such time and distance, with nothing to do but walk and talk, we are sometimes silent together, but often speaking together; with conversations which range from serious discussion to ridiculous banter. Both are inevitable. Both are essential. I love the rambling theological discussions, the willingness to share deeply personal stories, the hours spent resolving the ills of the world; but I recognise there is no less value in the ability to laugh at and with each other in between. In order to take ourselves and each other seriously, it is important not to take ourselves too seriously (and that makes sense to me even if it doesn't to anyone else!)

These are among the key elements that I think make for the real Christian Community I am seeking. I found them last week. So thank you, Northern Leg, see you next year!

Moving On

It has been a very emotional couple of weeks. After a lot of soul-searching, prayer, thought and conversation, we made the difficult decision to leave Corrymeela, 5 months earlier than originally planned. I will miss many things and people which we have left behind, but in spite of the many tears I have shed, I feel it is the right decision and a sense of peace pervades my sadness.

We made the decision and announced it to our fellow volunteers almost a fortnight ago, and on Tuesday we left Corrymeela, not knowing if or when we will go back. It was with sadness that we turned to wave our final goodbyes. 

As well as being sad to say goodbye to many special people who I have been used to seeing everyday and now don’t know when I will see again; my great sadness is the disappointment of discovering that something I thought I would be able to deeply believe in, something I felt fitted so closely with my vision of the world; turned out to be a very different place to the one I had imagined. When I look back to the excitement and hope with which I approached this year, full of expectancy that here was place to whose vision I could really sign up; I am deeply sad that it has ended in this way. But reflecting on what Corrymeela is, in my own real experience of it, I also know that, while there have been many great experiences and special moments, it is indeed time to “brush the sand from my sandals” and move on.

And while I am sad because of what I am leaving behind, there is also excitement: the months ahead are filled with possibilities and potential. The search for what I am looking for, whatever that may be, goes on. Maybe I will never find perfection, if I am honest, I doubt I will; but I am not going to give up seeking it, at least not yet.

So I will miss you Coventry and everyone in it: I will miss cups of tea and long conversations; I will miss mad themed parties and walks by the beach with spectacular views; I will miss film nights and art nights and too much to eat; I will miss thoughtful reflection and the cheesiest of jokes; I will Fred the moose and other silly songs; I will miss Thursday night football and Sunday night dancing; I will miss community dinners and breakfast club; I will miss chatting in the kitchen and worship in the Croi; I will miss sharing sadness and joy, excitement and frustration. I will miss you.

On the other hand, while I will miss the everyday encounters, I will not miss your friendship, because I am sure that, even if we don’t see each other for some time, the friendships will last long beyond this departure.

This is the Sea

One of the joys of being here is being surrounded by the spectacular beauty of the coastline and the ever-changing sea. The poem below is inspired by those surroundings, as well as by other aspects of life here, but hopefully it speaks for itself. Meanwhile, although no photo (at least not any taken by me) can do justice to the views here, I thought I'd share some seascapes taken on recent walks around the area.

The whisper of babbling cliff-side streams

Drowned out

By a wall of waves

A voice that roars

With heart-felt fears

And aching agony

As unyielding cliffs

Say no

To changing and moving

And yet

They do

Rocks hard as

Rock

Yet cracked and worn

Imperceptibly

By mere droplets

While the moon pulls

As heart-strings wrench

With memories and pain

And thus

The ebb and flow

Of half-told stories

Whispered

Through reflected prisms of light

And dark

And the backwash draws

With subtle sighs

Its debris

Into the deep

Each stone

Alone

Dragged

And tossed or torn

And drowning

Yet in this monotony

Or multitude

Of grey

A colour also speaks

And from the depths

The restless roll and swell

Of legacies

And unsolved histories

Never still

Or stopped by will

Twisted

By time and tide

To different meanings

And a hundred half-truths

Which are a whole truth

To him or her

Or you

Or me

Seeking

In the crashes of confusion

To be singled out

And heard

Amidst unceasing energy

Of darkening waves

Or on the bright white froth

That flies on wistful gusts

This is the sea

But up above

The trickle of a tiny stream

Still sings

And the heart soars

Shared stories, personal histories

Last Monday most of the volunteers headed off for a trip to Derry / Londonderry. It was my third visit to the city in three weeks, which I also visited with two groups I had recently worked with. The format of each of the three visits was relatively similar, with local people taking us to tour their city and sharing some of their stories of the history of this troubled place.

I do not regret repeating the trip three times. It was probably that repetition which reminded me of Derry's most important lesson: that in Northern Ireland, and maybe everywhere, history is a very personal reality and objective truth doesn't really exist.

Each week our tour guides told the history of a city which still lives in the shadow of key events from its distant and more recent past; most notably the siege of Derry in 1689 and Bloody Sunday in 1972. I appreciated their candour and honesty as each told the history of their home through the prism of their own experience. "The same story" was different each week.

In a city statistically dominated by the Nationalist / Republican / Catholic community it is perhaps unsurprising that all our guides came from that background. Conflict has long emphasised not only the differences between the two communities here, but also the similarities within them in an attempt to simplify the complexities into two seemingly homogeneous groups. The people we met in Derry were a reminder that identity is rarely so simple

Perhaps Northern Ireland's history is less the story of two communities, and more the story of 1.5 million individuals.

What does it mean to welcome?

As someone who likes to travel, who enjoys visiting friends (and sometimes strangers) who relishes new experiences, I have experienced many welcomes. I have been made welcome close to home and far away, I have been made welcome for brief interludes and lengthy stays. I hope I have done my share of making others feel welcome too.

From the personalised welcome sign for each group who walks through the door and the first proffered cup of tea, welcome is something the Corrymeela community holds to be of central importance. It is the justification for much of what we do: words, actions, and ways of being which create a place of welcome.

The gift and decision of welcome is something we talk about freely and easily, but I have been thinking for some time it is also a subject worthy of further reflection because views of what it means to make others welcome definitely vary.

There is an understanding of welcome that resides in invisible service, in the desire for everything to be done before it is asked for and to be so perfect it passes almost unnoticed. The "other" is welcomed as a guest, a recipient of all we have to give, as someone from whom no contribution is required. The welcome is from us to them and all they have to do is receive it and enjoy it, and feel special. The five star hotel thrives on making guests feel like they are more important than, well, almost anyone else, but certainly than those who are "making them welcome."

But there is an alternative model of welcome, that of inviting the other, for however long or short a time they are with you, to be part of your community. Welcome does not have to be a one way process but is the act of creating a shared space, in which the guest is served, certainly, but also invited to share in service; where everyone is considered to have something to give as well as something to receive. Apparently the first guests at Corrymeela were greeted with the news that they would need to make their beds, and when they looked around for sheets and blankets were pointed in the direction of wood and nails. While acknowledging the possibility that time and nostalgia may have somewhat exaggerated the facts, I like the sentiment. A welcome that creates a sense of equality can inspire taking ownership and create a real sense of belonging. If we want people to "feel at home", perhaps this is only possible if we ask something of them.

I know where I feel most welcome, so next time I see you, do not hesitate to proffer a tea towel. And I will take it.

Welcome

Come well 

Into this space

And be at home

Mine

Yours

Ours

A shared space

Because you are welcome here

Welcome

Walk through 

An open door

Into open hearts

With outstretched open hands

Be here

Be at peace

Be at home

Because you are welcome here

Welcome

Come well 

And come willingly

To receive

Still more, to give

Let us sit together

To share tea and stories

And serve together

Because you are welcome here

This welcome

An invitation

To come and give

A little of yourself

Whoever you may be

Givers and receivers 

Equally

This is love

And you are welcome here

A lesson from Coventry

The Corrymeela community has close links with Coventry Cathedral, and the volunteer house where we live is named Coventry house in honour of that link. As we were in the area over the Christmas holidays, a visit to Coventry and its Cathedral seemed a fitting thing to do.

Coventry is actually home to two consecrated Anglican Cathedrals, the old Cathedral, now in ruins, suffered severe damage during second world war bombing raids. When the time came after the war to rebuild the cathedral a choice was made to leave the symbolic ruins and build a new Cathedral, full of symbolism, adjacent to the existing site.

After the bombings of November 1940, the cathedral community made a commitment to seek reconciliation rather than revenge, but this post isn't really about that, or at least, not only about that.

When we went to Coventry on a chilly December day, we visited the atmospheric ruins but did not visit the new cathedral.

As a volunteer, the £8 admission charge felt prohibitively expensive.

I have a general objection to any church charging for entry: Coventry was not the first church I have not been into because they charge admission, nor, I suspect will it be the last. After all, a church's first vocation is to be a place of prayer, a place of encounter with God: and I don't believe a charge should ever be attached to that encounter.

Somehow though, Coventry Cathedral's decision to charge struck an even more sour note than in other places I have been. The Cathedral professes a vocation of peace building and reconciliation: and yet it closes its doors to at least some who would choose to enter through them. While ti claims it has a special ministry to bring the message of reconciliation to the world, it does not fling wide its doors to welcome all who would enter here. 

For me, the vocation to reconciliation is not just professing an anti-war message, it is about drawing circles ever wider: drawing in those who are outside, not by expecting them to conform to our expectations, but by making our circles wide enough that they are included just as they are. It is about breaking down barriers which divide us from one another, brick by brick.

For me, the choice to charge people to enter the cathedral building is symptomatic of building a wall instead of knocking one down; of creating a divide instead of being an open space for division to be healed.

And yes, I am sure that it wasn't reasoned out like that when the cathedral community made the decision to start charging an admission fee. I am sure nobody sat round in a meeting and said, "let us build a wall between those of us who are on the inside and those who are outside." I am sure it was the financial implications of maintenance which were the first consideration. They often are.

But then, that is so often the case, and maybe that is exactly the problem, and exactly what saddened me during my non-visit to Coventry Cathedral. We don't necessarily set out to build walls between ourselves and somebody else: but when we are busy looking in at how to maintain our security and comfort, when we are busy looking in at how to make things work for us, when we are busy looking in at how to avoid too high a cost to ourselves, be that financial or otherwise, we often don't even seem to notice the barriers our actions are building between us and the other.

That may not be conflict but it sure isn't reconciliation either. 

So, I guess if Coventry Cathedral genuinely wants to be a place that promoted reconciliation, perhaps they need to consider how their choices and actions reflect that vocation; how to keep what they claim to have as their primary vocation at the forefront of their collective minds as they choose the direction they wish to walk, how to live the message of reconciliation they speak.

But maybe this blog post isn't just about "them": maybe it's more about me. I am sure that I am just as compromised and just as contradictory as Coventry Cathedral. Maybe everyone is. Maybe what I should take away from my irritation at my visit to Coventry, is the challenge that I too need to look inwards not in order to maintain the security and comfort of my ego, but in order to discern my own primary vocation. And from that looking in to turn outwards, not in order to preach a message, but in order to live life accordingly.

It is not what we say we believe, but what we choose to do that shows our true primary concerns.

I Am the Way

Over the last week I have been thinking a fair amount about walking. It was the theme for this year’s week of prayer for Christian Unity which has just come to an end, exploring the Micah verse “This is what the Lord requires of you: to do justice, to show love in kindness and to walk humbly with your God.” (Micah 6:8) I guess that was the starting point for the ramblings which I am about to try and draw into some kind of coherent order.  

For some reason (which isn’t too much of a leap of the imagination) this also brought to my mind the John 14:6 verse, “I am the way, the truth and the life”. One of the seven “I am” statements in John, its most common interpretation seems to be its use to exclude the possibility of salvation for those who do not profess the Christian faith. Needless to say, my own thoughts drifted off in a different direction, shifting the focus from “the” to “way”, which in any normal sentence would probably be considered the more significant word, but often seems to be sidelined in preference for discussion about the use of the definite article.

I don’t speak Greek, but I believe the experts all agree that the “I am” of the statements in John speaks of deeply held identity. These statements speak deeply of who Jesus really is. Equally, as I understand it, the Christian theology of the Trinity acknowledges that the Father, Son and Holy Spirit are not three facets or different identities which together make up God, but that God in his/her entirety is present in each of the three persons; so when Jesus expresses his deepest identity, he expresses the fullness of God’s identity.

Assuming both of these things to be true means that God’s deepest identity is to be “the Way”: ironic perhaps then, that this verse is so frequently associated with a destination, with an arrival point, with where we might end up after death; when perhaps what Jesus is trying to express is exactly the opposite. We do not need to concern ourselves so much with where we are going, how we will get there or who else will be let in to the final destination: because God is not a place of destination.

Equally if we believe in the eternity of God, in his unending adherence to his truest identity, he must continue to be the “way” which at least to my mind speaks of a pilgrim God, being “the way”, journeying on “the way”, and constantly creating “the way.”

And so it is that we are invited to “walk humbly with our God,” shifting our focus from worrying about the importance of where we are going to knowing we walk with a God who also holds journeying as core to his identity; Not following a pre-carved out path to a given destination where we will find life and truth; but co-creating “the way” with a God who calls us, as we journey to be true to our identities and live life in all its fullness.

Enough ramblings for one day, perhaps? 

12000 words

They say a picture is worth a thousand words.

Perhaps, surrounded by millions of photos and images with which we are now constantly bombarded, images have lost a little of that power, but (sigh of relief) that's where the title of this post came from and it is not actually going to be 12000 words.

Beginning in Cebu and ending in Rome, 2012 has been a pretty good year! Too good to do justice to in one short blog post probably, but this is my best attempt, with one photo for each month of last year (and given how many I have, making the selection was no mean feat!)

Happy New Year!

Glimmers of Hope

A distant star

In the blackness of night

A fragile twinkle

Of shimmering silver light

A light the eyes can barely see

And only the soul can feel

Distant, intangible,

Yet close at hand and real

In darkness and in doubting

A glimmer shining through

Other dreamed possibilities

Can still one day come true

Clinging to a brighter vision

Showing there’s another way

A fragile glimmer of hope
Born anew each Christmas day.

Merry Christmas!

A fragile power

This latest poem has been work in progress for a week or so, having been primarily inspired by a very blustery walk in spectacular surroundings last week, when we spent a couple of days away from the centre up at Knocklayd. The photos probably don't really do justice to the views, and to more accurately capture the experience I advise you to look at them outside with a very powerful and cold wind blowing into your face (or you can just imagine that part if your prefer!)

A Fragile Power

An autumn twilight

Fierce winds whip across the mountain tops

Untamed energy

Nature battered by uncontrollable elements

An invincible, palpable power?

Or is the power

In outstretched wings

That soar on the currents

And choose

Life?

An imposing skyline

Mighty mountains touch the pink-tinged sky

Unyielding rocks

Encapsulating endless time and solid strength

An invincible, palpable power?

Or is the power

In fragile flowers

That cling to the mountain side

And choose

Life?

A deep-seated fear

Spirals of merciless anger and violent retribution

Pervasive terror

Resorting to bloody war and brutal destruction

An invincible, palpable power?

Or is the power

In the humble outstretched hands

That cling to hope and forgiveness

And choose

Life?

God was not in the earthquake

Or the roaring wind

Or burning fire

The fragile power of God

Is seen

Heard

Felt

In the sound of sheer silence

The vulnerable power of God

Chooses

Life

exploring optimism and hope

I have always thought of myself as an optimist and would guess that most who know me would probably agree that, more often than not, I am a "glass half full" kind of person. Of course, there are times when I can be as cynical as the next person, but there are also a fair few times when I am prepared to be naively optimistic.

So a few things I have heard recently (although this blog post has been in the offing for a while so perhaps not that recently) set me to reflecting further on what it means to be an optimist, and whether this is really what I aspire to.

"The church needs more pessimists, because they are the people who will see how things really are and what isn't possible so make things actually happen" 

I paraphrase from a sermon, primarily because I can't remember the exact words, but that was the gist. A challenge to me as an eternal optimist which I could have dismissed out of hand, but decided to tuck away for further thought.

A few days later, in a different context, a different person said something along these lines:

"One of the first things we are called to do is to use our imagination, to imagine other possibilities, and to hold up before the world a vision of other possibilities"

The latter sat much more comfortably with the optimist in me; it fitted much more closely with how I see the world. Surely this was calling us to optimism and away from cynicism and pessimism.

But then it was a third person who set me thinking again and helped me bring some of these nebulous thoughts together into what I now realise as I write is still a fairly incoherent whole.

"There is a major difference between optimism and hope"

It occurs to me that perhaps pessimism and optimism are just two different sides of the same coin. They are two different ways of looking at the world and struggling with its realities and problems, always seeing the best or the worst in what is already there.

So what of hope?

Hope is something altogether different. It is the tenacious clinging to another vision, to a different possibility. Hope inspires us towards active imagination; towards believing in other, unseen possibilities.

Perhaps that second quote has very little to do with optimism and pessimism and is about more than just how we see the world around us. Perhaps it is just as ok to be cynical about the world around us as it is to be naively idealistic. Both optimists and pessimists with their different views of the world can still be people of hope; people who imagine other possibilities and hold them up for the world to see.

Perhaps it is hope that all prophets, be they the old testament kind or the modern day ones, be they pessimists or optimists in the eyes of the world, have in common. Hope, and the desire to share that hope with others.

Perhaps my optimism, and another's pessimism, are both aspirations towards being people of hope.

The challenges of a public diary

The observant among you will have noticed that, since leaving the Philippines, and more recently arriving in Northern Ireland, the frequency of my blog posts has declined significantly. Given last year’s word count, those still following are probably breathing a sigh of relief, but for myself, if no-one else, I wanted to reflect on some of the reasons I have been here nearly a month, living a multitude of new experiences and have, for the most part, written nothing about them.

I guess the most straightforward excuse has been lack of time. While I can’t deny there have been days when I have reached the end of the day feeling like I have done remarkably little, that remarkably little has filled the hours quite thoroughly. First during induction, and then since starting work almost a fortnight ago, the days, and evenings, have soon filled up: even if that has often been with the important business of socialising and enjoying new friendships

But it is not quite as simple as that.

Another factor has been the social nature of life here. Coventry House, home to the one year volunteers, and a motley collection of others is a sociable place. It is a place where there is always something going on or someone to chat to. It is a place where there is much silliness and banter, but also space for more serious discussions and reflection. It is a place where all the things I would figure out and reflect on and share on my blog last year, I now share in conversations over a cup of tea.

And then there is the challenge of what to write and what not to write. Whether or not anyone is actually reading this, it is, at least theoretically, in the public domain. There have certainly been many benefits of assuming I have an audience: not least forcing me to rationalise my thoughts and being something vaguely approaching concise.

But there are challenges too, which have become more apparent here than they were last year. From day 1, I have been determined that what I write should not just be fact (if such a thing even exists) or a mundane record of what I have done and where I have been: it has been intended to be a personal reflection on and response to the experiences I have lived. In the Philippines that didn’t seem too difficult. My cultural observations, my reflections on life were from the perspective of someone on the outside looking in. I was a white westerner commenting on my experiences of my own culture meeting with a very different one: my position as an outsider was never in question. I couldn’t, and I hope didn’t, ever profess to see things as a Filipino would.

Here, it is a little more complex. Northern Ireland is much closer to home and, on the surface at least, the cultural similarities to my own life abound. This is, after all, my own country. It is easy to think of coming here as coming “home” and for both myself, and others to assume I speak as an insider ... but while it is certainly less foreign than the Philippines, a few weeks here has been long enough to make it very clear that this is not my home culture either: Here, I am, if not a total outsider, at least someone on the edge. I am caught between not really belonging and speaking from within, but not really being foreign and speaking from without. It is a cultural complexity which I have found makes the business of writing about here more difficult than I expected.

But don’t worry, I rarely find I am without words for very long ...