rejoice

 

Susie arrives later today; Noah and Elijah tomorrow; and on Friday all five of us head off to my brother’s wedding.

My brother is getting married, for the first time, thirty years after he was my best man.

His wedding was the first thing that crossed my mind—‘No, no, no! ****!’—when I smashed up my shoulder exactly three weeks’ out from the big day.

My goal for Friday is to be able to put my shirt on without assistance. Not that there is anything wrong with needing assistance; but setting goals can be useful for physical rehab, as long as we hold them lightly enough that our spirits aren’t crushed if we don’t meet them. I still don’t have a functioning left arm; and after two less-painful days, it is more painful again today; so, we shall see.

I’m looking forward to seeing everyone. My mother and sister will likely both be in wheelchairs for at least some of the day; my father, walking with the aid of a stick; my arm in a sling. The point is not that my brother should have married sooner—we would all be in these conditions now, regardless of a wedding—but that we are all only ever temporarily not disabled.

The body is miraculously designed to renew itself of many (not all) things. I give thanks for the incredible work of surgeons, doctors, and nurses. And I believe that prayer, and anointing with oil for healing, both play a part too. My shoulder will mend; and, in time, something else will fall apart.

We are not meant to be self-sufficient. We are meant to be interdependent, and to care for one another. To enable one another to participate, as fully as we—together—are able; given actual constraints, and the imagination and will to transform our environment. To experience abundant life, in the fleeting and seasonal nature of our existence.

Which is why the obscenely rich insisting that those who are disabled should carry the burden of the cost of such transformation by themselves, alone, is so comprehensively lacking in humanity.

We are all only ever temporarily not disabled.

 

abundantly

 

I like to sit in the stillness of the gathering dark, and pray. This evening—indeed, all day—I have been thinking about some words of Jesus, ‘The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.’

I am holding those who have suffered loss before the Light that shines in the darkness; before the Life that death can grasp at but not hold; before the Door to healing and wholeness, shelter and sustenance; whose name is Jesus, which means ‘God saves.’

We learn to recognise thieves and bandits; and to recognise God, as revealed in Jesus, as the antithesis of the thief. In Jesus, we are delivered, sometimes from death (who can say how many times?) and ultimately through death to life that death can no longer touch.

May you rest in peace this night; and rise up in the morning.

John 10.7-10

7 So again Jesus said to them, ‘Very truly, I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep. 8 All who came before me are thieves and bandits; but the sheep did not listen to them. 9 I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture. 10 The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.

 

evidence

 

Love and joy and peace and patience and kindness and goodness (or generosity) and gentleness and faithfulness and self-control are not natural, and we need to stop pretending that they are.

People are brutal, towards other people and towards themselves. The UK statistics on domestic violence, and suicide, and poor mental health reveal this; before ever we get to shootings by quasi- law enforcement officers, or drones and missiles fired, in other parts of the world.

Love and joy and peace and patience and kindness and goodness (or generosity) and gentleness and faithfulness and self-control are supernatural—evidence of God with us; and for us; and, through us, for those around us; which the Church calls the Holy Spirit—and we need to start naming them as such, and inviting people to respond.

If you have ever known any of these, you have experienced the touch of God upon your life.

 

bread

 

Gospel reading set for Holy Communion today: Luke 11.5-13

One time, Jesus told a parable (a story, to get under our skin) about the gift of God’s Holy Spirit to our own life-breath, which is small and must be exhaled—let go—time after time.

The story begins with a confession: a friend of mine has arrived, and I have nothing to set before him.

This is the fundamental starting point, in this story about ‘bread,’ by which, here at least, Jesus is referring to spiritual sustenance. For we can make physical bread—so many varieties!—to meet physical hunger; but we cannot make spiritual bread. All we can do is receive such bread from God, and share it.

This is why Jesus goes on to say we must ask and seek and knock on God’s door—and the grammar he uses is that we must keep on asking and keep on seeking and keep on knocking—not because God must be persuaded that we deserve bread (yet again! How many times must I bail out this sponge on my resources!?) but because we cannot make this bread for ourselves, and because it does not keep (the manna God provided in the wilderness for the people Moses brought out from under slavery in Egypt turned maggoty if they tried to keep it overnight) and because we need to learn to trust that God will provide this bread—give us this day our daily bread—every day of our lives.

For as long as God gives us breath, so God will also give us the bread of the Holy Spirit.

Still breathing? Still fed.

What is this spiritual bread?

It is a spiced fruit-loaf: love and joy and peace and patience and kindness and goodness (generosity) and faithfulness and gentleness and self-control, when we need any of those—none of which we can create of ourselves. You cannot add an ounce of love or joy or peace to the world by wishing or trying harder; but you can receive them all, in greater measure than you can possibly imagine. Receive them, and share them; give them away today, and discover they are replenished tomorrow.

Over the past year-and-a-half, we have seen a steady stream of people walk through the doors of our church, because they are spiritually hungry, and hoping to be fed. So hungry, they ache; so hungry, they can’t even articulate their hunger, but they know it in their bones. And the question that interrogates me more than any other is, Do we have anything to set before them?

The answer is no, nothing, unless it is the bread that God alone provides.

If we are good people or good neighbours or good friends, who want to do what we can to help a friend in need, then that is good but no different from most people I know and any other door someone might walk up to. The only distinctive thing we can offer is spiritual bread.

The testimony, ‘I have nothing to offer you, but I know Someone who does!’

The testimony of times when we have been fed with the bread of heaven. Peace in an anxious world. Gentleness is a harsh world. Self-control in a vengeful world.

This is why people walk through the door. Because they are hungry for bread the world cannot give. And, truth be told, neither can I. But I can teach you how to ask, day by day. Give us this day our daily bread.

And if we are to know what kind of bread they need—whether peace, or joy; patience, or goodness—we need to get to know the road they have arrived on, the chance accidents and obstacles that have prevented them from arriving earlier than midnight. We must learn to listen, before we speak, that we might speak choice words. To cleanse and refresh with water, and anoint with healing oil. To set a table, and pull up a chair. And then to fetch bread; and say, now, go and do likewise.

Luke 11.5-13

5 And he said to them, ‘Suppose one of you has a friend, and you go to him at midnight and say to him, “Friend, lend me three loaves of bread;
6 for a friend of mine has arrived, and I have nothing to set before him.”
7 And he answers from within, “Do not bother me; the door has already been locked, and my children are with me in bed; I cannot get up and give you anything.”
8 I tell you, even though he will not get up and give him anything because he is his friend, at least because of his persistence he will get up and give him whatever he needs.
9 ‘So I say to you, Ask, and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you.
10 For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened.
11 Is there anyone among you who, if your child asks for a fish, will give a snake instead of a fish?
12 Or if the child asks for an egg, will give a scorpion?
13 If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!’

difference

 

I am reflecting on an extract from Paul’s letter to the saints—the local church—in Philippi, a Roman colony in Macedonia or what we know as northern Greece. This (Philippians 4.1-9, below) is the passage from the New Testament set to be read aloud this coming Sunday.

Paul begins by speaking of the people he is writing to as being as brothers and sisters to him—family, not in a biological sense, but a shared identity within the family of God. He speaks of his love for them, and his longing to see them and be with them again. Do we know what it is like to belong to such a community, where, whenever you are not present, they are on your mind, and the anticipation of being with them again fills you with an expectant joy? Paul describes them as his joy and his crown—the laurel wreath given to athletes; the equivalent of saying your friends cause you as much pride and joy as the race event medal, or football tournament medal, around your neck. That your church family is your Show & Tell.

And Paul encourages them to stand firm, in a particular way, beginning with addressing two women he knew well, Euodia (Yoo-OD-ee-ah) and Syntyche (Soon-too-khay). Euodia’s name means the good road, or, the blessed life, the charmed existence. Syntyche’s name means an accident, or, a chance encounter. And their lives have collided, as friends of, and co-workers with, Paul. But their own friendship has gone off the rails. Paul urges them to make up, to be reconciled to one another—a process he wisely proposes will need help or facilitation. And he reminds them (all) that their names are written in the Book of Life, the record of those who are known and loved by God, those whose soul has been ransomed by God, having formerly been enslaved by the tyranny of mere existence.

In response to such a happy accident as having been met by God, in the good news (gospel) concerning Jesus, and so being led onto the good Way, Paul urges joy, at all times, in all circumstances. Paul, who had been flogged and imprisoned in Philippi, and who had sung hymns of praise in his chains, in a series of events that led to the prison officer being baptised, and a second congregation being established in Philippi.

He speaks of gentleness, and the awareness of the presence of Jesus close to us, whatever we are facing; of peace, when we bring our anxieties to God in thankful prayer.

Last week, three teenagers from our community died in a tragic accident. What does it mean, to rejoice in times of overwhelming grief—recognising that life is messy, and that no emotion cancels out another? How do we celebrate—weddings, baptisms, graduations, achievements—while also steeling ourselves for funerals? Where is Jesus, in such tragedy? How can we hold ourselves, and one another, gently? How can we know peace, when we are anxious—parents a little more anxious than before about where their children are; young people a little more anxious than before about leaving the house? What does it mean, to speak of peace—to be a non-anxious presence in an anxious world? To know peace surrounding and guarding our hearts and minds?

Paul would say, these things—joy and gentleness and peace—are evidence of the fruit of the Holy Spirit, given us by God, dwelling within us as we dwell within God. That this is a mystery, but that these things are God at work in us and for us and through us for those around us. A mystery, not something to be intellectually understood but experientially discovered to be true.

Finally, Paul urges his friends—his brothers and sisters—to focus on particular things, the kind of things that run contrary to where social media seeks to draw and hold our attention. Look for what is good, he says: for whatever is true and honourable and just and pure and pleasing and commendable and excellent and praiseworthy.

In other words, to write a eulogy (eulogy, from ‘to speak well of’) for those who are still alive, not waiting until they are taken from us by death.

And to persevere in so doing.

These are the ways in which we maintain the kind of community that is ‘thick’ enough to withstand even the times when we must live through the end of the world, as we have known it (as we all do, on a regular basis, through bereavements of every kind, including divorced, redundancies, not getting the job we applied for, the deaths of parents or children, chronic and terminal illness...)

This is the difference that knowing God is supposed to make. God, whose character is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness (generosity), faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control—and who longs for us to share in these things, to experience them firsthand, as we are transformed by Love into love’s likeness.

Be more Philippian. Be more Paul. Desire to be more like Jesus.

Philippians 4.1-9

4 1 Therefore, my brothers and sisters, whom I love and long for, my joy and crown, stand firm in the Lord in this way, my beloved.
2 I urge Euodia and I urge Syntyche to be of the same mind in the Lord.
3 Yes, and I ask you also, my loyal companion, help these women, for they have struggled beside me in the work of the gospel, together with Clement and the rest of my co-workers, whose names are in the book of life.
4 Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice.
5 Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near.
6 Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.
7 And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
8 Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honourable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.
9 Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.

 

breathe

 

Pottering about in the bedroom, putting clothes away, the swish and sigh of the traffic moving past comes to me through the windows, thrown open to let the room breathe.

The slow exhale of people on their way to work, at the start of another day. Whhhhhhhhhh...

At best, the daily commute is breathing-space, a buffer zone. At worst, part of the daily churn and grind.

I don’t know anyone who isn’t tired. Who isn’t carrying too much, and who hasn’t been doing so for too long. The insatiable demands put upon us to be productive.

The Bible-shorthand for that rapacious hunger to consume our soul is ‘Pharaoh’.

Jesus said, ‘Come to me, all who are weary and weighed down with heavy burdens, and I will lead you into rest.’

Breathe in, deeply.
Receive.

Breathe out, slowly.
Release.

 

woods

 

As a vicar, I am offered pastoral supervision, effectively space to process, on a regular basis, some of the trauma we are exposed to and sometimes carry on others’ behalf, in our vocation.

I always walk through a small wood to get there, which is as much part of the healing process as the conversation I am about to have.

 

bruised

 

Life is A LOT at times, with physical and emotional pain that can open us to others and to God, or cause us to turn in on ourselves. We are frequently counselled to become ‘more resilient,’ but in my honest opinion that is poor advice. We don’t need to harden ourselves (hard things break) but to trust in the kindness and gentleness of a loving God—and so learn how to hold ourselves and others with kindness and gentleness too.

(Those who lack resilience are sometimes referred to as ‘snowflakes.’ Have you ever seen a snowflake!? No two are identical; every one is a masterpiece; they come together under pressure, transform the landscape, melt, soften the earth, and return to the embrace of the ocean. Snowflakes are amazing.)

In the ancient world, writing took the form of incising marks on stone or on clay or wooden tablets, with a hard (iron) stylus. Then the Egyptians developed something new: writing with ink on sheets of papyrus, using a quill made from a bruised reed.

The visionary Isaiah took up that image in his song about God’s servant, the one in whom his soul delights. The servant himself is bruised but not crushed, and, in turn, responds with gentleness. But this gentleness is not weakness, does not lack effect. Indeed, it is the means by which justice will be brought about. That’s a revolutionary idea—as revolutionary as the development of papyrus and a thin reed as a writing instrument—and it is later taken up by Jesus, describing himself.

I am struck by the imagery of our bruising being transformed into a written record, into a story—or, a song—of hope.

And it is hope, rather than resilience, that we need. Writing to the saints in Rome, Paul identified endurance as playing a role in the process by which we connect our present experience to hope. But endurance is not resilience: it is not building up our hardness, but growing in trust, as we learn more of grace: of the kindness of God towards us; of the way his Spirit empowers our spirit. Of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.

May your life become a song, perhaps starting in lament but rising to something others will lean in with bated breath to catch, because it stirs their hearts too.

May you rest in peace and rise in glory.

Isaiah 42:1-4

Here is my servant, whom I uphold,
my chosen, in whom my soul delights;
I have put my spirit upon him;
he will bring forth justice to the nations.
2 He will not cry or lift up his voice,
or make it heard in the street;
3 a bruised reed he will not break,
and a dimly burning wick he will not quench;
he will faithfully bring forth justice.
4 He will not grow faint or be crushed
until he has established justice in the earth;
and the coastlands wait for his teaching.

Romans 5:1-5

Therefore, since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, 2 through whom we have obtained access to this grace in which we stand; and we boast in our hope of sharing the glory of God. 3 And not only that, but we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, 4 and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, 5 and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.

 

Compline (Night Prayer)

 

Nighttime can be especially difficult when we are in physical or emotional pain, exhausted by grief but unable to surrender to sleep.

The Church has long understood this, and among our treasures are a pattern for night prayer, as preparation to enter darkness at the end of the day.

Here are two such prayers:

Be present, O merciful God,
and protect us through the silent hours of this night,
so that we who are wearied
by the changes and chances of this fleeting world,
may rest upon your eternal changelessness;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.

or,

Visit this place, O Lord, we pray,
and drive far from it the snares of the enemy;
may your holy angels dwell with us and guard us in peace,
and may your blessing be always upon us;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.

 

bend to show kindness

 

Lectionary reading for Holy Communion today: Job 19.21-27a

The book of Job tells one of the oldest stories in the Bible, of a man who has lost everything in a series of tragedies. Job himself is what we might call an unreliable witness, or an unreliable narrator of the events he is living through. That does not mean that we cannot believe anything he says, but it does mean we need to weigh his words carefully. And it is incredibly important that Job’s story is given to us in the Bible, because we are all unreliable witnesses to and narrators of our lives. We all arrive at conclusions on the basis of insufficient information, conclusions we may need to revise later.

Job has lost almost everything, including his children. His life, as he has known it, has come to an abrupt end. He is overwhelmed by all the competing feelings and emotions—including what we would call survivors relief and survivors guilt; a sense of massive injustice; anger—some of which he can articulate, for some of which the words elude him.

Job believes that God has pursued and touched him, for ill, or loss, or tragedy. God has, in fact, pursued and touched him; but has pursued and touched him to shield him—though it does not feel that way. And both the ‘objective’ reality and the ‘subjective’ reality matter. Job does not need correction, or answers, as much as solidarity, a comforting presence. He needs a safe space, to release his emotions.

Where I believe that Job is absolutely on the money is in asking his friends to have pity on him. The word translated ‘pity’ means ‘to bend or stoop to show kindness.’ This is what God does, in response to tragedy, and what we who are created to reflect God’s nature are invited to do also.

In the face of tragedy, we can harden ourselves, in the hope that tragedy will not touch us; or we can allow ourselves to bend, stooping to show kindness.

God does not will tragedy. God permits tragedy, in this world—and we might well find ourselves wanting to take that up with God, to be indignant that God does not intervene to prevent, for example, our human tendency to rush to experience things we are not ready to experience (a tendency the Bible acknowledges up front, in the very third chapter). But in every circumstance, however tragic, God works to bring the most possible good out of the times our lives are touched by evil. Does that make the cost worthwhile? No; but the cost has already been paid. It does mean that lives, even cut short far too soon, are not wasted.

Job, the unreliable witness, nonetheless has an unshakeable hope that, one day, God will make all things right. That even death will not rob Job of seeing God beside him and for him. The God who pursues us even to the grave and touches us to shield us from harm. For Christians, that hope has a name, given long after Job had died: the name he saw with his own eyes is Jesus.

This week, three teenagers died when the car they were in went into the river here in Sunderland. I cannot imagine how afraid they were in those moments. But I do not believe that they were alone. I believe that God moved heaven and earth to be with them, and to shield them. They were not rescued, and we will have to live with that for as long as we live. But we, too, are pursued and touched by God. Held by love, and light in the darkness.

May we bend towards one another, and all who are most affected, with kindness.

And may we hold on to hope, trusting in Jesus’ victory over the grave for us.

Job 19.21-27a

21 Have pity on me, have pity on me, O you my friends,
for the hand of God has touched me!
22 Why do you, like God, pursue me,
never satisfied with my flesh?
23 ‘O that my words were written down!
O that they were inscribed in a book!
24 O that with an iron pen and with lead
they were engraved on a rock for ever!
25 For I know that my Redeemer lives,
and that at the last he will stand upon the earth;
26 and after my skin has been thus destroyed,
then in my flesh I shall see God,
27 whom I shall see on my side,
and my eyes shall behold, and not another.
My heart faints within me!