Truth and Tolerance

Since moving here one of the challenges that has sometimes been addressed to us is to question whether our firm convictions, and the centrality of importance we have given the prayer life of the community has limited our potential to be open to those of different or no faith. It is a question, interestingly enough, which I have most often heard from others who profess the same Christian faith I am aspiring to live through this experience.

At the most simple and practical level, we were invited to move here to establish an intentional, residential, Christian community, so the grounding of the community in Christian faith and values was never something which was up for debate. For me, to be grounded in faith is much less about following a set of rules or doctrines, and much more about finding space to open ourselves to the love and guidance of God: so to be a Christian community, the centrality of prayer had to be an unquestionable reality.

Equally, with a vocation to live in and serve the city it was clear that our ministry would bring us into contexts with people of all faiths and none and every spectrum of belief in between: it is part of the joy, excitement and challenge of city centre life and was also never in question. We have shared our table with people of different faiths and none, and our voluntary work has brought us into contact with those of many beliefs and cultures. In prayer too, we have been joined by those with theological positions vastly different to one another, with those of other faiths, and with those unsure about the very existence of God.

To explore this challenge a little further, though, it is, I think, a question which draws on a deeper societal context: one which holds both great promise and great danger for the church as well as for wider society, and on which it is well worth pausing to reflect.

I wonder whether, as the pendulum swings away from past intolerance and strict narrowly defined codes, we have strayed into a place where we have assumed that tolerance and understanding means standing for nothing; or perhaps more accurately not daring to admit to those things which are part of our fundamental beliefs and identity. Our very positive desire to be welcoming and inclusive has left us in danger of succumbing to the myth that “anything goes”. Our belief in universal freedom has left us so desperate to keep our options open that we have shied away from experiencing the true freedom of making a commitment. The most dangerous heresies are always those which are the closest to the truth.

It is true that as a community we hold strongly to our Christian identity. It is not something for which I feel the need to apologise. I don’t think holding tightly to a vocation to pray and be inspired by the love of God and being open and welcoming of those who do not believe in that same God have ever been mutually exclusive.

On the contrary, it is the experience of God’s unconditional love through prayer together which has given us the courage and confidence to turn outwards. Finding our hope in prayer doesn’t make us better than others, nor does it mean we do not have our own questions, struggles, doubts and difficulties; but it has inspired the vision and vocation to always look outwards beyond our core community, and be open and welcoming to others. Of course there is always room for improvement, but I think, both through our volunteering and our hospitality, it is something we have done reasonably well so far. Perhaps it is the security of knowing ourselves to be loved just as we are, found in the experience of God’s unconditional love, which has also allowed us to deepen relationships with others in all their diversity.

I know that this challenge, offered undoubtedly in love, grows out of a desire to embrace diversity, and welcome people as they are. It is a legitimate aspiration, and is, I think, one of the things Jesus did best. But Jesus found the strength for the ministry which took him out towards others in the firm foundation of a life of prayer and relationship with the Father. For us too then, like the Jesus we dare to try and follow, welcoming one another in mutual love never means forgetting, denying or hiding who we truly are. 

Turning the Tables on Trident

"We are called to live in the virtue of that life and power that takes away the occasion for all wars. Do you faithfully maintain our testimony that war and the preparation for war are inconsistent with the spirit of Christ? Search out whatever in your own life may contain the seeds of war. Stand firm in our testimony, even when others commit, or prepare to commit acts of violence, yet always remember they too are children of God"  

Quaker Advices and Queries, 31.

I marked the entry into Holy Week somewhat differently this year. On Palm Sunday a group of about twenty of us gathered at the gates of Aldermaston Atomic Weapons Establishment. We braved the wind and rain to share food together, then, after a short liturgy at the gate, set off to walk around the perimeter of the base, pausing at fourteen stations of the cross, to remember the events of Jesus' passion and pray for those involved in or suffering as a result of the nuclear weapons industry.  It took around three hours to circle the base, a reminder of just how vast the operation is. At each stop we left a fabric cross tied to the fence, ragged ends flapping in the wind: fragile symbols of hope in a place of death.

This is the place of the cross

Where the suffering servant suffers still

Hidden behind barbed wire and state secrets

Veiled in hatred and fear

But this place too

This is still Holy Ground

The following day took a group of us to Burghfield, the other nuclear facility nearby, where the missiles are actually constructed, to blockade one of the gates. There was a strange contradiction between the beauty and peace as the sun rose above us, and the weapons of death being built behind us.

This was a new experience for me, and I cannot deny feeling distinctly apprehensive before we arrived, even if I was not going to one of those lying locked in front of the gates. Nerves aside, though, it did feel like exactly the right place to be. One by one, those on the ground were cut out of the tubes and moved to the grass verges. Some three hours after our dawn arrival, the gateway was clear, apart from the police vans which still kept it very effectively closed. Once everyone had been removed, we gathered to pray and sing together, before sharing the peace, with each other and with the police and going on our way.

The whole two days felt like a fitting way to commemorate Jesus' entry into Jerusalem, followed by his turning of the tables in the temple. Just as Jesus made his way to the centre of power to challenge the political and military powers of his day; so are we, as Christians called to continue to challenge systemic injustice and violence in the societies where we live. The industrial-military complex is one of, if not the most, significant of those systems in the midst of which I feel we are called to bear witness to the hope of other possibilities.

The timing had a dual significance: with this moment in the liturgical calendar coinciding with parliament being dissolved in preparation for the general election. Although work on trident renewal has already begun without official parliamentary approval, it will be in the hands of the next parliament to make a final decision. It is not too late for them to seek the way of peace.

On a personal level, the whole experience was powerful in many ways, not all of which I feel have necessarily fully been able to process or would be able to explain. From a loosely connected network of people, we built, in twenty-four hours, a close-knit, supportive, loving community of people we had to dare to trust. Too often peace is seen as the passive alternative of "just letting things happen" or of "keeping ourselves to ourselves", and it was inspiring to share with others an understanding that peace is an active, committed, alternative voice. Whatever the future holds for the UK nuclear weapons industry, it was important to be present, at this time and in this place; to put our time, our energy, our efforts into saying no, not in my name.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cqi7hZ-qLXM&feature=youtu.be

Related Links: 
Reflections by one of the others present on the Put Down the Sword blog: 

And in the media:
Premier Radio
Morning Star
Ekklesia

You are the Salt of the Earth

A month has passed since we welcomed something over forty people to Birmingham for a Taize weekend on the theme "You are the Salt of the Earth," with many more joining us for Saturday evening prayer.

A fair amount of hard work and organisation from a number of people went in to making the weekend run smoothly. I hope they, like me, agree it was worth it. There were times of prayer, opportunities for sharing and discussion, the sharing of experiences on themes of solidarity and friendship, a fresh look at familiar bible texts. There was good food, good conversation, good company.

Afterwards I was asked what my favourite part of the weekend was: but there was no one moment that stood out. The best thing about the meeting, for me, was simply this: the spirit which encompassed the whole; that somehow, together, we created a beautiful space: a space of genuine prayer, of willing engagement, of shared hope.

So thank you: to all who came, who participated, who prayed, who sang, who played instruments, who played silly games, who cooked, who ate, who made cups of tea, who spoke, who listened, who shared, who moved chairs, who washed-up, who laughed, who entered fully into this shared experience.

 

 

 

Together we made something beautiful. Together we are the salt of the earth.

Dare to Enter

Sorting through a not-as-organised-as-I-aspire-for-it-to-be My Documents folder recently, I came across a couple of poems which I don't think have ever made it as far as this blog. Not surprising given how unreliable I have been at keeping this updated in the last year. 

A lot of my poetry, you may have noticed, has distinctly theological themes, and this one is directly inspired by a biblical text:

Then Jesus' mother and brothers arrived. Standing outside, they sent someone in to call him. A crowd was sitting around him, and they told him, "Your mother and brothers are outside looking for you." "Who are my mother and my brothers?" he asked. Then he looked at those seated in a circle around him and said, "Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does God's will is my brother and sister and mother." ...

... "Still other seed fell on good soil. It came up, grew and produced a crop, some multiplying thirty, some sixty, some a hundred times"

(Mark 3:31-35; 4:8)

I think this text is less to do with who people are, and much more to do with where they are. For me, it is about those who stand on the edges, who wait at the threshold, who want to position themselves where there's an easy way out; and it is about those who step inside, who take a front row seat, who choose to put themselves where it is much harder to just get up and leave.

This poem was written last summer, but perhaps, as we prepare to enter Holy Week and find our place in ongoing story of the Passion, now is an appropriate time to post it.

Do not

Stand at the door and wait

But come

Dare

To cross the threshold

Come

Dare to take your place

To sit with one another

To listen to my voice

Do not

Watch through the open window

But come

Dare

To enter a new place

Come

Among a different people

Those you do not know

Whether to fear or dare to love

Do not

Send me messages from afar

But come

Dare

To find this inside place

Come

Out of your comfort zone

And into my presence

And live this life

And here

Inside

Become what you are called to be

Be

My family

Be

As one

And then

Together

We will go out

As this

The inner life

Leads out

To where

Your seeds will grow

And your grain will be bountiful.

The provisional and the Permanent

Some of you may have noticed that permanent is not something I do very well. In fact, 18 months into this adventure it is, as a friend recently pointed out, our longest stint anywhere for a while: especially as we have no plans to move anywhere in the near future.

That said, it has hardly been a static 18 months with each week bringing more of the same. Every aspect of our lives, not least those we have lived with during that time, has been filled with variation.

In January and early February we welcomed Jenny and Jurg, a young Swiss couple into our community for five weeks. They joined us as part of a project of the Taizé community, who, throughout this, their anniversary year, are inviting groups of young adults to go "with empty hands" to live together in community.

Together, for five weeks, the five of us, formed one of these “small provisional communities”. It was a little different to the other communities that have been "sent out" from Taize, in that the others have involved a group of young people coming together to form, live and then leave their provisional community; whereas we invited two new members into a community which already existed and would continue to exist after they had moved on.

None the less, we, as much as they, were part of a provisional community for that time: because with each arrival and departure, the shape and feel of the community shifts and changes. Together we discovered new ways of being community. By eating together, living together, talking together and laughing together we grew to know each other. These five weeks were very much a shared experience.

We are discovering that, at least for the moment, this seems to be part of the reality of the community we are creating. Contrary to our initial expectation, and perhaps hope, that we would find others wanting to make the same long-term commitment as us, that hasn't so far proved to be the case. What we have encountered, repeatedly, is people who want to share this life for short periods of time. It is a development which has, I will not deny, engendered certain challenges, both in the need to repeatedly re-establish relationships with new people, and in terms of not yet having found others with whom to share the longer term responsibilities for carrying the life and vision of the community.

But if the challenges have been undeniable, there have also been immeasurable joys. They are not easy to list, these million little things we have shared. Living together through new discoveries, new experiences, new encounters. Being supported by others in a shared routine of prayer. Sharing different theological positions, but knowing you can still  sit down and eat together as one family.  Food, lots of shared food. And laughter. Plenty of laughter.

 

There is, I guess, a lot to be said for the constant reminders of the provisionality of our lives. We have learned that there are times when it is best not to try and hold to decisions too intransigently, or to try and tie up loose ends too neatly. At the same time, in the midst of regular change and renewal we have also learned the importance of, and need for constancy. It is, paradoxically, the experience of so much change that has reminded us to cling tightly to the core of our vision for what we hope this community might be. While much of our life may look different to what we imagined in the beginning, it feels right that the core values are not up for debate.

For now then, I think I'm content to settle for this balance of provisionality and permanence which seems to have characterised the adventure so far.

The priviledge of being made welcome

Both before the event and after, I mentioned to numerous people that I was spending new year in Prague, which generally elicited various comments about the beauty of the city or the price of the beer. Not drinking beer, that part held little appeal, but it is true that the historic centre is attractive and interesting.

But this isn't about sharing some holiday snaps of beautiful central Europe, nor even stories of the glimpses into its interesting history.

Since my first Taize European meeting, in Paris, in 2002/3, this has been how I have spent the end and beginning of most years. I can imagine no better way and am facing the idea of hitting the upper age limit with some trepidation.

.Sometimes our accommodation has been on cold hall floors. But most times we have been welcomed into the homes of people living in or near the host city. This year, once again, we were warmly welcomed by someone willing to open their doors to complete strangers and, for a few days at least, share something of their life with us. Our host gave up her own bedroom to welcome three of us into her home, sharing her children's bedroom for the duration of our stay.

This has become so much part of my year, that I wonder whether I always give credit to what a privilege it is to have stayed in the homes of families across so many European cities. To see not just their beautiful and historic sites, but to be given a glimpse into the reality of their lives.

We did see the the Karlosmost over the river, the astronomic clock, the Infant of Prague. In other places too we have seen some of the sites listed in various tourist guide books. But the real privilege of these stays is to see something different: to see inside ordinary homes, to share cups of tea or celebration meals, to talk about the simple realities of everyday life, about education and church and work and traffic and ...

Many of our holidays involve a reliance on hospitality, and we are grateful to friends and family who invite us in and with whom we share good food, good conversation, good company. But there is also something different in this adventure of meeting people you don't already know and being invited into their lives. In the experience of the simple trust that enables people to open up this space, the home, the place that is our own, without knowing who will walk through the door. In this discovery of a shared common ground in which, sometimes without even a shared language, there are things we can communicate with one another.

So thank you. Thank you to all those who have dared to offer this gift of hospitality to us and to others. Thank you for your openness, your generosity, your inspiration, your lives. Thank you for all we have received from those who offer what they have, to strangers who knock on their door. Thank you for the reminder about the gift of welcoming others.

"Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for in doing so, some have entertained angels without knowing it." Hebrews 13:2

The year that was 2014

I wonder whether it is ever possible to sum up a year in a few words or pictures. Probably not. In fact, now I come to think of it, I guess I hope I never get to a point where it is easy to do so. I want life always to be full enough and rich enough that I can look back over each year and say, there is more to say about this than I can reasonably fit in a blog post. It is certainly the case at the moment.

With that proviso in place, here is the best summary I can muster of the year that was 2014, in photos (The plan was to keep it to one a month but there were a few where I couldn't choose!) They may not be the best photos form the year, but perhaps they sum up some of what has contributed to its busy-ness, its struggles, its joys, and its fullness of life!

On the 2nd Day of Christmas ...

I can't help feeling there is something somewhat sad about the fact that in Birmingham city centre Christmas was pretty much already over before it had even really begun, Having been trying to cultivate an artificial Christmassy-feel from long before anyone in their right mind should have wanted to be thinking about Christmas; by the time it actually arrived, there was a sense it was already all over. With the dismantling of the Christmas markets at the beginning of the week, and preparations for boxing day sales well under way before the end of Wednesday, it seems we may have forgotten what all this build up was actually for ... 

But in my book it is still very definitely Christmas... in fact, it's only just begun! So here it is, this year's Christmas poem, (with thanks to my students at  St Chad's Sanctuary for the inspiration).

A scared and tired father

A woman pregnant and in pain

An uncertain future for an unborn child

Who’ll face anger, exclusion, and disdain

Behind a census of statistics

We still hide the human face

Of a desperation that dares to dream -

That begs of another, grace.

But that one who said he had nothing,

There’s nothing here left to give

Was it in putting a face to a number he knew

You deserved not just to survive but to live?

And when he stretched an open hand

Did God’s kingdom touch this earth?

And is this still an incarnation moment

When we dare believe in the other’s worth?

When we smile ‘come in and welcome’

To those whose lives are tattered and torn

In these the tiniest glimmers of hope – 

Each day anew the Messiah is born.

Merry Christmas!

Remembering Advent

Although Birmingham city centre would have you believe that Christmas has already arrived, we are currently in the much-overlooked season of advent, and my latest post is in honour of a season in danger of being squeezed out of our calendars by the premature celebration of Christmas

The song sung by Zachariah at the birth of his son John the Baptist talks of this baby as a symbol of hope and a foreteller of the coming of the kingdom. It is perhaps a song we could sing at the birth of every child. The following reflection is based on his words in Luke 1:68-79.

⁶⁸ ‘Praise be to the Lord, the God of Israel, because he has come to his people and redeemed them. ⁶⁹ He has raised up a horn of salvation for us in the house of his servant David

Blessed be God

Coming among us

Dwelling with us

Dwelling in us

We are redeemed and set free

A freedom which calls for action

A freedom that inspires new hope

A freedom lived and shared

The freedom of love

⁷⁰ (as he said through his holy prophets of long ago), ⁷¹ salvation from our enemies and from the hand of all who hate us – ⁷² to show mercy to our ancestors and to remember his holy covenant, ⁷³ the oath he swore to our father Abraham: ⁷⁴ to rescue us from the hand of our enemies,

Blessed be God

Who remembers the forgotten

Who remains with the abandoned

Always

From all time

For all time

Eternity encompassing today

Rescuing us from our enemies

Giving us energy in the face of apathy

Giving us purpose in the midst of emptiness

Giving us life in all its fullness

Rescued and called

To use our love to care for the loveless

And our voice to speak for the voiceless

and to enable us to serve him without fear ⁷⁵ in holiness and righteousness before him all our days.

Called to have no fear

No fear of condemnation and criticism

No fear of standing up and standing out

Perfect God, perfect love

Drives out all fear

The knowledge we are loved

This is our holiness

To go and share that love

This is our righteousness

To stand with the unloved and the unlovely and the seemingly unlovable

This is our service

⁷⁶ And you, my child, will be called a prophet of the Most High; for you will go on before the Lord to prepare the way for him,

And you, the little children,

Prophets of God and messengers of the Kingdom

Your innocence prepares the way of the Lord

His light shines in you

In your curiosity and wonder at the world

In your trusting and in your hope

In your joy and the delight of being alive

⁷⁷ to give his people the knowledge of salvation through the forgiveness of their sins,

Give us knowledge of our salvation,

The opening wide of a kingdom where all are welcome,

A kingdom for such as these

In your suffering we see our sin

In war we have damaged your trusting love

In hunger we have hidden your inquisitive wonder

In poverty we have trampled on your joyful hope

Your tears call us to repentance,

Forgiveness,

Change

And new life.

⁷⁸ because of the tender mercy of our God, by which the rising sun will come to us from heaven ⁷⁹ to shine on those living in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the path of peace.

New life lit up by the faithful love of our God

Coming from on high

Dwelling with the humble

Dwelling alongside the forgotten ones

Dwelling in the children

Giving light

The light of a smile

The light of love

Calling us from darkness

From despondency and despair

From apathy and inactivity

From comfort and continuity

To walk in the light of a new way of peace

A (Mainly) Patriotic Song

As part of the Birmingham Literature Festival, I saw a poetry writing workshop at the library advertised with the theme of conflict, peace and reconciliation. Bringing together as it did two passions of mine, I decided to give it a go.

Poetry has always been something I have done both alone and untaught, so I was excited but also somewhat apprehensive about what it might entail. In reality it involved a few people who were interested in writing poetry doing so together, sharing words and ideas with some guidance from a couple of "real poets" (whatever that might mean!). Below is the poem which I began on that day and have added to and tinkered with since. I think it is now finished. It probably requires something of an explanation, so here goes:

The workshop began with a visit to the library's Voices of War exhibition as a source of inspiration. This poem was inspired by the front cover of a Patriotic Song, "Britannia's Glorious Flag". Musical references, then, run throughout the poem. When I looked at it, my eye was immediately (and probably slightly illogically) drawn to the top corner where there were some musical notes showing this was a piece of music written in a flat key, not what you would usually choose for an upbeat piece of music. Coupled with the stories in the exhibition of those who took a courageously anti-war stance, I wondered whether this could have been a tiny act of resistance, or at least a recognition that all was not joyful and triumphant. More normal for this kind of music would be a major key which lends itself nicely to a play on a double meaning.

The other thing that struck me about the propaganda items, including this one, is how we look at them and smile at the naivety in which people were taken in by them. We recognise them for what they are ...  but somehow cannot apply that same good sense to current military propaganda, and so 100 years on we fall for the same myths, just dressed up in different language and imagery.

Hopefully some, or all of that is portrayed in the poem below:

Mouths yawning wide

Eyes closed

We sing

Of patriotic duty

And naive hopes of victory

For flag and mother country

But

From somewhere in their midst

This one foresaw

There was a sombre note

And shared his voice

In this the choice

Of a B flat key

Unlocking

Some semblance

Of creativity

Perhaps he saw in his mind’s eye

On these dark lines

Which never meet

Too many

Sharps

Already

Cutting deep in flesh

And painted red

Perhaps he had already heard

What staccato beats

reverberate

Through shattered minds

And resonate

In yearning hearts

Frozen

In a silent fear

That dares no longer sing

And this his song

His only way

To say

He would not dance to the Major’s key

As looking back

With eyes made wise

With knowing smiles

We sagely nod

To this the tune

We say

We would not tap our feet to

And yet

The orchestra plays on

As still we listen

And close our eyes

To the murmur of these lullabies

A gentle drone

We hear as truth

As one white poppy

Still flutters

Unnoticed

In a sprawling sea of red

I always dreamt of flight

In an immediate sense I have my mother to thank for the inspiration for the poem below. It was her mention of the theme "flight" for a poetry group that set me to thinking about different meanings of the word flight and putting pen to paper (or more accurately cursor to screen) to create this.

I am sure she won't mind me saying though, that beyond that initial word, the real inspiration for this comes from my contact with my students at St Chad's Sanctuary: people who, have known the worst nightmares of flight, but who, I hope, can still dream of soaring with the birds. Once again, I trust that they will excuse my attempts to speak of an experience I can not begin to imagine.

I always dreamt of flight

Lying

On grass, or concrete, or sandy beach

Pressed

Against the solid ground beneath

But

Eyes open

Squinting from the sun

Or closed

Turned inwards on a dream

I always dreamt of flight

I knew

That I could soar and circle with the birds

And drift like wispy clouds

Across a bright blue sky

Laughing

In childhood games of fantasy

Gazing skywards

Dreaming of infinity

If I could ask

A granted wish of just one thing

My chosen super power

I would not hesitate

Because

I always dreamt of flight

I knew

That I would swoop and swerve and dive

And glide with silent majesty

Across a deep blue sky

And as I grew

I knew

Never would I soar and circle

Like the birds

Nor swoop and swerve and dive

But Still

Alone in quiet moments

Looking up

To the endless realm of skies

I sometimes dreamt

Of flight

To drift like wispy clouds

And glide with silent majesty

To hide from this reality

In an infinity of blue

Until

As skies flare red

And thick black smoke

Obscures

The fragile wings of birds

Their hallowed, haunting song

Replaced

By metal monsters

Who hum a tune of

Death

The longed-for, dreamt-of, promised

Flight

Discovered

In the urgency of anguish

Amid the acrid fear which clings

With unforgiving tenacity

To bloodied feet 

And to hidden memories

No soaring wings or deep blue skies

In this my flight

Which did not match

The patterns 

which not so very long ago

Had swirled before 

My childish eyes

No swooping free, no swirling dives

No soaring, circling paradise

No hiding

From this

The harsh reality of our lives

Flight

This childhood dream

Which found a strange fulfilment

In a living nightmare

As huddled, shivering,

I cannot help but wonder

Is this some kind of irony?

When

I had always dreamt of flight

A Question of Audience

So once again my blog has sat neglected for almost a month. Amongst other distractions, this time round, are several blog posts for another blog to which I contribute. http://putdownthesword.wordpress.com/blog/

I call them blog posts, but the one I wish to reflect on was not originally written as such. It started life as a letter.  I was against military action in Iraq (no surprise there, then) and horrified that Archbishop Justin Welby spoke out in favour in the House of Lords. So I wrote to him.

As an afterthought, (and partly because it said on his website that he probably wouldn't read it), I posted it online. I was initially unsure whether it was a good idea but have since decided it was probably more effective as a blog post than as a letter. It certainly generated more reflective responses; and with something like 18 shares on facebook, it was the closest I have ever come to going viral.

It created an interesting perspective for the ongoing correspondence.

My original letter was definitely written with the Archbishop, or at the very least his secretaries, in mind. It was addressed to him and intended for him. The reply, from his secretary was also written without a wider audience in mind: but having shared the letter, it seemed only fair to share the reply.

But that isn't the end of the story: I knew I wanted to challenge the reply: but in writing back, this time I was acutely aware of a dual audience. Yes, I was addressing the correspondence secretary to the Archbishop of Canterbury, but I could no longer pretend that I wasn't also writing to those who had read my first letter. Even if by now, they had drifted off to other concerns, theoretically at least I was writing for an audience other than the one I was directly addressing. Whether or not they read it, is secondary to my knowing that they might.

It left me reflecting on the question of audience: who do we write and speak for, and how often is there a duality in our intended audience? What changes when the message we are writing / speaking is not intended for those we are addressing directly, but for others who might overhear? Is there a difference if the wider audience is intended at the time of writing, or only thought about afterwards? What happens when something that is genuinely intended for one audience is read or heard out of context by another?

Is writing a blog post about writing blog posts a bit weird? Probably. But this experience also left me thinking about this blog, about what I write and why I write it.

I think, primarily, I write it for me. I have never been any good at keeping a diary, but since beginning this venture I have found it a useful way to distil some of my thoughts, to reflect on experiences in a way I think is both helpful and healthy.

But to say it is entirely personal wouldn't be completely honest. The knowledge of its potentially public nature certainly effects some of what I write and how I write it; and although I think I am mainly doing it for myself, I have to admit I would be disappointed if I knew I was my own only reader and I genuinely appreciate occasional comments which suggest it is not just for me. This blog has a dual audience too.

So please keep reading. It is written for me, but also for you.

Continuing Adventures in Community

As the condensation on the windows suggests that autumn is approaching and thoughts of the summer holidays are fast-fading into the recesses of memory, our adventure in community here in Birmingham continues apace and it feels like it is probably high-time for an update on life.

While I have studiously tried to avoid this blog becoming a mere recount of experiences which are fun to be lived but probably rather dull to read about, perhaps there are times when it is right to share and celebrate some of the realities as well as the reflections they inspire.

So the Carrs Lane Lived Community is now one year old, and after a much-needed summer break the routine is firmly re-established once more, with days shaped around morning and evening prayer and a shared evening meal. The twitter and facebook feeds are (so far ... it's still only September) being kept up to date, and the website has lots of new pages including some photos of year 1.

The most significant recent development in the life of the community is that, well, its really a community these days! The flat is now home to four resident members (shown in the photo, along with Giuliano, who joined us for a couple of weeks), and we have plenty of plans to welcome others for shorter periods of time.

From the beginning, we made a conscious choice not to actively advertise for members but rather to wait and allow the community to grow organically. We knew this was the right choice, but I have to admit to times last year when I began to wonder how long we could continue to sustain "community" as only two. As is often the way, it was into that space of uncertainty that signs of growth began to appear.

While we didn't know how the community would grow, our prediction that it would happen in ways we didn't expect certainly proved true when our third community member turned out to be a ninety-year old nun. Whatever else we thought might happen, that one was certainly not on our radar and appeared as an unexpected gift. With 70 years experience of community life, Sr Mary-Joseph certainly adds a different dynamic to our community. I find her presence hugely inspiring and hope that when I am ninety I will both still be seeking to live a life of community shaped around a routine of prayer ... and also still open enough to find it in very new and different ways that I couldn't possibly have imagined when I started out on this adventure.

The end of August saw the arrival of member number 4, a friend from university days taking up our year in community invitation and coming to live, pray and volunteer alongside us for the next year. While this, in some ways, follows a less unexpected path, it will nonetheless be a source of newness as we find ways to grow and deepen a friendship which will look very different lived out together than kept up by facebook and occasional visits.

Community continues to stretch wider than just those living in the flat, with both occasional and regular faces sharing with us in the prayers as well as several people signed up to come and spend a couple of weeks or longer living the routine with us. It is sometimes good (and probably important) to remind ourselves from where we have come. If at times things have seemed to move slowly; looking back over the last year; from the nothing we started with to what we have now is a reminder of life, and growth and hope.

And so begins the second year of this latest adventure. I am sure it will look and feel very different from the first. There will be challenges, of that I have no doubt. There will be struggles and there will be sacrifice. But I reckon it will all be worth it. Because I am fairly sure there will be life, abundantly!