to be a (virtual) pilgrim

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

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

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

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

I remember being very pleasantly surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you. 

Little joys

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

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

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

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

Of asylum reform

I don't often let twitter make me cry.

But today the Home Secretary unveils her overhaul of the asylum system. I am spending too much of the day scrolling through twitter and feeling depressed about the state of our nation. I guess there is some light relief from the fact that bumbling around in my echo chamber means that in amongst the sharing of the government's horrendous policy suggestions are the shoots of opposition and resistance.  

I would be the first to acknowledge that it is a system in need of an overhaul. The first to suggest it needs to be made fairer and more humane.

Despite the posturing, these proposals are neither of those things. Please do not be misled by the framing of being compassionate and welcoming to "legal refugees", please do not be sucked into the good immigrant / bad immigrant narrative.

The discourse, and its popularity, is deeply disturbing and all of us, not only those who have the privilege to be actively engaged with those seeking sanctuary should be worried by the direction it takes us. Coupled with the dismantling of our rights to disagree and protest, I fear we are heading towards dark and dangerous times. 

There is so much to say on this subject. And yet, mostly, right now, I have no words.

Except to say this:

These people of whom she speaks are those who have immeasurably enriched my existence. They are my community. They are my friends. 

Today they are being told that they, and those who come after them are a little less welcome, a little less safe.

I am sorry.

A year in a pandemic

I write, you may have noticed, quite a lot of words. But as a whole year of global pandemic, restrictions and uncertainty rolls around I thought I'd try and tell the story another way. So, I have scrolled back through my phone memory and tried to pick out just a few photos, with no words, no explanation, which somehow capture each month. Even in a year where nothing much has happened, I found it quite tricky to narrow it down and choose those which feel like they best encapsulate the year. Originally it was going to be one per month. In the end, I settled for four.

They are, of course, mere snapshots. They do not tell the whole story, but maybe they do tell part of it.

My City

Back in the autumn, arts organisation Maokwo put out a call for participants to take part in a series of creative workshops exploring the theme "My City" across Coventry, Wolverhampton and Birmingham. As it seemed to slot together nicely with some of the themes the Stories of Hope and Home group have been exploring, I decided it would be great for some of us to take part. I'm glad we did: we had some great sessions together, and some beautiful words and images were shared. For me personally, while I was partly facilitating others from the group taking part, it was also nice to be there as a participant: to reflect on and creatively express my own experiences of the city I now call home. The image which kept tugging at my mind, and which hopefully comes through in the image and poem below is how Birmingham is beautiful rather like the underside of a tapestry.

The (online, obviously!) exhibition launched today and is available to view and I'd definitely recommend checking it out (and checking back as they are going to be adding to it in the weeks to come) https://maokwo.com/mycityexhibition

Birmingham 

My Birmingham 

The Birmingham 

That embraced 

And adopted me 

Is 

Beautiful 

I am not naïve 

I know 

It is not 

Picture postcard pretty 

Like 

Bath or Buxton or Bury-St-Edmunds 

But 

It is 

Beautiful 

In all its cultures 

And its colours 

And its confused complexity 

You see 

Birmingham is beautiful 

With a hidden 

Unexpected 

Beauty 

Like the underside of a tapestry 

And 

To see it 

And 

To know it 

Is both 

A privilege and a choice 

An invitation offered 

But 

One which you are free 

Not to see 

Because 

It must be 

Lifted up 

By those 

Who made it 

And who make it 

and who remake it 

Those who sew 

Their very being 

Into 

The fabric of this place 

This sacred space 

This tapestry of stories 

Where 

The stark and the silvery 

The bright and the burnished 

The dazzling and the dark 

Make their mark 

Intertwined 

Not by some divine design 

But 

By each of us 

Unravelling spirals of silken secrets 

Stitched together 

From 

Each fragile thread 

With fraying edge 

Tangled strands 

Of lives 

Loosely looped, 

Stretched taut and tied, 

Tenuously, 

Tightly, 

To oneself and one another 

Thus creating 

A kaleidoscope of colour 

Uncovered 

By courage and compassion 

And somehow 

Unplanned and unpretentious 

There is beauty 

In 

This mess of colourful strands 

Held together 

By histories, humanity, and hope 

As its beauty 

Hangs 

By a thread 

So no 

It may not have chocolate box charm 

Like 

Bakewell or Bamburgh or Bourton-on-the-Water 

But Birmingham 

My Birmingham 

The Birmingham 

That embraced 

and adopted me 

Is 

Beautiful

(Also feel I owe a shout out to my mum and sister who helped provide some of the alliterative place-names when my mind drew a blank!)

When the post comes

We live in a building that doesn't have a letterbox. That means that each day, the postman has to ring the doorbell. 

Early on in the most strict version of lockdown, he was often the only other person outside our household I saw not through a computer screen for days on end. Collecting the post genuinely became one of the highlights which broke up the monotony of the day. The fact that most of the post was for the church not for us was irrelevant ... the postman was another human being!

I do, also, quite like receiving post. I am, like all of us, surrounded by digital communication, and while I like the ease of keeping in touch that the likes of WhatsApp offers, I confess that at times my email inbox feels more like a burden than a source of life! But there is something different about real post and I generally find receiving letters exciting. 

Several times in recent months, I have realised or been reminded that there are people for whom the post arriving evokes very different emotions.

* * * 

Way back in the first lockdown I remember facilitating a discussion with the Stories group about what the struggles of lockdown were, and what were the positives. Knowledge that in those strict early days, everything, including the Home Office had probably more or less ground to a halt led one member to say, and others to agree ... that the post arriving no longer left them feeling really anxious in case it brought bad news.

* * * 

Back in the summer, I sent some post out to the group members ... partly homework, partly just because I, at least, as stated above, like getting post and thought a bar of chocolate and a pen and a few other bits and bobs dropping through the door would be nice. I used, without giving it a second thought, brown A5 envelopes, because that's what I had. They were, all, I think, happy to receive them once they opened the envelopes ... but one or two did mention, next time we met, that they "thought / worried it was from the home office" when they saw it drop through the letterbox. 

* * *

Recently some of the group were speaking to some young adults. We have done a number of these virtual visits recently and they are always immensely powerful. Often, I find, it is not the big overarching experiences which are the most moving, but the small details, the snippets of stories which bring home the realities of seeking Sanctuary. One such moment recently was when an asylum seeker, speaking of the stress of living with constant uncertainty through the process, explained that every time the post comes, if you see it is a brown envelope you worry, will it be a letter from the home office, will they tell you you have to leave your house, will they say they are sending you back to your country where you are in danger.

* * *

I can't really begin to imagine living with that level of daily anxiety.

Knowing all this hasn't stopped me appreciating receiving post, hasn't stopped me enjoying opening letters, hasn't stopped me enjoying greeting the postman with his cheery smile each morning.

It has helped me appreciate that this too is a privilege.

Choosing our narratives

I spend a lot of time thinking about stories: about what stories we tell and how we tell them: about who tells those stories and to whom, and who gets to frame the narratives.

Earlier this week I attended an excellent workshop as part of the Refugee Week Slow Conference which focused on storytelling ... and identifying and unpacking both the power and the problems of inviting and encouraging asylum seekers and refugees to share the first-hand stories of their lives.

Little of what was said was new to me ... this is, after all, what I try to do and while I'm sure I have made many mistakes along the way, I was reassured that much of what I hold to be important was reflected in the speakers' contributions.

A lot of it was about process and not just product. A lot of it was about ownership and agency. 

And a lot of it was about simply creating a space that respects the humanity of each individual. Any of us may sometimes find ourselves speaking as the "representative" of a group or type, but all of us, also want to be heard as speaking simply for ourselves.

Some of that touches on moving away from how migration stories are very often framed: the good immigrant / bad immigrant; worthy / unworthy; legal / illegal narrative. The narrative that starts by suggesting the migrant protagonist of the story must be either victim or villain or hero. A narrative which is unhelpful because most migrants, like most of the rest of us, are none of those, or perhaps a mixture of all of them. Our humanity encompasses our flaws and failings, our suffering and our triumphs. 

*     *     *

In another of my many zoom calls this week, a Lenten liturgy session, we were invited to reflect on forgiveness. Among other things, the person leading commented on the fact that knowing what we do about child development, about the teenage brain, and about everything hormonally, socially, emotionally, that teenagers are going through; they are generally much easier to forgive than adults. She suggested that perhaps we should reflect on how we could learn to offer that same grace that we feel able to give to them to ourselves and one another in adulthood. At least that's my memory or interpretation of it.

*     *     *

So all of these thoughts, and others, have been floating around my mind this week when today I found myself scrolling through the Stories of Hope and Home twitter feed. It is mainly made up of refugee charities and campaign groups, the odd immigration lawyer, with the occasional faith or arts organisation mixed in for good measure. I am well aware it is an echo chamber which doesn't represent public opinion. For at least some of those I follow, today's hot topic was the supreme court judgement in the latest stage in the Shamima Begum case.

In case you missed it: the edited highlights (as far as my non-legal brain understands them) are that this was not a ruling about whether or not she should have been stripped of her British citizenship but on whether she should be allowed to enter the UK in order to make that appeal. And the upshot is that despite acknowledging that it means she will not be able to have a fair appeal process, that is not sufficient reason for her to be allowed to come to the UK to contest the case. For any more than that, Free Movement offers a much fuller commentary of what it is all about.

To my mind there are a few facts which need to be remembered. 

She has Bengali heritage but was born and brought up in the UK and has never lived in Bangladesh, the other country for which she is potentially entitled to citizenship. When she travelled to Syria to join ISIS she was legally a child at just 15 years old. Whether it was her own fault or other wise, she has suffered an extremely traumatic six years including, while still a teenager herself, giving birth to and losing three children.

More than any of that, she is, as should not be forgotten, a human being. This too is a fact.

Alongside the facts there are lots of very, very strong opinions about this case. I know. And plenty of suppositions too. 

Perhaps she was a victim, groomed and abused by others who exerted power over a vulnerable young person. Perhaps she was phenomenally stupid, with consequences that turned to be somewhat more far reaching than the phenomenally stupid decisions of lots of other fifteen year olds. Perhaps she actually intentionally and deliberately acted in ways that were very, very wrong and destructive. 

Perhaps she is still a risk to national security, and perhaps she isn't. Perhaps she should have to face some kind of justice or accountability for her actions. Perhaps that needs to be in the country where, whatever the circumstances surrounding it, she made the decision to travel to a warzone and join the side we hold to be the enemy. 

Perhaps she needs a whole lot of help and support. Perhaps her experiences have given her something she could offer back to others.  

Perhaps some mixture of all of the above is true. Perhaps none of it is

Even in the worst case scenario that she is in fact a very unpleasant person who poses some level of risk to the rest of us ...

There are plenty of unpleasant people who I would still argue should have the right to a fair trial; who I would not want to see stripped of the citizenship of the country of their birth; who I think should still have their human rights respected rather than dismissed as secondary considerations. 

There are plenty of unpleasant people who can still be forgiven, who still have some hope of redemption. 

There are plenty of unpleasant people who are still human.

I wish we as a nation had remembered something of Shamima Begum's humanity before we turned this child into a pariah. Before we decided that someone else was always going to be able to frame the narrative. Before our home secretary, upheld by our highest court, ruled that whoever else is going to be given ownership and agency in telling this story, it won't be her.

(If you want a powerful and coherent explanation of why the removal of anyone's citizenship is problematic: https://www.theguardian.com/books/2018/nov/17/unbecoming-british-kamila-shamsie-citizens-exile)

Transfigured

Today, the Sunday before Lent begins, the lectionary followed by many churches features the story of the Transfiguration. Although the text is a mere 8 or 9 verses long, it is packed with rich imagery and meaning... some, perhaps, relatively self-explanatory; some, perhaps, fairly incomprehensible. Like many bible texts, it is also rich in both promise ... and challenge. 

Having been reflecting on this text during the week there are so many aspects of this texts which interest and intrigue me but I thought I might share my thoughts, in particular, about how the disciples respond to this mountaintop experience. After initially being stunned into silence and inaction, the disciples, or specifically Peter, do finally, respond to the scene unfolding before them. With an offer to set up three shelters. 

Aside from my possibly slightly irrelevantly wondering whether or not they have come prepared for shelter building, there are several things that strike me about what this response seems to symbolise. 

The first is the desire to contain. The transfiguration takes place away from the city, on a mountain top. We can probably assume it feels wild and exposed, and that there is a pretty good view for miles around. Mountain tops are one of the places where we become aware of magnitude, of vastness. They often feel wild and exposed. 

Peter's response is to take this thing which is out in the open, which is somehow wild and uncontrollable, and to put it inside. To draw boundaries around it. To define the space it takes up. Where it begins and where it ends.

The second is the desire to compartmentalise. Here we have Jesus, Moses and Elijah, in conversation with each other. A coming together of these different strands of understanding of the journey towards being in relationship with God. The law, the prophets, the messiah: united in conversation with each other. 

And yet, Peter does not suggest building one tent where the conversation can continue, but three. Separate shelters. To take these overlapping circles which both connect and contradict and to pull them apart, each into their own place. To divide in order to more easily define.  

The third is the desire to prolong or make permanent. Jesus has come away with three of his disciples, leaving behind the rest of them, taking a break from the ministry of teaching and healing, stepping out of a journey towards crucifixion of which he has already spoken. The disciples possibly ought to know by now that Jesus never stays anyway for long. 

But Peter responds by wanting to build here. To create shelter. To cling to the moment. To tie down and hold on to something which was probably only meant to be temporary, only meant to be one part of a continuing experience, to be one more step on the journey.

I think the reason Peter's response to this situation strikes me is because it symbolises something so very deeply human about our response to the divine and the mysterious, something which is easily recognisable because I can see so easily the parallels to how the church as both communities and institutions, to how I (and probably many of us) are tempted to respond too. 

That faced with the vast, wild and uncontrollable nature of God, we have a natural desire to control and contain.

That faced with the incomprehensible and seemingly contradictory expressions of the divine, we have a natural desire to divide and define.

That faced with mountaintop moments of majesty, we have a natural desire to cling to that which is meant to leave us marked and changed but not hold us back from journeying onwards.

Although not explicitly stated, it seems pretty obvious from the text that those shelters do not get built. I suspect we probably shouldn't be building them either. I suspect we too are supposed to come down the mountain. 

Life choices

I was recently trying to answer a question ... I can't remember exactly how it was worded, but the basic premise was why have you chosen to live your life the way you do: community, work, stuff I am involved in ... a life which is a bit less conventional than the one they had, I guess, identified I could be living. 

I think I probably gave a rather waffly answer (no change there then) so this is my attempt to write the (slightly) more coherent (but probably still quite waffly) answer I wish I'd given.

Privilege

One thing I undoubtedly failed to acknowledge but of which I am in fact acutely aware, is the level of privilege which has certainly been a factor in allowing me to make many of the choices I have made. I know that the range of possibilities from which I am able to make my life choices are not something available to everyone and are not of my own making. Not everyone starts out in life with as many options. I am lucky enough to have had access to a good education and have good qualifications to fall back on; I have always had very good mental and physical health; I have a safety net of family and friends who are able to offer me security and support in immeasurable ways should I need it; I have a British passport not because I deserve one but because I happen to have been born here. None of this is of my own doing.   

Perspective

I think one of the reasons I struggle with this question is I'm not sure I feel that my life is so very unconventional, or radical, which was a word that also came up in that conversation. I have lots of the trappings of a comfortable middle class life. I know plenty of people who are doing far more radical and impressive things with their lives, who have made choices I can't even begin to contemplate.

So much depends on where we are looking. Some of those who did their teacher training at the same time as me have probably climbed the career ladder and are head teachers by now (not that I envy them that). But Martin Luther King had lead the civil rights movement and got assassinated at about my age so ... 

Prayer

I did talk about prayer. I find it quite difficult to talk coherently about the importance of prayer in shaping my life ... although those of you who follow this blog will know I have used a good many words in the attempt! I genuinely believe that a commitment to a regular routine of prayer has been an essential element in shaping the life I lead. Not as a direct cause and effect, "Jesus told me today to do this so I did" but in some way that is deeper and more mysterious than that.

Partly it's about stopping. About having conscious time when I am not 'doing' am simply 'being'. There is something in that of accepting not being in control, not having to do everything.  

Partly it is about experiencing the unconditional love of God. There is something about knowing myself to be loved which both helps me cope with all the stuff I cannot do, all the problems I cannot solve as well as feeding my capacity to offer my own imperfect version of that love to others. There is something about love which overcomes fear: the fear of the future, the fear of letting go of some of our security blankets, the fear of the other, the fear of the unknown.

I am, I hasten to add, casting no judgement on the many amazing people doing phenomenal things with their lives in whose lives prayer does not feature. We are all on our own journeys. This is mine.  

Process

All of this has been and still is a journey. I can look back and know I am not the person I was ten years ago, or twenty years ago. I hope I will say the same ten and twenty years from now. Each decision feeds other decisions. My life hasn't involved any major u-turns, any complete re-orderings of my values, principles or lifestyle, any starting again from scratch with a different worldview. 

I wrote that and then realised I did at one point go from teaching in an academically selective private school on the outskirts of Paris where I could have fresh baguette for breakfast and visit the Eiffel Tower on a school night to living in a religious community and teaching in a vocational training centre for disadvantaged young adults in the Philippines which could, on the surface, look like a pretty major shift!

But overall, it still feels true to say that life hasn't been, mostly, about big decisions, but about little steps which have engendered experiences which have lead to other little steps. 

Certainly that is true of my passion and commitment to attempting to be in solidarity with those who have sought sanctuary in the UK. When I moved to Birmingham I knew little about those issues. I offered to volunteer at the Sanctuary, not because I cared deeply about refugees, but because I was looking for volunteering opportunities that would use my gifts and they needed English teachers and I thought I could probably do that. It was the people I met, the stories I heard, the friendships I made that brought me to where I am now. 

One foot in front of the other. Step by little step, it is a journey which feels like it has taken and is taking me to somewhere very beautiful and exciting. There's the risk of all sorts of cliches and potential internet memes in this, but, from experience, it feels true. Each step leads to the next one.

I really really wanted to come up with another word beginning with p to make my final point, but unless I fall back on privilege again, I can't think of an appropriate one.

So the other struggle I have when answering this question is that I wonder whether it comes from a place of others feeling like I am making a huge sacrifice by the way I have chosen to live. And that's just not how it feels from where I am standing.   

OK, I acknowledge, probably (although nothing is ever guaranteed) I could have more material wealth than I have if I had made some different choices along the way. But I don't feel like I am making any great sacrifices, that I am experiencing any hardship. I still live an extremely comfortable, privileged life.

I do work hard, mostly. I do witness pain and suffering and there is a cost to that. I do get angry and frustrated at a church, society and world which I believe could be so much better. I do at times feel powerless and occasionally overwhelmed. And yes, life can be draining and exhausting. (But hey, my other option was being a teacher and most of them are permanently tired too!)  

But all of that is far, far outweighed by the fact that when it comes to all the things that really matter, my life has been immeasurably enriched by the encounters and experiences that I have been privileged to have. The main beneficiary, the person who gets the most from the way I live my life is, undoubtedly, me.

I am not saying I am happy every moment of every day. My life involves tears as well as lots and lots of laughter: and I wouldn't want it not to. But on balance, at a deeper level, I am living a life which brings me great joy. 

I wouldn't exchange it... But nor am I content to stand still. I know there are more steps ahead. I don't know what they are yet. I trust they will also take me to places which are even more beautiful.

Colour Scheme

Sometime I feel inspired with creative ideas. More often, I kind of want to do something creative but am short on ideas as to what to do or where to start. A blank canvas and empty paint palette can be somewhat daunting.

So a couple of weeks ago (or maybe a little longer than that now) I tried something. I asked those I live with to "name a colour" "and another". I stopped when I had four colours: blue, orange, purple, turquoise. 

Putting those four colours and nothing else on a paint palette at least gave me somewhere to start.

So I painted this which, to be honest, I wasn't overly enamoured with, but I'm sharing it anyway because it was part of a process.

Over the next couple of weeks, I stuck with that select palette. I returned, several times, to sit down again with those same colours and see what happened. These did.

I like some more than others. Perhaps you do too. More importantly, though I enjoyed creating them. And although I know "its about the process not the product" is a bit of a teacher thing to say, it is, in fact, true.  

I'm open to suggestions for a next colour scheme to explore.

Praying together (differently)

This week has been the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity, a time always marked in Birmingham by #pray24brum, an event I have been actively involved in organising for the last few years.

As various phases of pandemic and lockdowns have evolved, so had the plans, but by the back end of last year, in amongst everything else, it had certainly ended up very much on a back burner as we all dealt with, ya know, global crises and stuff! By early January, with it becoming clear that if it happened at all it would have to be entirely online, I at least, was questioning whether we had the time, energy and capacity to pull together something meaningful and prayerful which would add anything extra to the plethora of online stuff already out there. 

But a few conversations and emails later we made the decision to press ahead with a very different #pray24brum. I am, now, very glad we did.

Filling 24 hours of digital content, at a time when churches are already busy and trying to adapt to yet another new way of supporting their communities, was undoubtedly unrealistic: but the 24 lived on in an invitation to pray for 24 minutes at some point during the two days. Churches and groups were invited to prepare and lead 24 minutes of online prayer, but there was also an invitation for people to step away from their computer screen and commit the time to praying for 24 minutes in whatever way they wished, alone, in their household, but in some mysterious way connected to a community. The image of "a patchwork of prayer to cover the city" evolved.

In the end there were times of prayer led by 18 different groups. Something in the time, effort and prayer that all those different groups put into preparing their slots served as a reminder that there are others who really value this event too. Facebook insights and twitter analytics notwithstanding we have no idea how many people really engaged with the online content. We have even less idea how many people may have taken up the invitation to set aside their own 24 minutes of prayer. Perhaps none of that matters. Perhaps what matters is simply that it happened. 

And for me, personally? This event has always been a very important one. I love the constancy of our regular routine of prayer but #pray24brum has always been a boost, a little reminder as we start a new calendar year that we join with others, across different traditions and expressions, who are committed to and believe in the importance of prayer. 

And yes I have missed physically being with others, people I know, people I don't, people I see only once a year but who I have come to appreciate sharing in prayer with: almost a little like going on a retreat or something, although it is only as I write this that I've come to think of it as such. And yet, albeit through a computer screen, I did feel like I was once again connected to and praying with those people. 

I am pleased that I was able to set aside time to focus on the event, just as I would have done if we were meeting in person. I am not saying the rest of life entirely stopped for two days, it never does, but most of my diary was intentionally blocked out to spend two days ensuring all the content was posted and shared as it should be, and praying. It would perhaps have been easy this year to just "have it on in the background" and I appreciate that for some that may have been the right way to engage. For me, it was valuable to take the computer, stop (mostly) trying to do other things at the same time and just engage with the content and pray. It was valuable, in the breaks between social media, to go out for a couple of short walks still focused on the idea of praying for Birmingham, ... and it was valuable to watch the snow fall with a slight sense of relief that no contingency plans were required!

I am very glad that #pray24brum was able to happen this year, albeit differently. I am very glad to have been part of it.

(Most of the content from the two days, should you be interested, is available on the Birmingham Churches Together Facebook Page)

The best of winter

 

Winter isn't, generally, my favourite time of year.

That said, ever since I spent a year living somewhere the weather never really changed very much and the days were all more or less the same length, I promised myself I would remember to enjoy the turning of the season and the changes they bring.

And so while I am ready for grey days and dark evenings to give way to the spring, here is my celebration of the best of winter ... Walking beneath the pale winter sun amidst crisp white snow followed by curling up with a cup of tea in front of a fire. 

If I was a better artist the blue should probably have shone through more in that sky, and a good book should probably have made an appearance too.

Everyday Goals

I am not really one for making new year's resolutions. This year, even more so.

Equally I think there is a place for looking back and looking forward: for thinking about what will help make the year ahead, despite its challenges, as full of life as possible.

This year I have written myself a list of "everyday goals" and posted it on my bedroom wall. 

• Write something
• Pray
• Go outdoors
• Do something creative
• Have intentional non-screen time
• Connect with friends or family
• Read something
• Complete a task
• Be thankful

I haven't written it to put myself under more pressure. I am not necessarily expecting or even intending to fulfil all of these everyday goals every day. That isn't the point. Nor is it an exhaustive list ... of course there are other things that bring me joy too.  

But they are the fruit of reflecting on what are the things that, when I consciously set aside time to slot them into my days, bring me satisfaction and joy. And they are all achievable, even during lockdown, and they are all within my control, not reliant on anything or anyone beyond myself. 

Posting them on my wall is a visual reminder to stop and make time for these things which I know bring me life, to try to hold them in balance with each other and the other things that I know I have to do.

So far, so good. (And yes, I know there's a lot of the year still to run, but I see no harm in celebrating small victories!)

The year that was 2020

On the last day of 2019 I went off on my own for a long walk along a very beautiful coast path in Cornwall before meeting back up with the group of friends with whom I was on holiday: a holiday that involved lots of good food and good conversation, some spectacular views, a fair amount of silliness and lots of laughter and signs of precious friendships. 

It was also, officially, my last contracted day at St Chad's Sanctuary, a place that had been interwoven with my story of living in Birmingham for the preceding six and a half years: a rupture that felt, and still feels, right, but which was nonetheless tinged with much sadness.

For reasons I both have and haven't written about, both public and personal; I knew, even then, that the year ahead would present some interesting challenges. But nowhere did I anticipate quite the ones it did!

It feels somehow strange, now, to look back on the first couple of months of the year: that "normal" time, with all the interactions and activities I completely took for granted before everything was turned on its head. January and February feel both so long ago because March to December lasted for approximately five thousand years, and yet somehow tantalisingly close because so little has happened in the meantime. Either way though, I struggle, now, to think of them as part of the same entity as the pandemic phase of the year. When I was asked, recently, about highlights of the year it definitely took a while to click that could in fact include things before these covid times! 

So here is my best attempt at a brief (not one of my strengths, bear with me!) month-by-month review of the year that was 2020.

January: Quite a lot happened ... but among other things I started my new job with Birch Network. The job hasn't entirely gone to plan since, (because ya know, pandemic and stuff,) but I remain very glad that I get to be part of this organisation for whom I have a great deal of respect and whose principles and values I share.

February: The highlight of the month was, most definitely, the Stories of Hope and Home residential to Wales which was a very intense but truly beautiful few days: the building of a family. With the benefit of hindsight I'm even more glad we didn't think 'oh lets just wait until Easter / summer when the weather will be better' and thus we made that truly special trip happen before all the shenanigans that followed. 

March: Started out as a largely "normal month" ... The Stories group continued to grow and welcome new members. The learn and play group which had folded when I left the Sanctuary restarted at Carrs Lane. All sorts of different people came and went in the flat. And then, overnight, everything changed and by the end of the month the city centre, and the flat, had largely fallen silent and all of life became suddenly very, very different. The desire to be able to get out of the city centre was strong enough to persuade me back on to my bike for the first time in a long time ... building my confidence and stamina as a cyclist is definitely one of my big positives of the year. 

April: My twin abiding memories of April are that the sun shone more or less continuously ... and that all of life moved online. Along with the rest of the world I discovered zoom (zoom fatigue would not come until later) Everything and everyone moved online: groups and classes; an entire pilgrimage which transferred to virtual space better that I could have imagined; quizzes, more quizzes ... And if there was a definite lack of real human contact, there were also, at least in those early days, in the realisation of our need for community and contact, many opportunities to pick up threads of relationships across time and space.  

May: With lockdown looking like a long haul, and new routines at least partly cemented in place, May was the month for undertaking various projects: I finally embarked upon the time-consuming but mostly very enjoyable process of editing all my blogposts to turn them into a book. There was a significant sound and video editing project for Stories of Hope and Home and one bathroom and one bedroom in the flat got painted. Although, thinking about it, some of those things definitely at least overlapped into June. It all sort of blurs doesn't it?!

June: And then just like that, we were allowed to see people again! I like to think I'll never again take for granted the possibility of going for a walk with friends, but I guess once this is all a distant memory, I probably will. There were some very impressive thunderstorms too (I can attest that there is a particular joy to dancing barefoot on the roof in torrential rain!)  

July: At the beginning of the month I met some of the Stories group, in person, for the first time since March: something that would continue, with various walks in different parks and green spaces throughout the summer and early autumn. Some other stuff happened, probably. Towards the end of the month we wound up both the school kids and mums and tots zoom groups, and evening prayer also closed down for a summer break.

August: With the restrictions eased, but the evidence all pointing to outdoors being far safer than in, August was flanked by two camping trips beginning and end ... the first in perfect sunshine, the latter a good inculturation experience for the stories group as we kept smiling through wind and rain. In between there was some other stuff, including a couple of days away with friends and a couple completely on my own, both of which helped recharge my batteries.

September: It was lovely to have Lydia back and to celebrate her turning 18 which, despite restrictions was a lovely evening with perhaps more cocktails than was really very wise! It was lovely to also welcome Orla back to live with us again. A bit more community as we headed towards autumn and the inevitable impending return of stricter restrictions felt like a very good thing.

October: With risk assessments written and rewritten, October was the month that the Stories group finally started meeting again at Carrs Lane (briefly, until the next lockdown interrupted three weeks later!) which was wonderful. Lydia and I also welcomed the junior church children back: there was noise, and paint, and a reminder that if everyone shared as much joy about church as these small people, churches would be in a much better place! Plus the online art course I joined was another October highlight. 

November: My memory tells me I spent most of November stuffing envelopes... which is not entirely true but I did put together advent packages with an activity a day for more than sixty children which amounts to enough envelopes for me to have got to the point where I was literally dreaming about them! Still I guess it made good use of lockdown 2.0. It was also the month in which the Stories group did our first school visits for a long time, albeit via an internet connection.  

December: By the final month of 2020 I was exhausted ... looking back from a better place on the other side of a Christmas break, I think I had reached the brink of burnout. But in the midst of the tiredness, December also had any number of little highlights thrown in: delightful junior church sessions, walks and cycle rides with friends including some I hadn't seen for months, random fun for no particular reason, the joyful photographic evidence that my advent parcels to families were definitely worth the effort, some lovely sessions with the stories group including welcoming our first new member for a long time, a few opportunities for some very cold paddling, a lovely Christmas day celebration, and a much needed break. 

It wasn't what any of us hoped for or expected, but looking back, it wasn't all bad either! 

Bring on 2021!

When I came in from the year

For Christmas I received Kate Clanchy's book "How to Grow your own Poem". I haven't read it all yet, in fact, I have barely dipped into the beginning of it. I guess it is not a book to be read at one sitting, or read only once. Already I can tell her ideas about writing poetry resonate closely with my own.

The basic premise of much of the book seems to be one I have used often as a teacher ... to take an existing poem as a model, and make it your own. So this, my first poem of a new year is inspired, at least in part, by her, and (very, very loosely) by Edip Cansever's poem "The Table" 

When I came in from the year

And took it off

I did try

To hang 2020 on its peg

As I should

The latest in a neat, long line

But

Somehow

It missed

And fell to lie

Crumpled on the floor

In a heap

And I found

I scarcely had the energy

Even

To lean down

And pick it up

And shake it out

And put it in its place

And yet if I had

Hung it 

As I should

Perhaps you would

Only ever see

The smooth

Drab

Outerside

But from

Its heap on the floor

We saw

Glimpses

Of its lining

And some

It is true

Is dull and grey and practical

And heavy

Very heavy

But

Someone, somehow, at some point

Had also stitched

An inner

Patchwork

Layer

Too

Multi-coloured

Many hued

And in that crumpled heap

That I

barely wanted to reach down and touch and shake out and hang up

That

Too

was visible

Each bright, mismatched remnant

Each vivid, tattered scrap

The course roughness

And the silken smooth

An unplanned jumble

With frayed edges

As patchwork

Perhaps was meant to be

Before it became

Some neatly crafted art

And each vibrant-coloured snippet of memory

Held together

By fine, silver threads

Which

For all their apparent fragility

Would not

Could not

Did not

Break

So when I do

In fact

Dig deep

Lean down

Pick up

The coat

I think

This time

This one

This year

I’ll hang it

Inside out

Happy New Year! 

Where there is doubt - Christmas Poem 2020

It strikes me that this year's Christmas poem turned out to be very much "of its time", a reflection of something of what 2020 has felt like ... to me, at least, and I suspect to many.

Perhaps it is appropriate that it draws in a line which almost made an appearance in a poem I wrote back on Easter Sunday. 

There is possibly some theological point to make here about resurrection and incarnation but I can't quite think what it might be. 

But that aside, it feels fitting and entirely understandable that words which resonated way back in April when we all (or many) of us still sort of believed (or wanted to) that this might all be over in the next couple of months continue to resonate now many months later when things are still, well, not where most of us would like. 

Enough preamble.

When our once solid ground feels like shifting sand 

When nothing, it seems, goes quite as planned 

When all that once seemed certain becomes filled with surprises 

Somehow we find that 

The world still turns and the sun still rises 

When we begin to wonder whether or not we can cope 

When we question what signs remind us there’s hope 

When we scan the night sky seeking flickers of light 

Somehow we find that 

Out in the darkness the stars still shine bright 

When too much of humanity seems guided by hate 

When too many are carrying too heavy a weight 

When we wonder or we weep at our human endeavour 

Somehow we find that 

The love of our God still endures forever

Merry Christmas!

When Mary said Yes

Every Tuesday we have evening prayer and a discussion focused on next Sunday's gospel. As part of it, we take turns to prepare a short reflection on the biblical text. I'm not planning to share them all here, but this week I thought I might.

This week we reflect on Luke chapter 1 verses 26 to 38: the story of the annunciation. It is a passage which I love. Once you get past all the slightly kitsch images associated with it, I think it is rich and deep and beautiful.

Like many overly familiar passages, it is easy, I think, for some of both the promise and challenge of this encounter between Mary and God’s messenger to get lost, consigned to being a footnote in the Christmas story, an excuse for a blue-eyed, blond-haired angel with tinsel on their head to appear in the nativity play.

But it is so much more than that! And there are quite a number of things I could pick out to focus on. Including this: 

Gabriel’s arrival in and departure from the scene are mentioned, but I have often wondered how long this messenger of God stayed at Mary’s side. For me, this is much more than a mere irrelevant technicality: it speaks to the manner and means by which God communicates with humanity. I think we are usually tempted to assume that Gabriel stays for roughly the length of time it takes to read this biblical passage straight through, or, at a push, to sing the Angel Gabriel carol. It gets reduced to an instant and immediate encounter. Mary at home, God interjects with a message, which she hears, understands and accepts, and that’s it, done and dusted … and back to the dusting!

In understanding it thus, it can feel so alien to our own experiences of God, which, speaking for myself, are rarely so instantaneous, rarely accompanied by bright flashes of light and jolly bells ringing in the background. It becomes a beautiful story, but not one to which we easily relate.

But what if, then, the annunciation didn’t happen like that at all. What if the different phases of Mary’s reaction, and the different promises offered by the angel happened not over a couple of minutes, but say a couple of months.

What if Mary’s journey from fear, to total incomprehension, to eventual acceptance of God’s promise and finally to her commitment to serve happened not in the space of the few sentences to which it has been reduced but through days or weeks of gut-wrenching prayer and struggle.

What if, even, this Gabriel, whose name means “my strength is in God”, was not some otherworldly being but the whispered voice of her conscience inside her head; or a friend or neighbour who accompanied her through said struggles to understand how God was calling her to something both deeply human and at the same time extraordinary: inviting her to bring God’s presence into the midst of humanity.

What if, God is still sending messengers who stay for as long as they need to, and who we are more likely to hear if we dare to strip away the glorias and the medieval art. What if God is still calling us to things which invoke first fear, then total incomprehension, calling us in a whispered voice to make the same final step that Mary did … to acceptance and commitment: steps we are only able to take if we keep listening long enough to work through the fear and incomprehension first. Steps which lead us towards actions which may be both deeply human and at the same time extraordinary: inviting us too to bring God’s presence into the midst of humanity.

It may be heresy to say so, but I sometimes wonder how many people said no before Mary dared to say yes. How many others were offered this promise and did not hear it, or turned away from it … I can’t even say I blame them because I’m not convinced at all I haven’t done the same at times! Not in a “will you give birth to my son” way but in a “will you convey this promise of God’s presence to the world around you” way.

I still have so much more to say (but I know this is already more than long enough)! Much of it is about freedom and choice, about a call and promise which is never imposed, about possibilities of new life.

But perhaps much of the essence is already covered here. Because it all relates to this same idea: that in dressing this up as an ethereal encounter, focusing on how different it looks to our reality we lose the deep humanity of it, to which we can perhaps relate. In the church’s temptation to either dress Mary up as pure, perfect, and ‘holier than thou’ or reduce her to a walk-on part only really mentioned at Christmas, we lose her deep humanity, to which we can perhaps relate.

And in so doing we lose the challenge it demands of each of us. And is so doing we also lose the promise it offers to each of us. The challenge and the promise that the incarnation, as well as being a one-off, once-for-all-time historical event is also a reality in which we are each called to play our part: giving birth to God’s presence in the world.

Tired

Whilst there are, of course, plenty of things that I don't write about here (for a whole variety of reasons including the fact that no-one needs to be bored by the minutiae of my daily life!), I have always aspired for it to be a relatively honest and authentic glimpse into the life I am trying to live.

Right now, I think that means acknowledging that I am tired. Not the "I need a good night's sleep and I'll be fine in the morning" kind of tired. Something deeper than that.

This is not an easy thing for me to admit: even to myself. Perhaps saying it here in a public space is almost easier than admitting it in the hidden recesses of my own mind.

I like being able to keep going and keep busy. I have, I know, acquired something of a reputation for boundless, tigger-like energy. I have made no secret of the fact that, rightly or wrongly, purpose and productivity matter to me. 

And I'm not saying any of that has entirely deserted me. I am still saying yes to projects which excite me and inspire me and which have the potential to do good. I am still putting the same energy into singing and telling stories to little people with actions and silly voices as I ever have. I was still mad enough to paddle in a freezing stream at the weekend. I am still trying to be meaningfully present to the people who I care about.  

But I am tired. 

I recognise that some of things I am doing are costing me more energy than they usually would. I have temporarily lost at least some of my creative spark. I am, perhaps, not always being as patient as I have aspire to be. I definitely haven't replied to all the emails I should have done! 

I am not intending to use this space to analyse all the reasons or work out the solutions ... though I have been doing plenty of both in my own head. I am certainly not trying to compare whether I have it harder than anyone else: trust me, I know plenty of people who have it much, much worse than me, but I also know comparison isn't always helpful. I am not seeking sympathy or advice. 

I am just trying to be honest to how I feel right now because that in itself matters.

Happy Advent

 Happy Advent!

Sunday marked the beginning of Advent and the start of a new church year. Also, therefore, the end of ordinary time.

I thought I might be able to write something profound and maybe even poetic about what an extraordinary, ordinary time it has been. And the paradox that, in some ways, what has made it extra-ordinary is how very, well, ordinary it has been: how very mundane and dull and lacking in the extra-ordinary things which contribute to making life, well, ordinary! 

It didn't happen. Who knows, it might, but it probably won't and even if / when it does, the moment will have passed. 

And so we arrive in Advent... a season for which I have a particular soft spot, perhaps because I feel it gets so squeezed and forgotten as the preparations and pre-emptive celebrations of Christmas. 

I wonder whether there's any chance of somehow "doing it better" this year when so much of the usual December trappings have been stripped away." After all, I / we have had plenty of practice for Advent this year ... a season which is all about waiting and anticipation and looking ahead to something better to come. 

I'm kind of hoping so, but am yet to really figure out how. Ask me in a month.

playing with colour

A couple of weeks ago, in my latest attempt to inject some creativity back into my life, I joined in with a short online art course / challenge / programme. 

I didn't really know what I was expecting, but it was free so I figured if it didn't work for me, it didn't really matter and I could just give up. As it turned out, I really enjoyed it. It's hard to really pinpoint what I appreciated about it. It certainly wasn't a technical course about how to draw or paint: I didn't learn lots of new skills. Instead I guess I'd describe it more as something of a reflective process, about who we are and why we make art, not so much the what and the how. 

Mostly it was about process, not product: but this is what I created on the final day and a couple of things I've done since.

 (you can't tell here because the images are all the same size, but this last is a very large canvas: bought back in March thinking I'd need things to fill all that free time in lockdown. It didn't really work out like that, but now it is finally covered in paint and I quite like it!)