That would be an ecumenical matter

My engagement with questions of Christian ecumenism has been a hugely significant part of my faith journey for many years, but it is, I recently realised, something I have rarely written about here. Although as this blog post has turned out to be rather longer than intended, perhaps you could say I'm making up for it now!

Engaging with the church in all its beautiful diversity has been something which has been hugely inspiring: I know I am extremely privileged to have experienced such a variety of Christian traditions and am grateful to all those, of many different traditions and backgrounds who have shared in my journey.

Engaging with the church in all of its division is something which has often proved intensely painful: I have wept my way through many a church service and struggled to remain faithfully part of a family which will not sit down and eat together at the same table.

As my journey has continued, describing my Christian identity has become increasingly complex, as has answering the oft asked question "what denomination are you?" or "Are you Catholic / Anglican /Methodist/ insert other denomination*?" (*delete as appropriate)

While on one level I could perhaps describe myself as "just a Christian", I remain hesitant to do so knowing that to do so risks denying the complexity and pain of the very real divisions in the church. Christianity, at least in my understanding of it, is something which is intended to be lived out as part of a community: The church's divisions, then, are also mine and I feel a deep responsibility to accept my identity as part of that family, complete with all its flaws (and there are many) and to acknowledge and share in the pain and guilt of our divided family.

But I cannot, either, in all honesty, describe myself as a member of one denomination, not even as a member of one denomination with an ecumenical outlook towards others. I have done so in the past, but it has become an unhelpful over-simplification of who I now am. And so, lately I have taken to describing myself as "A Christian who holds my denominational identity very lightly" or "Someone whose Christian life draws on a variety of different traditions"

It is rarely the easy answer that others seek but it is the closest I have currently come to finding a label that matches where I feel I am on my journey.

We have a natural desire for boxes, for ourselves and for others. Defined labels which we know and at least think we understand are a source of security and we all need to feel safe. There are times, many of them, when I would prefer to curl up inside a snug box where I, and everyone around me, knows what the rules are. Choosing an identity which doesn't fit into the preconceived boxes isn't always easy and certainly provokes challenges in certain settings. But then again, I guess I do mostly quite like not fitting neatly in the box too.

This identity of drawing on and welcoming the gifts of many traditions is something to which we have also aspired as a community. From the beginning, ecumenism was one of the core values we sought to embody in our life here and we were very happy that the church here embraced that desire. I am certain there are times when it has offered us fantastic opportunities of encounter. I am equally sure it has created additional challenges, or at least different ones, to those we would have met if we had a clear denominational identity.

I suspect, both in terms of engaging with the institutional churches, and with individuals intrigued by who we are and what we are doing, there are times when our desire not to put up barriers by stepping outside the standard definitions has in fact unwittingly created a barrier with those who don't quite know how to respond to what we are trying to be. For many, it is much easier to engage with something if you can safely say yes you are one of us we sit in the same box; or even, no, you are not one of us, you are in a box distinct and different from our own but which we can identify and respect, and we will engage with you on those terms.

But we are trying to ask something different: we want people to engage with us as being simultaneously "one of us" and "one of them", we want people to accept us as part of "us" while also acknowledging our identity as part of something we have defined as "not us" and we know it can be a very big ask ... thank you to all those who have answered.

If whatever the inherent challenges, I have no regrets about placing myself in this place; and if I am proud that as a community we have tried to do so: it is because ultimately I believe that this place, the outside-the-box, on-the-edge place is a place where something of the gospel can be found.

For the love of Europe

I would imagine it will come as no surprise to any one who knows me that in the referendum on June 23rd I will be voting to stay in Europe.

I have, as many of you will know, personally reaped the benefits of this thing called the EU in many ways: the chance to explore places and meet people made much less complicated than it might have been; some amazing friends that I might otherwise never have had the privilege to meet; a wealth of experiences that have helped shape who I am.

I am infinitely grateful for all of this ...but that isn't really what I want this blogpost to say.

One of the things which has saddened, but I guess not surprised, me about the campaigns, both to remain and to leave, is how much of the message is shaped around perceived personal gain or loss, The message, from both sides is vote with us, because it will be better for you.

I like to hope that, for at least some of us voting on the 23rd June, whether or not we personally will be richer or poorer won't be the only reason for the choices we make. I like to hope that my reasons for opting in to the European project are not entirely selfish.

Financially, I don't know whether I personally will be richer or poorer if we vote to stay or go. Likewise, I don't know whether we as a country will be wealthier or not. As one of the richest countries in the world, with material wealth and a passion for consumer growth well beyond what is sustainable for the future of the planet, I also don't think it really matters.

I am in favour of this European dream primarily for the simple reason that I think we should be in the business of removing borders, not creating new ones. And while this might not be the only or even the ideal way to do so, I certainly don't think retreating on to our little island and drawing up the drawbridge behind us is the way forward. I think that as a world we are infinitely richer in the ways that really count when we choose to reach out to one another rather than shy away in suspicion, fear and hatred.

For me, it is a question of living my humanity more fully which becomes possible when I can live it in relationship with the other, whoever they may be. It is also a question of living the gospel to which I am called, a gospel imbued with a deep sense of love which breaks down barriers and reaches beyond our human understanding and the artificial boundaries we draw between ourselves.

Don't get me wrong, I know that there are a whole heap of problems with the current European model ... Trade deals like TTIP are truly terrifying, the race to the economic bottom by using free movement of labour to drive down wages is a valid and genuine concern and there are justifiable question marks over the democratic deficit with some of the processes involved.

I know I am not voting to stay in a perfect Europe. Nor am I offering my whole-hearted and unconditional support to all it is and does,

But I am voting for a world where we build bridges instead of walls, where we seek what unites rather than what divides.

I'm in.

Of mobile phones

Compared to many, I am not particularly attached to my mobile phone; but even though the one I use is old and battered, I know I would not want to be without it. For those far from home, it may be of even greater value: the only connection with family, friends and a life left behind.

So columbite-tantalite (coltan), even if we have never heard of it, is important to us all. Used in almost every electronic device, including the ubiquitous mobile phone it has known a huge surge in value in the relatively recent past.

About 80% of the world’s known reserves of coltan are found in the Democratic Republic of Congo, where its exploitation continues to fuel the war, one of the deadliest conflicts since the Second World War, having to date claimed more than 5 million lives. While most companies will of course avoid buying minerals directly from the warring factions and various rebel groups in DRC, it is amazing how many of the neighbouring countries, with scant known supplies of the mineral, have seen a huge surge in exports.

I can’t remember when the significance of conflict minerals, and particularly coltan was brought to my attention but it is perhaps since meeting refugees from the Congo that it has felt somehow closer to home and more uncomfortable. 

For many refugees from there, and other areas where conflict minerals fuel ongoing wars, there must be a bitter irony in a dependence on devices which contribute to the bitter suffering they have experienced firsthand: it is something of this duality which the following poem tries to express.

Technology's latest miracle
This lightweight
Next-to-nothing-weight

Too great a weight

For heavy hearts

And hurting hands

The bleak, scorched earth

Of burned and blackened land

Left scared and scarred by war

Its precious value

Bought and sold

In oft-spilled blood
And fierce flame

Yet as it burns

Still now it brings

The warm amber glow

Of home

And cradled
In scarred, scared hands

This deathline

A lifeline

As cracked and fractured voices

From a cracked and fractured land

Ring

With hopeful dreams

Of all that was and is and might just be

At home

ps: This Ted talk: https://www.ted.com/talks/bandi_mbubi_demand_a_fair_trade_cell_phone?language=en also speaks powerfully on the subject.

pps: I don't usually use my blog to advertise products, especially ones I have never owned,.. but it was the use of conflict minerals in the mobile phone industry which, at least partly, inspired the Fairphone https://www.fairphone.com/... and while I'm sticking with my ten year old "dumbphone" for now, who knows, maybe one of these may be the future. 

A Palette of Emotions

I haven't written any poetry for a while ... certainly nothing that has even got close to what could be described as finished. 

But today at St Chad's Sanctuary, we took a break from preparing for reading exams and wrote poetry. Once again, I was able to appreciate my students' ability to say so much with so little and to admire their capacity for creativity, as together they produced poetry which included:

Quite apart from being a whole lot of fun (at least for me, and hopefully for my students too) and being another different way of reinforcing some English vocabulary, it also inspired me to come away and use a similar premise and structure to that I had given them (somewhat extended) to write something of my own:

A Palette of Emotions

Sadness is a monotony of grey

It is the silence of a shadowy, starless night

It is tear-smudged streaks across an unfinished page

It weeps

Happiness is a warm, amber glow

It is the harmony of voices raised in joyful song

It is swirls of colour dripping from a brush

It laughs

Anger is a deep, brooding red

It is scarred and bloodied hands wrenched apart

It is a dark stain spreading across an expanse of white

It kills

Excitement is a sparkling yellow dashed with golden glitter

It is the warm embrace of a long-awaited reunion

It is uncontrolled splashes of brightness

It dances

Fear is a deep blue as unfathomable as the ocean

It is the toes curled against seeping damp and biting wind

It is torn-off corners and jagged edges

It trembles

Hope is a thousand unnamed shades of green

It is the freshness of damp leaves after spring rain

It is a pen poised above a blank canvas

It waits

Humanity is the confused beauty of a well-used paint palette

It is the depth and complexity of all our experiences

It is a new story forever unfolding

It lives

I am

Latest artwork:

 

"Some"

Yesterday Daniel Berrigan: priest, poet, protester and peacemaker died just short of his 95th birthday. He may not have had the media presence of many of those whose deaths facebook has mourned in 2016, but of all those who have been on the social media roll call to heaven so far this year, for me, he is without a doubt the greatest.

I often post poetry here: usually it is my own. Today though, I'm making an exception and posting one of his. One that speaks of how he kept going for so long. one that resonates, as many of his words do, with both inspiration and challenge.

If, in the face of vast American might, he never lost sight of the possibility of an alternative, it was perhaps because he realised that while the commitment to the powers of war, death and destruction was total; too often those who spoke for peace lacked the same energy and dedication. 

All it would take, then, to change the world would be for those who say we believe in peace to approach the task of creating it same with the same commitment and prepared to take the same risks as those who wage war.

He did exactly that, living by what he believed and inspiring others along the way.

His is a voice and a life which continues to challenge. It is a challenge I know I am not yet living up to. I know I want to try.

Some: A Poem by Daniel Berrigan

Some stood up once, and sat down.

Some walked a mile, and walked away.

Some stood up twice, then sat down.

"It's too much," they cried.

Some walked two miles, then walked away.

"I've had it," they cried.

Some stood, and stood, and stood.

They were taken for being fools,

they were taken for being taken in.

Some walked, and walked, and walked - 

they walked the earth,

they walked the waters,

they walked the air.

"Why do you stand?" they were asked, and

"Why do you walk?"

"Because of the children," they said, and

"Becuase of the heart," and

"Because of the bread,"

"Because the cause is

The heart's beat, and

The children born, and

The risen bread."

RIP Daniel Berrigan (9th May 1921 - 30th April 2016)

An abstract resurrection

It's been a while since I posted anything at all on here; although there are a few half written posts slowly going out of date on the unpublished part of my blog.

For now though, here's a few pictures, the fruits of my dabbling in the idea of abstract art and trying to represent the resurrection. I'm not even sure whether I like all of them, so you are certainly not obliged to! But they're made so I decided I might as well share ...

This is Easter

Regular readers of this blog will know this is not the first time I have walked Northern Leg of Student Cross, a walking pilgrimage during Holy Week, ending up in Walsingham on Good Friday and celebrating Easter together with other groups who have walked from different places.

This year I experienced it in a slightly strange way, having to come back and teach for three days in the middle, but it was still a wonderful way to celebrate Holy Week and Easter, and I am grateful to the people who offer food for thought (or just food), who make it a beautiful community experience and, quite frankly, just a lot of fun!

On Easter Sunday morning, during the "Holy Trot" when together we walk around the village of Walsingham carrying our crosses for the last time, this time decorated for Easter, I felt hugely privileged to be invited to give one of the "Stations", moments of reflection shared together. I thought I'd also share what I said here:

Student Cross allows us to live the story of the passion and the resurrection together for one week. But as people of the Gospel, this is a pilgrimage we are called to live not just here but throughout our lives.

For the last two and a half years, I have taught English at St Chad's Sanctuary, a place of welcome for refugees and asylum seekers in Birmingham. It is a place I have come to love very dearly. It is a place I have come to love very dearly. It is a place where I know I have learned far more than I have taught. Yet speaking about my experiences there hasn't always proved easy ... which doesn't mean I am not going to try.

My experiences have been overwhelmingly positive - building beautiful relationships which have been life-affirming as well as life changing ...

But these are among the most vulnerable of our society: people who have fled horrific situations in their home countries, undergone unimaginable journeys to get here, and continue to face suspicion and exclusion on arrival. How do I share the joy they bring me without glorying in their suffering? How do I explain that a place which can bring me to tears is a place of joy and life? 

How do we sing of the resurrection without denying the reality of the crucifixion? 

My students come from all over the world. Most come with very little and have left much behind: but they all bring an intractable belief that something better is possible. And through all their struggles, they continue to smile. 

Ultimately, perhaps, my love for this place is very simple. It is a place of humanity and of hope. It is a place where human dignity is restored by simple gestures. It is a place where I encounter students who, in spite of all they have lived and all they are living, remain people of hope. Perhaps because they know real suffering, they also know the meaning of true hope: a hope which is tangible, even if it is hard to explain. 

A resurrection hope, even in places of crucifixion.

I feel hugely privileged that they are able to share even a part of that hope with me. 

The stories I have heard, the people I have met have been a source of sadness, and frustration and even anger. They have been, even more, a source of joy and of life.

They have changed who I am.

So this for me is the passion. And this for me is Easter. The encounter which, through its tears, holds tight to a smile. The encounter which enables me, which enables us, to be more fully alive.

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

What's your Birmingham?

Twice on Friday I accompanied a group of students from St Chad's Sanctuary to Birmingham Museum where we visited the local history galleries. The trip was inspired by some questions about Birmingham's history which I couldn't answer, and I decided rather than resorting to Wikipedia and creating a comprehension sheet we'd head out to the museum instead ... it was the right decision.

Being a primary school teacher by training, no school trip I organise was ever going to happen without a quiz to fill in on the way round! But I don't think they were just humouring me when the students engaged with it and explored the history of this city they now tentatively call home. All in all it was an amazing day: plenty of opportunities for English practice and new vocabulary, a chance to discuss and explore together, a chance to share experiences and learn from one another.

From its earliest days as a country market gradually attracting crafts people and farmers from surrounding areas, through its growth into a manufacturing hub in the industrial revolution, to the world wars and onwards to modernity, the history of Birmingham is one of migration. It is a story of which me in my own way, and my students in theirs are all a part.

At the far end of the gallery, on the wall, is this: 

"What's your Birmingham? Tell us what the city means to you." 

For me, Birmingham is these people, (and a million or so others). Birmingham is stepping outside my door into a diversity of colour and culture and the riches of humanity. Birmingham is it's history of migration, with all of its beauty and all of its struggles. It is the welcome it has offered to me to be a part of that history, that present and that future.

And for my Students? Well for them, Birmingham is:

"Birmingham is nice for me, there is new life and I have freedom and security"

"Birmingham is beautiful and has many buildings. It is different races"

"I love Birmingham city for the beautiful and wonderful nature and all the wonderful people"

"Birmingham is very big and very beautiful and it's a place of church"

"Birmingham is beautiful because everyone is living and working here"  

"Birmingham is a city of lots of different people"

#pray24brum

Last weekend, during the week of prayer for Christian Unity, Carrs Lane Church hosted the Birmingham Churches Together 24 hours of prayer. I am delighted that I was able to be involved in what was such a beautiful celebration of who we are and who we can be as church.

12 months ago, St Philip's Anglican cathedral held a similar event, marking Christian Unity and launching their 300th anniversary celebrations. An email exchange afterwards suggested it could happen again, perhaps becoming an annual celebration, and we agreed to take it on for this year. A small group of us, from different churches, have met periodically over the year and last weekend all the hard work paid off as we came together for an amazing 24 hours which celebrated our unity in all its diversity as we turned together towards God.

There were many wonderful things about being able to be involved in the organisation of #pray24brum, and in the day itself.

Since having my eyes opened to both its potential and its struggles as a student lucky enough to experience the wonderful Lancaster University Chaplaincy Centre, and later the Taize community, ecumenism has been very close to my heart. I know I am incredibly lucky, and perhaps relatively unusual, to have had my faith journey enriched by a wide variety of traditions: all of which have had value, none of which have been perfect.

With each hour of the day and night being led by a different church or group from a wide variety of different traditions, the event certainly felt like a space in which all of that diversity was being celebrated. There were churches with whom I am familiar and comfortable, and traditions which take me out of my normal experience. They all added something: but it was together that they were complete.

Birmingham is a very diverse city: therein lies its beauty, and what I have come to love about this city I now call home. But no-one would ever say such a reality is always plain sailing: and the complexity and struggle and at times anguish of this city also take root in that same diversity. The same could be said of the church with all its painful history and for me, last weekend was a beautiful witness to the possibility of reconciliation; the possibility that different as we are, there can be, there is, a point of commonality where we can draw close to one another.

Perhaps even more important than that, was that this whole event was about creating a space for prayer. Too often, in busy lives and, let's be honest, even in busy churches we can get so caught up in the detritus of life that sometimes prayer is the easiest part to sideline.

Prayer is easy to set aside because God is not going to insist. I believe in a God of love, and love does not force or impose. While other activities and expectations will shout at us, literally or metaphorically, God merely whispers. A whisper that is, perhaps intentionally, easy to ignore. A whisper that, if we dare to stop long enough to listen to it, is infinitely valuable.

Re-prioritising time for prayer has been a key impetus to the life we are trying to live here, and the day of prayer was a valuable boost to that vision. It came at the right time. I was just coming out of what had been a difficult couple of weeks where I had struggled with the reality that some of the things I hold most dear seemingly hold little of the same value for others. Precious indeed, then, to arrive at Sunday morning buoyed up by a reminder of why I have chosen the life I have, and perhaps particularly importantly, feeling supported by others in holding to that vision.

Having been involved in the organisation from the beginning, I had made the decision well before the day itself that I intended to stay for the whole event. I was a little bit tired by the end, but was also buzzing with enthusiasm and have zero regrets about staying throughout. I have, a week on, recovered from the sleep-deprivation, but on balance I would still rather be back last Sunday afternoon. Not just because a nap felt totally justified, which is always a good thing, but because I felt uplifted and inspired to be part of all that the church is, and should be, and can be and aspires to be: united, diverse and with prayer the very centre of its being and purpose.

I am very grateful to all who made it possible!

For some comments, clips and photos that might give something of a feel for what it was like:
https://twitter.com/hashtag/pray24brum?f=tweets&vertical=default

Consolation and transformation

While I lead prayer regularly, it is rare that I get the opportunity to preach. But having been very involved in the organisation of the Birmingham Churches Together 24 hours of prayer hosted by Carrs Lane last weekend (more on that to follow) I was also invited to be part of the Sunday morning service which rounded the whole event off. If you are going to only preach very occasionally, some would suggest that doing it when completely sleep deprived might not be the best plan ... on the other hand, doing so after spending the previous night and day praying and being inspired by the beauty of the church and all it could be is probably no bad thing. Anyway, this is, if you're interested, what I had to say:

I want to reflect briefly on how the beatitudes, for me, speak into the experience of both consolation and transformation.

I suspect I am not the only one to say I love the beatitudes; even if they have risked becoming clichéd and losing something of their radical power through overexposure. The beatitudes have inspired me to draw and to write. They have, I hope, more significantly, helped inspire me to live the life I am called to.

It seems to me the beatitudes come in three parts (like all good sermons). The first ones speak of those things which just are, over which we have often have no, or very little, control: places into which the God of consolation enters. When things are tough, just because they are, there is no sticking-plaster God who comes to make it all better. God does not promise we will not know poverty or mourning, but he does promise a greater joy. Blessed, or happy are they. This is no clichéd “it’ll all be ok in the end” God, rather it is the invitation to discover great depths of love and joy.

But that is not the end. The gospel doesn’t stop with this consolation. It doesn’t stop with this offer of unconditional love. By beatitude number 3, Jesus has moved on. These next beatitudes are no longer about things that just are, they are about things that can be. Things made possible by the unconditional love of God. The gospel which calls us forward into places of transformation. They Gospel that says not only can you do and be these things, but that they will be sources of deep joy. Made possible by the love of God, these beatitudes are those which we continually journey towards with faltering steps. Experiencing the depths of joy we discover in radical choices made as a response to the transformative love of God inspires us again and again to take new steps in the direction of our calling. I could give so many examples of living this experience of the blessing of joy leading forward to new places. Stepping out in front of armoured vehicles at the London arms fair, surrounded by others in prayerful protest; discovering hope amongst those who have been to the depths of human experience in my volunteering with refugees and asylum seekers ...

So what next? Well, the word blessed, or happy, aside the last beatitudes don’t make for particularly cheerful reading: promising, as they do, persecution and hardship. I don’t believe this is Jesus telling us to seek out suffering for its own sake: no, I think this is something both much simpler, and much more challenging. I think this promise is nothing more than the inevitable consequence of truly living out the other beatitudes. If we really do all that other stuff, if we truly dare to challenge injustice, and power and violence and the status quo, then we aren’t likely to be winning any popularity contests any time soon.

Which brings us back to where we began... because if we are going to live lives so radically transformed by our faith that they challenge the very fabric of society we need first to experience, the consolation of God’s unconditional love, and we need to keep returning to it again and again.

And here we are, drawing to a close 24 hours of a space to do just that... because this is the source and summit of that love: to open ourselves to God in prayer; not to do ro even to ask or to thank, but simply to be. Not just by ourselves but as a community, knowing we are loved by God both individually and together. The last twenty four hours have been a truly beautiful experience: a real celebration of our diversity, as well as of our unity in seeking this promised joy. For me at least, it has served as the inspiration I need for the next steps, whatever they might be, with and towards they God who loves me and wants me, and all of us, to know great joy.

*Probably ought to acknowledge a degree of plagiarism from my husband for a few of the ideas!

Silent Nights

One of our innovations in community this academic year has been to spend one evening most weeks in silence. Not every single week, as there are some other intrusions which are unavoidable, but as a general rule, Wednesdays are booked out, not to DO anything; in fact, exactly the opposite.

We eat a simple meal, usually soup and bread, together in silence; have evening prayer as usual, then spend the evening in silence until we close with very short night prayer at 9.15.

For me, at least, this silent space has not just been about not talking to each other: it is also the evening when my phone is switched off and laptop lid stays resolutely closed. No facebook, no email. No marking or planning or sorting diary dates. No getting jobs done or adding more things to a never-ending jobs list.

A time to read or sometimes to write. To draw or to paint. To walk, to sit, to reflect, to pray; and sometimes, for a time, to do absolutely nothing at all.

Those who know me personally will know that quiet isn't perhaps the very first word that springs to mind. Silent, definitely not.

And yet this promise of silence each week, this time to stop and say I do not always have to do, has been a lifeline, a release valve and a beautiful space.

I cannot recommend it strongly enough.

Do you set aside times of quiet for openness to the Holy Spirit? All of us need to find a way into silence which allows us to deepen our wareness of the divine and to find the inward source of our strength. Seek to know an inward stillness, even amid the activities of daily life. Do you encourage in yourself and others a habit of dependence on God's guidance for each day? Hold yourself in the Light, knowing that all are cherished by God.

(Quaker Advices and Queries 4.)

Paris and beyond

I have been meaning to write this post for a while, since returning from Paris where we went to join the action towards the end of the COP21 climate summit, but the busy-ness of the end of term, and then Christmas got in the way!

The media have long since moved on from what might have been discussed or decided at COP21 so this post is distinctly less topical than it might have been. However, in retrospect, perhaps that is no bad thing.... because if climate change is one of the biggest threats facing our future, then the fact that we have stopped talking about it a month after the supposedly historic climate deal is perhaps somewhat worrying. Unless it has escaped my attention, we haven't even started to make the radical changes we might need to, so writing about it now is no less relevant than before Christmas.

Enough has probably been written about the deal itself: the politicians and much of the mainstream media heralding a historic deal; most aid agencies and campaign groups dismissing it as empty words which even if they were legally binding, which they are not, do not go anywhere near far enough to keep us away from the dangerous tipping points of climate chaos. In reality George Monbiot's assessment "By comparison to what it could have been it's a miracle; by comparison to what it should have been, it's a disaster" probably hits the mark.

We arrived in Paris the middle of week two of the talks, and apart from eating good food, drinking good wine and catching up with good friends, we spent much of our time in the "climate action zone" a centre set up for activists and others to come together to listen, learn, discuss, plan, and take action. We arrived to be told it was already clear that the climate deal, if it were reached, would be completely ineffective in facing the challenges ahead.

Such an introduction, you might think, could have made for a very depressing beginning to our few days. Well, actually, no. With that fact accepted as an inevitable reality, the climate action zone, and most of those we met, were focused on creating spaces for real politics and real change. Being in Paris wasn't really about influencing the politicians and diplomats holed up in a private airport, it was about inspiring and enthusing ourselves: the groups and the individuals, the incredibly committed and the vaguely concerned, the very knowledgeable and the slightly confused. It was a space to reflect on the effectiveness of non-violent direct action, to share tips for lifestyle choices, to discuss how to make divestment from fossil fuels a reality, to challenge prevalent economic models, the list could go on ...

And then, to coincide with the ending of the summit, there would be people on the streets saying we too want to be those who have the last word. It is perhaps worthy of mention that the long-planned protests at the summit were, as it turned out, taking place in a particularly difficult context. The state of emergency declared after the Paris terrorist attacks was being used to close down all public protest gatherings: meaning speaking out on the last day of the summit was going to require both creativity and commitment.

Creativity was much in evidence at the day's first protest, where the need for a large gathering was avoided by sending out lots and lots of small groups across the city to take photos and "geolocalise" on a website in order to spell out the message "Climate Justice Peace". Minor technical hitches aside (!) it was a safe, easy way for lots of people to get involved, and even accessible to the reluctant protester.

Warnings about how to handle tear gas and police batons featured heavily in the training for the principle protest of the day, with which organisers intended to press ahead despite its being banned. (although by the time it took place was in the ambiguous position of being "neither forbidden nor permitted"). Escalation, from both protesters and police, is after all very well documented in French protest history! My initial response to the training was, I admit, apprehension: but surrounded by the energy and enthusiasm of others, it soon felt like it would still be the right place to be. And it was. Of all the gatherings that day, this "red lines" protest was the one that felt the most vibrant and alive, while still remaining peaceful and controlled. Coming together to form the "red lines" which cannot be crossed to avoid climate chaos, there was deep symbolism that it is us ourselves, by where we place our own bodies, who can ultimately decide what happens next: but symbolic doesn't have to mean staid, and it was a space full of colour and laughter and hope and joy. Oh and free vegan food and giant inflatable cobble stones, also good additions to the proceedings!

News was received the day before that the final gathering and rally under the Eiffel tower was going to be allowed by the police. Whether it was because of this, or the incredibly thorough security checks on the way in, or just because it was later in the day and you can only sustain that kind of energy for so long, this felt like it lacked some of the vitality of the earlier gathering. That said, I am very glad there was a safe space where everyone who wanted to felt able to participate in making their voices about climate change heard, and I am glad to have stood up to be counted as part of that crowd. For me, perhaps what stood out most about this final gathering was that even before the crowds drifted away, volunteer littler pickers started the clear-up. I was struck by it because it summed up much of what the few days had been about: it is, in the end, what we choose to DO that matters most.

Being in Paris was about knowing we are not alone. It was about believing that there are other possibilities. It was about knowing there is still hope.

That, ultimately, is why I am very glad I was there.

Glimmers of Christmas

A young family on an enforced journey

Through weary days and fear-filled night

But in the midst of a bewildering message from God

A glimmer of a promise still shines bright

A flock of humanity huddled on a hillside

Pushed out into the darkening night

Yet in unearthly melodies of angel song

A glimmer of heaven’s beauty still shines bright

Strange visitors travelling westward

Daring to offer what gifts they might

In pinpricks of starlight in a shadowy sky

A glimmer of a new kingdom still shines bright

Curled in a place fit only for animals

Hope of new life stills a relentless plight

As in outstretched hands of human welcome

A glimmer of humanity still shines bright

Halting but for a moment, as further exile waits

Struggling onwards in hurried flight

Somewhere in hazy dreams of a hidden future

A glimmer of possibility still shines bright

Journeying through the cold, dark pain of exclusion

Too many still live with that first Christmas night

But in the eternal resilience of the Spirit

A glimmer of the incarnation still shines bright

Merry Christmas!

Of Sodom

The Old Testament story of Sodom is not necessarily the most obvious choice of a text to reflect on for a Christian pacifist: God destroying an entire city because of their misbehaviour can hardly be described as helpful in speaking of a God of Peace.

And yet, when part of this text cropped up in our prayer this week, I felt it spoke into the heart of at least one of my reasons for objecting to military action in Syria.

Before the destruction of Sodom, we read an interaction between God and Abraham.

Abraham speaks to God saying “Will you sweep away the righteous with the wicked? What if there are fifty righteous people in the city? Will you really sweep it away and not spare the place for the sake of the fifty righteous people in it?” Genesis 19:23-24. For righteous, a word that perhaps doesn’t have the same power today, we might read innocent lives.

And God replies that for the sake of fifty he will not destroy it.

The dialogue continues, with the number of innocents gradually reducing until God answers “For the sake of ten, I will not destroy it” Genesis 19: 32

And this is where, suddenly, the Sodom story is not so inaccessible to those of us who want to speak for peace.

Will ten innocents die?

Because if so, God’s answer is clear: even in the midst of one of the most violent biblical stories; even in the very earliest days of this people’s walk towards understanding the true nature of the God who loves them; even here, for the sake of ten innocents, disaster is stayed.

Why, oh why, do we still have so much to learn?

Published!

Those of you who read this blog regularly will know I quite like writing poetry.

Beginning to share my writing here was something of a leap of faith - putting something of myself into the public domain (even if I knew it was to a fairly sympathetic audience). I was really pleased to be able to share what I had written beyond just me and a very immediate audience, but nervous too.

Now I have taken the next step.

Several of my recent poems have been inspired by my work at St Chad's Sanctuary. Others naturally link in to my experiences there. So I have collected some together and created a short poetry book. Well, book might be a bit of an exaggeration, more of a pamphlet I guess.

I'm selling them to raise money for St Chad's Sanctuary.

I can definitely acknowledge a thrill in seeing them in print. The arrival of boxes of my "published" (albeit self-published) work was very exciting. I am pleased with how they look, have appreciated the positive feedback, and am guarding against (hopefully) any adverse effects on my ego!

But it is a bit more complicated, because for the first time (I don't count primary school crafts and the like!) I am daring to ask people to part with money in exchange for my creative efforts. And who am I to say my work is worth paying for? It takes a degree of confidence I only partly have to make that assertion.

I do want them to sell though, and it is ultimately the knowledge that all the proceeds will go to a very good cause which I deeply believe in which gives me the confidence to invite people to buy them. It is after all a donation to something worthwhile and if someone appreciates what they get in return, so much the better.

PS ... This is in no way intended as a sales pitch, just my usual rambling reflections on how I'm feeling about my latest venture.

A time for saying no

We have now been at Carrs Lane for well over two years and I think it is safe to say we have learned a lot along the way. There have been predictable challenges and unexpected ones; there have been lessons we have learned relatively easily and those which have been much harder to get to grips with.

One of the things we have continuously struggled with as we have tried to establish our rhythm of life here has been the right amount of busy-ness. To know when it is right to say yes, and when it is necessary to say no. It is a balance we know we haven't always got right: There is so much to do. So much of it is good. 

Expectations we place on ourselves, balanced against the expectations we sense from others. The things we know we could easily give up but which we really value balanced against the things we don't particularly enjoy but over which we feel we have little choice. The pressures of the little things we forget to take into account when planning out what we can fit in. The endless juggling of the many different building blocks which make for a fulfilled life.

All lived in the knowledge that we all have a breaking point and while it may be fine to tip towards it, going through it is not recommended. Like all the other lessons we have learned and are continuing to learn though, this one too needs to be taken seriously, and, two years in, it is one towards which I feel we are making some progress. We are beginning to make more space. Together, and individually, we are learning to value rest as part of our contribution to community too.

This is the context in which, at half-term, instead of ploughing on regardless or catching up on all the jobs that inevitably build up, we decided to just say no. To leave the undone undone and to just go away, right away. Away from endless emails and the distractions of the detritus of life. Away to cups of tea, walks in the countryside and an open-fire. Three weeks back into another busy term, the value of those days, the value of stopping, still holds firm.

Maybe it is an inevitable reality of this life we have chosen that we will always be close to the limits of how much we can handle. Even though it is exhausting at times, I love it this way. Life is rich and full and varied, and much of it I would never want to change.

We are still walking the tightrope but perhaps this year, we are closer to falling off on the right side.

 

I'm sorry I do not know your name

Names are important. They are the words by which we make sense of the world. They are tied up in history, and religion, and culture. They are how we create and receive our identity, or identities. They enable relationship. They are given as a gift from those who love us most.

Anonymity can be important too. A place to hide from who we really are or from who others think we may be. A freedom to express something the identifiable self cannot or will not say. An escape from a reality too painful or too constrained to contain who we have become.

One of the blogposts I wrote during the summer included references to the “Sudanese male” who died in the channel tunnel. There have been others before and since, both here and at every other stage on this arduous journey. There are exceptions, but most, like him, have remained unknown and unnamed.

I was struck at the time by this absence of a distinguishable, personal identity. It was so different from my relationship with the asylum seekers I know: real people, with not just names, but families and histories, with fears and hopes and dreams.

And yet I knew I could not challenge his anonymity by revealing theirs. When I have written about them, I have also concealed their identities behind a protective veil of anonymity. But there is a difference, I think (hope) because they have taken ownership of their anonymity. But his is an anonymity that has been imposed rather than chosen.  It is not the anonymity of protection, but the anonymity of being ignored.

Maybe he would have wanted it this way. I doubt anyone tried to find out. We will never know.

Sometimes

There is a place

A safer space

Where

In the protection of a promise

Anonymity can choose its name

And each can opt

To not be known

To hide

From all they are and cannot be

But what of you

Was this your choice?

To remain forever

Unnamed, unknown

Or were you victim of a system

In which

No-one tried to learn your name

And would you choose that once

Just once,

A friendly voice might whisper

Your name

Was it far from here, and long ago

That someone

Carved

The promise of an identity

Inscribed in love

With all you are and hope to be

This the gift

Of those you knew

Left far behind

To wonder

Where are you now

Who’ll never know your final fate

A better way

Perhaps

That they might live with this

The hope you dared to share

That you might find

A better place

A safer space

 The protective veil

Through which one day

You might just dare

To whisper once again

Your name

The promise of an identity

Inscribed in love

With all you are and hope to be

In the midst of this,

Our nation’s shame

I’m sorry

That I do not know

And cannot speak

Not even once

Your name.