Living in the spaces

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thatcher's place in heaven

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

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

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

But I still believe she is in heaven.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Walking towards Easter

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moving On

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is the Sea

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

The whisper of babbling cliff-side streams

Drowned out

By a wall of waves

A voice that roars

With heart-felt fears

And aching agony

As unyielding cliffs

Say no

To changing and moving

And yet

They do

Rocks hard as

Rock

Yet cracked and worn

Imperceptibly

By mere droplets

While the moon pulls

As heart-strings wrench

With memories and pain

And thus

The ebb and flow

Of half-told stories

Whispered

Through reflected prisms of light

And dark

And the backwash draws

With subtle sighs

Its debris

Into the deep

Each stone

Alone

Dragged

And tossed or torn

And drowning

Yet in this monotony

Or multitude

Of grey

A colour also speaks

And from the depths

The restless roll and swell

Of legacies

And unsolved histories

Never still

Or stopped by will

Twisted

By time and tide

To different meanings

And a hundred half-truths

Which are a whole truth

To him or her

Or you

Or me

Seeking

In the crashes of confusion

To be singled out

And heard

Amidst unceasing energy

Of darkening waves

Or on the bright white froth

That flies on wistful gusts

This is the sea

But up above

The trickle of a tiny stream

Still sings

And the heart soars

Shared stories, personal histories

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

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

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

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

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

What does it mean to welcome?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome

Come well 

Into this space

And be at home

Mine

Yours

Ours

A shared space

Because you are welcome here

Welcome

Walk through 

An open door

Into open hearts

With outstretched open hands

Be here

Be at peace

Be at home

Because you are welcome here

Welcome

Come well 

And come willingly

To receive

Still more, to give

Let us sit together

To share tea and stories

And serve together

Because you are welcome here

This welcome

An invitation

To come and give

A little of yourself

Whoever you may be

Givers and receivers 

Equally

This is love

And you are welcome here

A lesson from Coventry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Am the Way

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enough ramblings for one day, perhaps? 

12000 words

They say a picture is worth a thousand words.

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

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

Happy New Year!

Glimmers of Hope

A distant star

In the blackness of night

A fragile twinkle

Of shimmering silver light

A light the eyes can barely see

And only the soul can feel

Distant, intangible,

Yet close at hand and real

In darkness and in doubting

A glimmer shining through

Other dreamed possibilities

Can still one day come true

Clinging to a brighter vision

Showing there’s another way

A fragile glimmer of hope
Born anew each Christmas day.

Merry Christmas!

A fragile power

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

A Fragile Power

An autumn twilight

Fierce winds whip across the mountain tops

Untamed energy

Nature battered by uncontrollable elements

An invincible, palpable power?

Or is the power

In outstretched wings

That soar on the currents

And choose

Life?

An imposing skyline

Mighty mountains touch the pink-tinged sky

Unyielding rocks

Encapsulating endless time and solid strength

An invincible, palpable power?

Or is the power

In fragile flowers

That cling to the mountain side

And choose

Life?

A deep-seated fear

Spirals of merciless anger and violent retribution

Pervasive terror

Resorting to bloody war and brutal destruction

An invincible, palpable power?

Or is the power

In the humble outstretched hands

That cling to hope and forgiveness

And choose

Life?

God was not in the earthquake

Or the roaring wind

Or burning fire

The fragile power of God

Is seen

Heard

Felt

In the sound of sheer silence

The vulnerable power of God

Chooses

Life

exploring optimism and hope

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There is a major difference between optimism and hope"

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

So what of hope?

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

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

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

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

The challenges of a public diary

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

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

But it is not quite as simple as that.

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

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

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

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

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

Walking the road

A path well-trodden

Stone with footsteps worn

Journeys shared

With those before

Those now

And others yet to come

A path well-trodden

Yet a road walked only once

Journeys converging

Criss-crossing, parting

In solitude together

Carving a way yet to come

A path well-trodden

Where nothing but everything is new

Journeys of discovery

Through tangled undergrowth

And rocky trails

Of adventures yet to come

A path well-trodden

To live, to laugh, to love

Journeys calling

The whisper

Of faith

In the unknown yet to come

A room with a view

And so we have arrived, in Corrymeela on the North Coast of County Antrim, our home for the next year.

Somewhat to our surprise, the weather since our arrival in Corrymeela has been remarkably good: with blue skies and sunshine – albeit with a chilly breeze to keep us on the move when outdoors. Sadly, I didn’t take the camera on Tuesday when we went paddling in the sea, so there is no evidence that we braved the waves, you’ll just have to believe me! 

However, with more sunshine yesterday, another walk, past the beach to the local town of Ballycastle, offered the opportunity for a few photos showing off our stunning surroundings.

Meanwhile, with the bags unpacked, and a variety of silly games to get to know our fellow team members, Corrymeela itself is beginning to feel like home; and Coventry House, home to the twelve one year volunteers as well as a motley collection of others, looks like being a slightly chaotic, hectic and loud place, but a very happy home for the next twelve months.

To pastures new ...

It is two months since we left the Philippines, and having packed a fair amount into the summer, the last adventure is already beginning to feel quite distant ... meaning it must surely be time to set off on the next one!

Once again the bags are packed - this time with a few more jumpers and better quality waterproofs than we took to the Philippines - as we set off to Northern Ireland to join the long term volunteer team at the Corrymeela Community, an ecumenical community promoting and working for peace and reconciliation among the divided communities of Northern Ireland.  

It is an exciting next step. Closer to home certainly, but once again there are new friends to be made and new challenges to be faced. 

And so the blog continues, perhaps with a lower word count than last year, but something makes me think I will still have plenty to say!

Saying goodbye

With this blog now counting over 35000 words, any one still reading deserves my heartfelt congratulations! Thank you for being, in some way, a part of this adventure: I hope you have enjoyed it. Just in case you missed anything, here are the edited highlights courtesy of Wordle:

Tomorrow, almost nine months after arriving in Cebu, we leave the Philippines. It has been quite an experience, and today is a day of very mixed feelings. The next week or so could well prove to be a roller-coaster of emotional highs and lows.

The sadness of leaving, especially knowing the chances are we will never see the people with whom we have shared the last nine months again will be coupled with the sense of satisfaction at having successful completed the main task we were given on coming here and knowing that this is the right time to move on.

The excitement of going home and seeing many family and many friends again will be coupled with the apprehension of going back into a world which is so familiar but as a person changed by having lived a very different experience.

The enjoyment of reminiscing, reflecting and flicking through photos will gradually give way to the excitement tinged with nerves of moving on to new adventures.

So that’s it. The Philippine adventure is over, but plenty more adventures lie ahead. There will be a break from updates for at least a month while we are in Taize, but I guess I’ll probably find plenty more to keep writing about after that.

I leave with lots of wonderful memories and a very large photo collection, and take with me no regrets. It has been a very good year. Salamat Cebu!

So long, and thanks for all the fish!

Charity and Justice - part 2

Charity is something I struggle with. I acknowledge its necessity in a world where injustice and poverty persist and I recognise the positive benefits it can bring to individuals and communities. On the other hand, I am uncomfortable with the presentation of charitable giving as a universal good because while I celebrate its potential benefits, I also fear its dangers. The risks for those receiving charity are well documented, with organisations anxious to show they are providing appropriate and directed assistance and that they are not creating a culture of dependence but rather helping recipients to help themselves; but I fear more for the dangers for those of us on the giving end.

Charity is a necessary evil in a world in which injustice persists. A world which is richer than it has ever been, and yet where children still die of hunger and of treatable diseases. While charity does indeed help some of the victims of injustice, it is not going to bring an end to the persistent injustice which allows the rich to get richer at the expense of the poor sinking deeper into poverty.

If we feel our charitable giving absolves us of our greater responsibilities, as actors in a global system which maintains the oppression of the poor, then it is doing more harm than good. A lot of charity undoubtedly does much good. Meanwhile the effects of the global debt system and the crippling effects of unjust trade continue to do many billions more pounds worth of unspeakable damage.

Charity is never an excuse to allow exploitation to continue. Giving to charity should not be a salve to our consciences to allow life to go on just as it did before. It should not allow us to say, I can continue to live as I do because I have put my pound in the charity box. Rather, it should serve as a reminder that poverty and injustice persist, and as a challenge to fight for justice, equality and change. Giving to charity should not be something we do to make ourselves feel better about the suffering we see as inevitable, but be part of our belief that another world is possible.

Our charitable giving this year has been nine months of our time, and yes, I feel that we have made a difference here. On Tuesday when we handed over the programmes of study and planning that we have spent the year developing to the directors of the eight training centres in the Philippines South province; the reception suggested that our efforts have been worthwhile and are appreciated and valued by those for whom it is intended.

I feel we have made a difference here, but I will not go home thinking I have done my part and done enough. I will go home refreshed and renewed to campaign for justice. I will go home reminded that while the Philippines is not entirely innocent of its own failings; above all else our students have been failed by a global trading and financial system that has kept their country locked in poverty. I will go home knowing that my government can do more to solve the problems in the Philippines than theirs can. I will go home knowing that while giving my time and my money will help these students, the greatest gift I can give them is not my pound in a charity box, nor even my English lessons, but believing in and campaigning for radical change on a global scale.

charity and justice - part 1

At DBTC the badminton court is currently out of action: this is partly because termites are steadily munching their way through the floor boards but primarily because the room is piled high with boxes of books which were sent as charitable donations from the US.

On first appearances, this is a very generous gesture. Most of the books are educational textbooks, sent, undoubtedly, with the very best of intentions to support the education of students in a poorer part of the world. So far, so good. The problem is that, while some of them may be useful, a majority of the books are completely irrelevant and inappropriate, including textbooks for American citizenship courses detailing the minutiae of the American political system, and manuals for outdated computer programmes which are no longer used, not even here. What is more, because the collection is so indiscriminate and disorganized, even those resources which could potentially be useful, take time and energy to find, time and energy which may be better used elsewhere.

Someone has spent a lot of money sending a lot of books which might end up on a bonfire. It is a lesson in the importance of a process of reflection about charitable giving: ensuring donations are directed, appropriate and useful to the recipients. But there are other lessons to be learnt in the badminton court too.

Reflecting a little further, while the shipment of books initially seems very generous, many of the books are clearly out-dated. These are not resources schools in the US are currently using and wish to share with those in the under-funded Philippine Education system: they are books that are no longer wanted and are cluttering up space. They are a gift from our surplus, from what we no longer want or need. They are a gift of that which is no longer good enough for us, but it will do for you. They are a gift which can be given freely because it won’t actually have any impact on our life.

We allow those things that are really worth something to us to touch and shape and change us. If something is really valuable, we give to it not from our surplus but from the depth of our being. Be it time, money, or emotion, what we give to our family and friends comes from deep within our realities, not from what we have left over. If we really care about those receiving our charity, should not the same be true?

When something or someone is really valuable to us, we are prepared to give all that we have; knowing that what we receive in return will more than repay the outlay. Perhaps if we dare to take the risk; giving not of our surplus but from somewhere deep inside ourselves, the return will be beyond what we had imagined; maybe this is what is asked of us when we read “Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap” (Luke 6: 38)

More to follow ...

Holding on to what we've got

Whilst there are undoubtedly things poverty covets from our wealth, there are also many things our wealth could also learn from poverty: not least the valuing of what we have got.

Around the streets of Cebu, all different sorts of repair shops, such as this street-side shoe repair stand, are a familiar sight. Meanwhile, in the UK, where cobblers, tailors and the like were also once common, they have all but disappeared from our high streets. Once, shoes were re-heeled and torn clothes mended. Many items which have become disposable with our increasing wealth were once considered too valuable to just throw away. Here, they still are.

Last summer the zip on our tent broke. Determined not to throw away what was, otherwise, a perfectly good tent, we sought to have it repaired, but in the West Midlands, the second biggest conurbation in the country, we could not find a single repair shop that could do the job. For me it came to symbolise our throw-away culture: these places don’t exist, because there is no market for them. If something is broken, even slightly, the common immediate reaction is to throw it away and buy a new one.

And it goes further still, because not only do we throw away and replace that which is broken rather than seeking to repair it, but we don’t even have to think before discarding something which is no longer flavour of the month even if it is in perfect condition. While on one level I appreciate the existence of charity shops full of quality clothes in near-perfect condition, allowing me to clothe myself very cheaply; on another level, this symbol of extravagance distresses me: we live in a culture where good-as-new is already good-to-go.

Here where incomes are lower and budgets tighter, people have to think twice before throwing things away, because “just buying a new one” might not be an option. There is still a sense that “stuff” is worth something and possessions and materials are valued more highly.

As is common in many schools, here the summer holidays were a time of refurbishment and repairs, among which the wooden floor in the gym was replaced. When the floor boards were taken up, they were not thrown away: the ever resourceful TVED department used them to build beds for the incoming boarders. The alternative wasn’t to “just buy a new one”, it was sleeping on the floor.

 In local shops it is common to buy soft drinks in glass bottles; with the expectation that you will drink them immediately, on site, and return the bottle for cleaning and reuse (like milk bottles in the UK) While clean and sterile, it is not unusual for the outside of the bottles to be scuffed and scratched, something which the western market would perhaps find hard to accept, in a culture where even fruit and vegetables are expected to be a uniform shape and colour. Seeking perfection in what things look like has replaced a real sense of valuing what things are worth.

A sign of extreme wealth; our profligate throw-away culture shows not only a disregard for the planet, but maybe tells us that we have got too much.

Maybe we should throw away a bit less, and share a bit more. 

Cebu, Cebu!

For nearly nine months, Cebu has been home. Now, as we think about heading back to the UK, it is time to remind ourselves how many of the things which have become so familiar are actually so foreign and different; how the street scenes which have accompanied our daily life for the past months are ones of which we may not see the like again, certainly not in the near future, and which are completely alien to many of our friends and family.

Cebu is a city of confusion and contrast.
Overloaded tricycles of questionable road-worthiness jostle for space with sparkling chauffeur-driven four-by-fours. Gated estates of sizeable concrete houses overlook the unstable-looking shacks from where large families spill outside on to the streets. A short walk takes you from air-conditioned shopping malls, a haven from the sun and heat, to outdoor market stalls where waving a plastic bag on a stick keeps the flies away.

It is a city of noise and colour.
Struggling motorcycle engines and a cacophony of horns fill the streets and there is invariably karaoke blaring out from somewhere. Vendors of cigarettes, individual sweets and of course, tropical fruit, brighten the sides of the streets. And then there is the jeepney: noise and colour all rolled into one: with their loud engines and drivers shouting for business and their bright coats of paint with religious images and cartoon characters vying for space.

It is a city of the past and the future.
Cebuanos are proud  of their city's history: the place where the Spaniards first came ashore, planting the first seeds of the Catholicism and bringing the beloved Santo Nino. And the place where the Spaniards were first defeated too, independence dreams before colonialism had a hold. But not far from the 500 year old Magellan's Cross you also see Cebu struggling to find its place in the future: young professionals working late into the night to staff call centres serving the other side of the world; and everybody's fingers permanently glued to a mobile phone.

It is a city of pace and patience.
Always busy, with traffic, with people, Cebu is not a place for staying still, it is a place of movement; but with gridlocked streets and engines too small for the vehicles they propel, it is a place where no-one is going anywhere quickly. It is a place which at first glance might seem in a hurry, but really is taking its time: time to say hello, time to stop and smile.

Cebu is even a city which has its own theme tune (in both English and Cebuano versions). With the Filipinos inveterate love of Karaoke, it is not hard to see where a song like "Cebu, Cebu" came from, and it is a song I have more than once had stuck in my head. I am not sure I complete agree with Dandin Ranillo's assessment that Cebu is "the paradise of the orient" but I salute anyone who thinks that "you can go shopping at Gaisano" (a local shopping mall) and "there's barbecue and puso" (hanging rice) are great lyrics for a song! Maybe, like me, it is trying to sum up something of what this place is like. Maybe it can't. I know I can't.

It is a city of which, even now, I am sure I have barely scratched the surface. It is a city to which, in spite of its poverty and its pollution, its traffic and its turmoil, its frustrations and its failings, I will be sad to say goodbye.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vY1657g6zzM

Out of Eden - Part 4 - Come, go and live!

As you are probably aware, I have been reflecting on the story of the garden of Eden for some time, and have written quite a lot on the subject. Here, to round of the series, is a poem and accompanying picture which tries to draw together some of the themes and ideas from my theological ramblings through Eden, Gethsemane and the resurrection garden.

Leave this fruit

It is not yours

Leave this knowledge

It means nothing to you

Leave this truth

It is time

To discover your own

Go instead

Go, plant and tend

Go, grow and eat

Go, learn from your own realities

And live

Leave your swords

Put down your violence

Leave your fears

Dare to stretch out empty hands

Leave the way free

It is time

All are welcome here

Come instead

Come, approach and see

Come, draw near and taste

Come, eat the fruit of fulfilment 

And live

Leave this garden

It cannot hold who you are called to become

Leave your hiding place

Face the challenges of uncertainty

Leave the centre

It is time

To live on the edge

Go instead,

Go, step out and look around

Go, take risks and be free

Go to your Galilee

And live

It's a year of Jubilee!

Being on the other side of the world, I have, thankfully, been spared much of the hype surrounding the queen’s jubilee celebrations, but now that the bunting has been packed away and the BBC have once again realised there is real news going on in the world, I too have been reflecting on celebrating the jubilee.

The word jubilee has biblical origins. While there is some debate as to the exact etymology of the English word: whether it comes from the Hebrew word “yobel”, a ram’s horn, blown to signal the beginning of the jubilee celebration, or from the Latin “iubilo” meaning shout, the connection with the Leviticus texts seems undisputed.

The Jubilee year, the end of a forty-nine year cycle, the Sabbath of Sabbaths, was indeed intended as a time for celebration: marking the jubilee year by holding street parties in which whole communities come together is probably not too far removed from the original sentiment.  On the other hand, celebrating a system of birth into privilege and the upholding of the inequality of inherited wealth could hardly be more distant from the original idea of the jubilee celebrations.

Written into God’s code for life are policies which combat the cycle of environmental destruction, and break the downward spiral of debt and poverty. The jubilee year is the year when “you will proclaim the liberation of all the country’s inhabitants” (Leviticus 25:10) It is the year in which debts are forgiven, slaves are freed and land which has been bought and sold is redistributed in the name of equality.

While, in Britain, the queen celebrates sixty years of living a privileged life at the expense of others, two statistics have come to my attention this week:

1) The government of the Philippines spends 27.1%, more than a quarter, of its total revenue servicing foreign debt, owed to both foreign governments and multinational private corporations, whose lending and vast interest bills often take advantage of countries' poverty. As a slightly-better-off-than-the-very-poorest country, the Philippines has not qualified for any debt relief. As a percentage of government expenditure, its repayments of overseas debts are now second highest in the world.

2) Last Monday marked the beginning of the new school year in the Philippines. Of the students who began their high school career in Filipino public schools last Monday, statistics suggest 65% will not complete the four years of high school. I know from experience that even many of those who make it to the end, will have been badly let down by a substandard system.

I know that poverty in the Philippines is the result of a complex web of realities of which the repayment of foreign debts is only one strand among many; and that the government spending on repaying its overseas debts, and their interest, is not the only factor which has resulted in the Philippines having a sadly inadequate education system, and many young people being forced by circumstances to drop out before completing school.

Nor do I exonerate the Filipino government, past and present, from its share of the blame in the debt problem: irresponsible governments have borrowed thoughtlessly, and in a country where corruption is rife at every level, I suspect much of that borrowed money, some of which may perhaps have been lent with good intentions, will have been misappropriated. Some of it was probably spent on shoes.

But this post isn’t about levelling blame, because I don’t think that is what the jubilee is about either. The jubilee year is about a fresh start. It is about beginning again, not with the same old divisions and inequalities, but with financial disparities rebalanced and the chance to genuinely start anew. A chance which countries trapped in a web of debt and poverty are never offered.

We live in a world fuelled by unsustainable debt and credit. We live in a world where poverty persists. We live in a world that desperately needs us to be celebrating a real jubilee.

Let’s do it!