Trauma

 

Further notes on Mark 10.17-31

Having presented us with the account of a man who managed many estates, who was desperate to become one of Jesus’ apprentices but unable to take hold of the thing he desired, the biographer Mark records for us Jesus’ conversation with those who were already his apprentices. Those whose number the man longed to join.

Jesus employs a culturally familiar aphorism to convey how hard it is for those who manage the business concerns of others – many estates – to live under and participate in God's sovereign will. It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle – that is, impossible for humans, but not for God.

For anyone, to enter into this experience is like passing through a small gate, easy to miss. But for those who manage many affairs, it is incomparably harder.

The insurmountable problem preventing the man from embracing the thing he most desires is not greed. Here is a man whose actions show that he loves God wholeheartedly, soul-fully, mindfully, with every fibre of his being; and loved his neighbour as himself.

He is not a camel who is unwilling to pass through the eye of a surgeon’s needle, but a camel who has tried and failed, because it is impossible, for anyone other than God.

The insurmountable problem preventing the man from embracing the thing he wants most of all is that he has taken on an identity that is more than he can continue to bear and has become so traumatised that he is – ironically and tragically – unable to let it go. He has become traumatised by playing the role of redeemer to too many people.

This is often the tragedy of those who manage the affairs of others, whether businessmen or women or politicians, who come to see themselves – and often, themselves alone – as a saviour figure.

The same is true of churchwardens and clergy, along with the patriarchs and matriarchs of family units. Those who believe that if they do not do what needs to be done, the world will fall apart; for no one can do it as well as them.

Jesus saw the man and loved him. This is how Jesus always sees those who are weighed down with many burdens, often self-imposed, burdens that distort our character until we are, increasingly, unlovable. Unlovable, and yet loved. For this is how God sees us, with eyes of love, for Jesus can only do what he sees the Father doing.

Jesus looks on the traumatised man with compassion.

He loves him, and longs for him to be free of his burden. Free to heal, to grow strong again. To be who he was created to be, and not what he had become.

This is how God always beholds us, seeing us in our trauma, loving us, and moving to set us free.

This is why Jesus does not ask the man simply to surrender the estates he manages, but also to surrender the capital he would receive in so doing. Not because he is bound by greed, but because he is bound by the role of redeemer, of patron. Because he needs to be radically cut off from that false self.

This is not to say that we have no responsibility to help meet the needs of our neighbours, of our families, of the poor. We do (Jesus rebukes those who have the means to help but refuse to do so; he does not rebuke this man, or any trauma survivor). But we are not their – or anyone’s – saviour.

It is to say that Jesus is the master surgeon who rightly diagnoses our condition, who understands our trauma – often exacerbated by our own crude attempts to heal ourselves – and who holds out the very quality of life we long for. Whose love is not conditional on our being able to receive it or respond.

It is to say that the God who is one with Jesus can, alone, take that needle’s eye and make it wide enough for a camel to pass through.

The man was not able to become one of Jesus’ apprentices at that time, though this is not to say it was a once-only offer, or that he did not get there in time. We do not know. We do know that at that point of first invitation he experienced both shock and grief, as is often the case when a trauma survivor is offered the path of healing and growth, of integrating a difficult past within a healthier future.

If that is where you are today, that is okay. But you do not need to stay there forever. Nor do I. May you know the love of God which pushes out our fear, until we are able to step out from the roles we hide inside and step into the life that is waiting for us.

 

Redeeming

 

Notes on Mark 10.17-31

The biographer Mark records the account of a man running up to Jesus as he was going on his Way (this is a play on words for journey and way of life), falling on his knees and imploring to apprentice to this Master in living life with a sense of permanence.

Jesus asks the man some questions, to gain a sense of what he has already learnt and put into practice. Seeing the man’s heart for others, and wanting the best for him too, Jesus instructs the man to exchange all he holds, give the money to the poor, and join Jesus as his apprentice. The man is shocked and departed with a sense of bereavement at an opportunity he felt unable to take hold of, because he held the tenancy of many estates.

According to the Torah, the land belonged to God. God was the owner, who distributed the land as he saw fit. The people of Israel were tenants in possession of the land, each allocated an ancestral portion, according to their tribe.

If poverty forced you, it was possible to sell your tenancy to another member of your tribe. You were not selling the land, which belonged to God, but your tenancy rights, for a period of time. Essentially you were leasing out the use of the land.

Every fifty years, at the year of jubilee, tenant possession returned to the original tenant or, if they had died, to their heir. The fellow tribesman who had benefitted from the land received no payment. However, the right of redemption meant that, if you were forced to sell your tenancy, but then your circumstances improved, you had the right to redeem it back at any time before the year of jubilee. In such circumstances you paid your fellow tribesman the equivalent of the rent for the years still left on the lease (so, up to fifty years).

Your nearest relative also had the right to redeem the tenancy you had sold, at any time. In such circumstances, they took on the administration of the land, until the year of jubilee.

The man who sought to be an apprentice of Jesus held many estates. In other words, he had bought the tenancy rights of several members of his tribe, who had fallen into poverty. This was a way, provided by law, for him to care for the poor. At some point, he would have to surrender the tenancies he held (though at this point in their history, the people were not counting strict fifty-year cycles).

Jesus instructs him to allow the nearest relatives, the kinsman redeemers, to buy back the tenancies he held. This would release a significant sum of money (especially where there were many years left on the lease) and Jesus instructs him to give that money to those most destitute.

The man has already acted to support those who have fallen into poverty, but Jesus now asks him to divest of what he holds, to return simply to his own ancestral portion, allocated to his family by God. For then, he will have a heavenly storehouse, God’s storehouse.

It is a radical act of trust, that God is good and will provide.

And the man is unable to take that step.

But the encounter Mark records reveals Jesus to be the one offering himself as Redeemer, to take on the tenancy that the man finds himself unable to administer, living a life with a sense of permanence as opposed to a fear of loss or failure.

When life is overwhelming, as it sometimes is, and as my children’s generation seems to find it more often than not, Jesus still holds out the invitation.

 

Malformation

 

Reflection on Job 19.21-27 and Luke 10.1-12

There’s a story in the bible concerning a tribal chieftain of the ancient near east called Job, who, in the prime of his life loses everything. His children are killed when a building collapses. His livestock – his livelihood, his wealth, his resources – are stolen by violent men who murder those employed to care for the animals, also leaving their dependents fatherless. Quite understandably, Job’s wife falls into a deep depression.

Four friends of Job do something beautiful beyond words. They come to him and sit with him, in silence – for there are no words – for seven days and seven nights. Simply holding him in meaningful connection through their presence.

And then they open their mouths and put their feet in it. They try to control, to correct, Job’s thoughts and feelings. To belittle them. They attempt to fix their friend. To explain and justify what he has gone through. Every which way, it is ugly as hell.

Eventually Job has had enough. He calls on them to be silent again, and emphatically states his belief that, even having lost everything, he would see God restore to him all that he had lost.

If I wanted to get rich quick, I would put a swear jar in my church for every time I asked someone how they were and they replied, oh, you know, there’s always someone worse off.

This is abuse, beloved. This is how abusers seek to exercise control over their victim. By conjuring up a hypothetical someone to diminish our emotions and responses to our emotions. To belittle us and invalidate our experience. (Even if the hypothetical someone existed, it would not help them one bit to be told, oh well, there’s always someone doing better than you.)

But we have had these words spoken over us so many times over so many years, have internalised them and spoken them over ourselves, that when I call it out as abuse, I am questioned or dismissed, and when I call it ungodly, I am told that I am going too far.

This is also spiritual abuse, because we have been taught that this response is how we put others before ourselves, as mature Christians ought to do. But Jesus said we are to love our neighbour as – or in the same way as, or according to the same measure by which, we love – ourselves. For the extent to which we are able to accept and love ourselves is the extent to which we are able (the limit on) to love our neighbour. If we habitually belittle ourselves, we will habitually belittle them.

If you came to me and told me that you were expecting a baby but that it had died in the womb, or that your sister had cancer, or that your marriage was falling apart, or that you were waiting for the results of medical tests, and I said to you, oh well, there’s always someone worse off, would you feel heard? Would you feel valued? Would you say I was being pastorally sensitive? Would you come away glad that you had spoken to me, feeling that even if there was nothing to be done – no answers – that somehow you felt more at peace? No, you would not.

And yet, we say these very words to ourselves all the time.

Read that again.

In the Gospels, Jesus sends out his apprentices ahead of him, to every place he intended to pass through. He instructs them to seek out hospitality, and to be present to whoever welcomes them. He also instructs them not to insulate themselves against the emotions, but to remain vulnerable – no excess resources, no financial get-out-of-jail card, not even shoes to shield them from feeling the ground beneath their feet. On entering a house – on being invited into a life – they are to proclaim peace. They are not to seek to control or fix, but to be led by the one who has welcomed their presence, validating whatever they place on the table.

And Jesus promises them that healing will come, wherever it is needed, through their vulnerable presence with their neighbour. Through meaningful connection.

 

Let go

 

Jesus’ greatest interpreter was a Pharisee known as Paul, from Tarsus in what is now Turkey, who had trained under Gamaliel, who was the head of the rabbinical school of thought named for his grandfather Hillel. In correspondence with the church in Corinth, Paul wrote:

‘...For the wisdom of this world is foolishness in the presence of God...So let no one boast in humans. For all things are yours, whether [three master-teachers known to the church in Corinth, whose teachings – way of life – they argued about] or the world or life or death or the present or [that which will happen to you in] the future – all these things are yours, and you are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s.’

(1 Corinthians 3.18-23)

I am struck by how Paul reframes the things we – according to the wisdom of the world – try to control, as things that belong to us – that are intrinsically proper to our being – over which we have neither control nor the need to control them. Instead, Paul invites us to receive them as gifts, and to enter deeper into the mystery of these gifts.

I am struck by the inclusion of death in that list. As something to embrace, not fear. We are mortal (or, as Paul lists more fully, we are human creatures on the earth, who experience birth and death and the passage of time). And Jesus chose to embrace death, walking into this mysterious unknown adventure before us, transforming it – as so with life, with the world, with the present and the future – into its fullest, most complete, perfect expression. Not the end, but a new season. (To put it another way, death is not the consequence of sin, death as separation from God is the consequence of sin.)

The invitation is to let go and enjoy the incomparable gift we have been given. To go deeper into what it means to be human, in the imagination of the One who gave us life.

 

Wellbeing

 

Since 2009/10, The Children’s Society has published an annual, longitudinal report of the wellbeing of children and young people in the UK. They look at:

evaluative wellbeing – thoughts and evaluations about how life is going;

affective wellbeing – ‘good’ and ‘bad’ feelings and emotions; and

eudaimonic wellbeing – a sense of meaning in life, such as, do I have a sense of purpose? strong relationships? self-belief?

The latest report, just published and available online, shows that our children and young people have significantly poorer levels of wellbeing than they did fifteen years ago, and that our fifteen-year-olds have lower levels of wellbeing than their peers across 27 European nations.

Jesus was a rabbi, which means master, or, one who had mastered life. One, we might say, who had a high level of wellbeing, and when other people spent time with him their wellbeing levels increased too. Someone you might look at and say, they seem to have their sh*t together. Life isn’t simply happening to them, or around them, but they are living purposefully, a life with meaning. Like most rabbis at the time, he did this in the context of a very ordinary life, in Jesus’ case as a stone mason and carpenter in a small community.

Of course, Jesus wasn’t the only person who was seeking to live life purposefully. It wasn’t an unusual idea. Wellbeing isn’t a new idea; it is an ancient one. In Hebrew it is expressed as shalom. Jesus wasn’t the only person seeking to love God fully and love other people deeply. Many people were.

One such group was the Pharisees. They advocated that the ritual practices by which the priests in the temple at Jerusalem kept themselves oriented towards God, and symbolically remade the world – that gave them a strong eudaimonic wellbeing that in turn strengthened their evaluative wellbeing and affective wellbeing – should be adopted by all Jews in every place.

The biographer Mark records some Pharisees asking Jesus why his disciples didn’t observe such rituals? (See Mark 7.) In particular, why didn’t they ritually wash their hands (note, this is not a matter of hygiene) before eating a meal that involved bread (an extension of the priestly practice of washing their hands before handling grain offerings). For the benefit of his non-Jewish audience, Mark mentions some other examples of ritual practice observed by the Pharisees. The point is not, look how ridiculous these people were, how wrong they had got it! The point is that whatever their own cultural background, the audience might recognise the human tendency to depend on certain rituals – including twenty-first century secular Western societies. It is meant as an a-ha! moment.

Jesus responds by calling people out as hypocrites, that is, actors who present a mask to the world. It is important to note that this is not a dismissal of Judaism (or even a dismissal of Pharisaism). Jesus was a Jew. His disciples were Jews. They observed a kosher diet and played a full part in the ritual world of their culture, including the key events and celebrations that strengthen communal wellbeing. This is an internal debate between people with a shared vested interest in promoting wellbeing (shalom).

Jesus lists several harmful behaviours that result from poor wellbeing, or the absence of shalom – behaviours which the Pharisees would also have been concerned about – as evidence that ritual alone is inadequate and can even be harmful when it allows us to deceive ourselves as to what is going on On The Inside. Certainly, fixating on ritual is unhealthy.

One of the significant things about the findings of The Children’s Society is seeing children and young people brave enough to take off the masks we hide behind to Present a Brave Face, or a toxically positive outlook, as we so often see – and is so damaging to wellbeing – on social media.

If we are to help them grow a healthier evaluative, affective, and eudaimonic wellbeing, ritual will have a part to play. For my part, I love welcoming children to communion, in which I am led by their desire to take part. But it starts – as all love starts – with hearing. Really hearing. (As in, Hear, O Israel...) Not being quick to mould them into our image, bent out of shape as it is, but recognising the likeness of God in them. They are the canary in the mine.

 

God is not the king

The evangelical tradition – of which I am part – is vulnerable to narcissists because of the way in which we habitually misread Jesus’ parables.

Despite the fact that God tells Samuel that kings represent a rejection of God’s invitation to relationship with him;

despite the fact that kings are repeatedly recorded as rejecting God's ways and leading their people away from knowing him;

so that even the very few kings considered good are corrupted, to the extent that a direct parallel is drawn between David killing Uriah to take his wife and Ahab killing Naboth to take his vineyard;

despite Pharaoh;

despite the consistent testimony against kings of the nations by the prophets;

despite the fact that kings have John the baptizer, Jesus, and several of Jesus’ disciples put to death;

despite all this, whenever a king appears in a parable Jesus tells, evangelicals assume that the king represents God, and that the behaviour and actions of the king reveal God’s character.

They don’t. And for as long as we teach that they do – for as long as we perpetuate lazy and dangerous readings – we will be vulnerable to narcissists.

Jesus employs parables about kings in the context of his impending death at the hands of the authorities. These include a parable of a king who throws a banquet for his son, a stinging critique of the high priestly family of Annas and Caiaphas, in which Jesus prepares his disciples for his trial, complete with enlisted crowd, and execution outside the city wall. But this parable is routinely co-opted by evangelicals to show that God will punish those who do not show him deference with hell.

Jesus employs parables about kings to judge the kingdoms of the world. In one he presents a man of wealth who seeks the title king from an external source, in the face of a counter-delegation by those who know him; who distributes resources to ten servants (seven of whom we do not hear of again) rewarding success and punishing failure to accumulate for him dishonest gain. This accurately describes the way in which Herod the Great had come to power as a client-king of Rome, sought to secure succession for three sons, one of whom would have his land annexed by direct Roman rule. Or the way Tiberius, emperor at the time of Jesus’ public ministry and death, negotiated power, rewarded Germanicus with a full triumph for quelling rebellion, delegated rule in Rome to Sejanus while Tiberius removed himself to Capri to live a life of debauched indulgence, before having Sejanus executed for planning a coup. Or the way narcissists operate today. The parable is a warning against getting drawn into such ways – this is not the way of Jesus – and yet it is routinely co-opted by evangelicals to show that God will punish those who do not use the talents he gives them to his glory.

Jesus employs parables of kings to contrast the way of the world with the divine way. Asked by Peter how often we must forgive others, Jesus effectively says, there is no limit. He then goes on to tell a parable in which there is a limit - to highlight the contrast. A king who has been reckless with his fortune seeks to take back what he has given out. One of his slaves, who has done very well for himself by keeping close, is unable to repay him. The king makes a show of writing off the debt. However, the slave then goes out and demands repayment of a far smaller debt owed him by a fellow slave, and shows no mercy when it is not forthcoming. This causes such a scandal that it reflects badly on the king who had written off that slave’s debt. In effect, he asks, ‘This is how you repay me? Making me look foolish in public?’ The king has the servant cast out to rot in prison. This is classic narcissistic behaviour. It could be straight out of the Trump playbook – or the way in which narcissistic church leaders make people feel special before ghosting them or threatening to prevent their future prospects. And yet this parable is routinely co-opted by evangelicals to show that God will treat people this way – which justifies narcissistic behaviour.

I could go on. Teaching on persistence in the face of injustice, Jesus tells a parable of a widow who keeps coming to a judge. The judge has no regard for God or his neighbour – is the embodied antithesis of the commandments to love God and love your neighbour. Despite this, and despite the fact that it is the woman – who has no power except commitment to justice – who demonstrates persistence, evangelicals are more likely to see God as the judge (male, position of power) than the widow. But God is not found in the places we want to find God.

We need to do better. For a tradition that claims to honour the Bible, we need to go back to the texts. But the cognitive dissonance will be enormous.

  

Stone, part 2

 

The biographer Matthew doesn’t record a great many of Jesus’ parables of the kingdom of heaven (that is, what God’s delegated sovereignty looks like on earth). But when he does, he introduces them saying, “The kingdom of heaven is like...”

There are two exceptions, where Jesus begins, “The kingdom of heaven may be compared to...” In fact, it is the same root word, but used in a different way, to suggest comparison or to suggest that something ‘has become’ like something else. This is not a case of Matthew’s year four English teacher asking him to think of another word for ‘like.’ It indicates a qualitative difference. In both cases, the parable in question includes a king decreeing a punishment.

In chapter 22, Matthew records a parable in which Jesus describes what the kingdom of heaven has become, in contrast to what it is meant to be. A king throws a banquet for his son. None of the summoned guests comes. Note, this is not that most refuse, and a few take up the invitation. No one wants to be there, and, when pressed, even mount a violent insurrection, which is put down without mercy. Then, anyone who can be pressed to attend is so pressed. Not one is there except under duress. The king interrogates a man who has refused to put on the wedding gown, the symbol that he accepts the king’s patronage. The man is silent before his accuser. The king has him bound and taken outside the walls, to the place where there is weeping and bitter, futile anger.

This parable follows on from the one before, which is explicitly identified as a parable against the chief priests and rulers of the people. In other words, it is a continuation. The kingdom of heaven has become something indistinguishable from the violent kingdoms of the world, under the leadership of the politico-religious leaders.

As Matthew continues his biography, we will find Jesus dragged, against his will, into the presence of Annas and Caiaphas. Historically, the high priest was a position for life, but the Romans had changed that, appointing and removing whom they chose. Annas was a previous (and still considered to be) high priest, and his son Caiaphas the current high priest. A king and his son. Jesus is dragged into their courtyard, and interrogated. He refuses to answer, and is sent away, first to a similar interrogation before the Roman governor, where we also see a crowd dragged off the streets to ensure he is condemned. He is made to wear a ‘wedding’ gown, again against his will, and taken outside the city wall to the waste incinerator, and executed in the presence of his closest family and friends.

God is not violent against people. But, sadly, many devoutly religious people, especially religious leaders, are. The kingdom of heaven is, at times, turned into a travesty of what it is meant to be. The biographer Matthew tells us to expect this. But it is not the final word.

The lectionary for today pairs this parable with a passage from the prophet Ezekiel where the Lord God promises to remove from his people (whose actions have profaned God’s holy name before the watching world) their heart of stone and put within them a heart of flesh. Stone symbolises all the ways in which we divide between ‘us’ and ‘them,’ while flesh symbolises our common humanity.

Whether your heart is stone or flesh determines how you hear Jesus’ parables.

 

Stone

 

‘A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.’

the Lord God (Ezekiel 36.26)

Stone. In Old Testament Hebrew, this word is put to many uses. Precious stones, symbols of the way in which we give excessive abstract value to certain things, and, by extension, to those people who can afford them. Marble, to line the homes of the rich. Weights, and the false measures by which we exploit one another, and cheat the poor. Slingstones, as weapons; and iron ore extracted from the earth to make metal weapons. Hailstones, that destroy crops. Stone is a fitting symbol of the ways we ‘us’ and ‘them’ one another.

Flesh. Our mutual belonging to one another, and, by extension, to every living thing.

Today, teenagers in England, Wales and Northern Ireland receive exam results (those in Scotland have already received theirs) that reflect and reinforce the heart of stone. Lord, have mercy on us.

 

The kids

 

My son has friends round. They are so kind, thoughtful, generous and warm that I feel churlish giving them their own space. In fact, I wish more older people were like them. The kids are going to be just fine.

Young adults need cheerleaders, not detractors.

 

ADD

 

The Hail Mary prayer,
“Hail Mary, full of grace,
the Lord is with you.
Blessed are you among women,
and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners
now and at the hour of our death.
Amen”

was surely penned by someone with Attention Deficit Disorder.

Because for someone with ADD, there is only ‘Now’ and ‘The Hour Of Our Death,’ that is, a point beyond later. Such that this thing must be attended to right now, or else it will not be turned to until the deadline is upon us and it is too late.

Without aid, there is no Setting Apart Time For This Tomorrow, or In Two Days’ Time, or Next Tuesday At 1.00 p.m. (Conversely, with aid, they can be incredibly creative.)

If you know someone with ADD, you might like to join Mary in praying for them now, which might also be one of the very frequent hours of their death...

 

gods

 

Who are your gods?

To clarify, by god I mean something beyond, and greater than, yourself, in which you put your hope and trust for salvation – that is, for healing; to make you well, or whole.

I am not aware of knowing any atheists (it is, quite simply, very hard to live that way in the world) (though I do know some who aspire to be atheists).

To be honest, I am not sure that I know any monotheists either (again) (and also).

There’s a story told of Moses’ apprentice and successor, Joshua, calling together the public figures of his community and putting a challenge to them: choose this day whom you will serve. Because we don’t only hope and trust in our gods, we invest our energy and entrust our resources to them. Or, to put it another way, we serve them.

The Market. The Nation, or the Land. Family. Our football team. Our addiction or distraction of choice. Church.

That story about Joshua is paired with a story about Jesus in the lectionary for this coming Sunday (Joshua 24.1-2a, 14-18 and John 6.56-69). Interestingly, Joshua and Jesus are the same name, rendered in two different languages, with a responsive meaning to cry out for help / to rescue or deliver or save. In the Jesus story, many of his would-be apprentices walk away, deciding that it is simply too difficult, too demanding, to apprentice under him. Jesus asks his core apprentices, Do you also wish to go away? Are you, also, desiring, intending, planning to gradually go on your own way? There is a sense of cost to this, an understanding that if to be with Jesus is difficult, then so is continuing on without him.

Peter (who is to Jesus as Joshua is to Moses) nails that dual sense of cost. Yes, it is costly to be your apprentice, but, to whom else would we turn? It is in apprenticing under you that we enter into and continue in a life of unparalleled quality. Anything else is a slow decline towards death, in comparison.

I’m pretty sure most people I know long for a deeper quality of life, one marked by greater freedom from the things that hold us captive, greater healing from the wounds those things have caused us. I’m not sure anyone who is, or who longs to be, healthy wants less quality of life (though, ironically, the path to greater quality of life involves less busyness and fewer things).

The question is, who are your gods?

 

Proof and evidence

 

What is the proof that you are waiting for?

There is no constructed instrument by which we can determine, no calibrated scale by which we can measure, courage. We can demonstrate the effect of the need for courage and of the act of courage on the body, but not the existence of courage. And yet we know that courage exists.

We know, each time we walk away from an abusive relationship. Each time we refuse to walk away from a relationship that is hard work and, at this moment in time, unrewarding. Each time we ask for forgiveness of another, or of ourselves.

Courage exists. There is plenty of evidence for this. The world is full of evidence.

And yet, there is no instrument, and no agreed scale. There is, of course, the court of public opinion. But the observer is not an especially reliable instrument or scale, for what requires much courage to one person requires little to the next. It requires courage of me to cross a bridge, something others do without it crossing their mind. Neither is the individual who has exercised courage especially reliable, for it is often (not always) the case that what required great courage in anticipation turned out to (appear to) require less from the perspective of completion.

Still, courage exists. There is more than sufficient evidence to take this on faith. It is beyond (good and proper and necessary) reasonable doubt.

Courage exists, as do many other things for which there is neither objective instrument nor scale, but the utterly relational human soul, constructed (and restored) and calibrated (and recalibrated) by God. The soul, which registers evidence, not proof. Evidence of the immeasurable and unscalable. Such as love (which looks like courage in the world).

What is the proof that you are waiting for – in relation to anything? Or, better, what is the evidence? What will it take for you to act?

Take courage.

 

Signs

 

This morning’s weather started out clement enough for me to eat breakfast outside, but is now rapidly deteriorating. I tried to say this, but also this morning my dyspraxic mouth did not possess the agility to handle six syllables in quick succession, and I got caught in a loop at -or-

deterior-or-or-ay-deterior-or-or-ay

Speech is a skill many of us take for granted, and certainly one expected of a public speaker. But speech is a provisional sign, and what it points to is not dependent on our proficiency.

Listening is also a skill; one we pay even less attention than speech. Listening is not so much the interpretation of the speech-sign, as an act of co-creation of the sign.

As all creation declares the Creator’s praise, and as we listen to the provisional voice of the wind, the gathering clouds, the rain, we become more aware of the One from whom we flow and to whom we return.

 

Mary

 

Today the Church remembers Mary, the mother of Jesus.

By the Holy Spirit, Jesus lived and grew in Mary’s womb for nine months, and thereafter lived and grew in her heart.

By that same Spirit, that same Jesus lives (or can live, if, like Mary, we say yes to God) and grows in our hearts.

The latter is dependent on, but by no means a lesser miracle than, the former. Just as the ‘second’ (not secondary) vocation or purpose of being human, to ‘Love your neighbour as yourself,’ is ‘like’ (that is, dependent on, but the same in every way as) the ‘first,’ ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your mind, and with all your strength, and with all your soul.’ Or just as the Son is dependent on, but in all ways equal to, the Father.

As we gaze upon Mary gazing upon Jesus in love, may our lives be transformed so that we look, and live, more and more like him.

 

Of trees and lizards

 

I’m thinking about a story concerning the prophet Elijah, recorded in 1 Kings 19.4-8:

But he himself went a day’s journey into the wilderness, and came and sat down under a solitary broom tree. He asked that he might die: ‘It is enough; now, O Lord , take away my life, for I am no better than my ancestors.’ Then he lay down under the broom tree and fell asleep. Suddenly an angel touched him and said to him, ‘Get up and eat.’ He looked, and there at his head was a cake baked on hot stones, and a jar of water. He ate and drank, and lay down again. The angel of the Lord came a second time, touched him, and said, ‘Get up and eat, otherwise the journey will be too much for you.’ He got up, and ate and drank; then he went in the strength of that food for forty days and forty nights to Horeb the mount of God.

Ancient Hebrew has far fewer words than modern English, and so the same word can have multiple meanings. Also, language conveys our understanding of the world, and ancient Hebrew works at both a literal/material and metaphorical/spiritual level.

Elijah ‘went a day’s journey into the wilderness.’ Let’s break that down.

The word for wilderness/desert is, at root, also the word for mouth/speech. This is both fascinating and unsurprising, as the wilderness is the place where God speaks, or, more accurately, where humans speak with God.

The word for journey is also the word for Way, as in a way of life, which is worked out through conversation – which is also the same word.

The word for day is also the word for daily.

So, at a literal/material level, Elijah ‘went a day’s journey into the wilderness.’ And at a metaphorical/spiritual level, it is Elijah’s practice to be in daily conversation with God. We would call that prayer.

Now, some would argue that we work out which of the possible meanings a word should be given by the context. But I would argue that where a word can be understood in more than one way, it should be understood in more than one way. Because the context for the spiritual is always material, and the material is always spiritual. They belong together.

So, I would take it at face value that Elijah, whose practice it was to be in daily conversation with God, took a walk into the wilderness. And there he sat down under a broom tree.

Now, the broom tree also appears in Job chapter 30 and Psalm 120. For Job it is a symbol of those expelled by society, which Job applies to himself to say he feels rejected by God. Psalm 120 links the wood of the broom tree, which was prized for how well it burned, with a peacemaker dwelling amongst those who hate peace. This is where Elijah chooses to sit down, to stop walking on the way, to end his conversation. He has had enough.

God sends a messenger, an ambassador, who comes to Elijah as he sleeps, breaks off some branches from the broom tree, heats some flat stones on them, and bakes flat bread on the stones. (I love cake, but it is a misleading translation.) That is to say, God answers Elijah (who was not asking a question or seeking a continuation of their conversation) with food and drink. Again, I would take this at both a material and a spiritual level. Sustenance for body and soul.

Elijah awoke, ate and drank, and lay down again to sleep. Later, the ambassador returns, wakes him again, provides him with more food and water, and tells him that he needs to eat and drink if he is to have the strength [this word also means chamaeleon; weird, huh?] that he needs to undergo the journey ahead of him. That journey takes him to Horeb, the mountain of the Lord.

Horeb means Desolate. God waits for us in the place of our desolation. In the place where nothing else can console us. God waits for us, and, moreover, sustains us on the conversation that will bring us to that place, to confront ourselves, stripped of all the many outer layers with which we have tried to blend in, to mask ourselves [chamaeleon].

Now, before you decide that this is just my neurodivergent special interest, I happened to have a conversation with someone today, who has had more than enough of an impossible situation, and who is being sustained by a daily discipline of prayer alone. And I suspect that they are not the only person who can relate to Elijah today. So, I share this, in case it is the cake someone needs in this moment.

 

Hospitality

 

‘In our world full of strangers, estranged from their own past, culture and country, from their neighbors, friends and family, from their deepest self and their God, we witness a painful search for a hospitable place where life can be lived without fear and where community can be found. ... It is possible for men and women and obligatory for Christians to offer an open and hospitable space where strangers can cast off their strangeness and become our fellow human beings.’

~ Henri Nouwen.

I am struck by this quote, in relation to my city of Sunderland, full of strangers ‘estranged from their own past, culture and country’ because the coal pits and shipyards were closed; or because their ancestral villages are in Bangladesh or Pakistan; or because they are recently-arrived asylum seekers, international students, or social care workforce; or – like me – because they have never been rooted in any place. But whatever the reason, and whatever our history, so many of us have become strangers. New Testament ‘hospitality’ is [the Greek] ‘philoxenia’ – literally love of the stranger. We are all searching for a hospitable place, but we will find it together or not at all.

 

Blessed are the peacemakers

 

The English are rioting, and other nations are now warning their citizens here to take extreme care.

Human beings tend to have a few fairly predictable responses to fear. These are often summarised as fight, flight, freeze, or fawn. They are survival mechanisms, and they serve us more- or less- well when we face genuine threats. They serve us less well when we are exploited to imagine real and present danger. Various dynamics in our own personal histories can cause us to overly rely on particular tactics, but there is nothing deterministic about this, though we may have little choice in the moment.

Becoming a refugee and crossing land and sea to seek asylum is an example of the flight response.

White British communities rioting, and British Muslims rioting, are both examples of the fight response. Both communities are afraid, whether for questionable or demonstrable reasons. Sadly, Muslims rioting play into the hands of White Nationalist rioting, and so fear is perpetuated, to the delight of those who stoke it. But their fear is real and should not be lightly dismissed.

What we need is to learn to face our fear and choose love. Because we were created to bring love into the universe, as surely as the sun was created to bring light and warmth. But we struggle to believe it, to believe that we are worthy of love or capable of loving.

Jesus said, ‘Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.’

Peace, here, means wholeness. Heart and mind and strength and soul resting in love.

To work within a community to foster peace, to build bridges between ‘others’ such that we can find common ground of humanity to stand on, is so precious as to be considered divine.

But peacemakers are exactly what we need.

 

Sheep without shepherds

 

While I am saddened by the violence on our streets, I am also saddened by the vitriol against the rioters, and the many young people who have lost their way. In the words of Jesus, they are like sheep without a shepherd. No demon was ever driven out by demonising the child it afflicts. Those guilty of criminal damage or assault need to face the consequences of their actions, but justice itself needs reimagined in restorative and redemptive ways. And while those perpetrating antisocial behaviour may be a small minority, their actions are, to some extent at least, our collective failure.

 

I predict a riot

 

The rioting in Sunderland last night has been shocking, but not surprising. At the General Election a month ago, our First Past the Post (FPTP) system delivered a big majority for a centrist, left-leaning party. The neo-fascists took 16% of the vote; and won 5 out of 650 seats. They are angry; and have been looking for an excuse to riot since then. The tragic events in Southport were that excuse, but it is only an excuse. The people of Southport responded as a community should, coming together in peaceful vigil to tenderly hold one another in their grief. Nationally organised neo-fascists bringing agitators into communities that feel left behind and disenfranchised to stir up grievance does not honour those three little girls or their families—and does not care about the people of Hartlepool or Sunderland either. But there are many people in these places who are vulnerable to such exploitation due to complex, systemic and endemic issues. There are no easy answers (though I do believe replacing FPTP would help; and some form of PR would not have delivered 16% of the seats to the neo-fascists) but it will take deep community organising, in a way that slowly undermines forty years of extreme individualism that has made us believe that so long as we are doing alright, we don’t need to care about other people.

 

Heaven on earth

 

Jesus talked about heaven A LOT. Not as sitting around on a cloud for an eternity while a cherub plays the harp (as if parents hadn’t suffered enough at school concerts) but as the homecoming of our deepest longings, in this life.

When he talked about heaven, Jesus spoke in parables, analogies drawn between everyday life, with all its frustrations, and—in contrast—the fulfilment of those longings.

When his disciples asked why he spoke in parables, Jesus pointed to words spoken six centuries earlier, by the prophet Isaiah:

“See, a king will reign in righteousness,
and princes will rule with justice.
Each will be like a hiding-place from the wind,
a covert from the tempest,
like streams of water in a dry place,
like the shade of a great rock in a weary land.
Then the eyes of those who have sight will not be closed,
and the ears of those who have hearing will listen.”

Isaiah 32.1-3

That is to say, Jesus was claiming to be the king who would reign in righteousness, and he was seeking out princes who would rule with justice—though, in fact, Jesus was unusual, in that he expanded princes to include women. Those whose eyes and ears would be open to him, who would respond to the invitation to be with him, become like him, and do the things he did.

Such men and women would be like a hiding-place from the wind, a covert from the tempest, streams of water in a dry place, the shade of a great rock in a weary land.

That is the kind of person I want to be. Someone to whom those who live around me turn when the storm hits them, because in me—by God’s grace, and on account of Christ in me—heaven can be found in my neighbourhood.

 

Evil, and rest

 

‘Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.’

Jesus (Matthew 11.28-30)

In England, today, when we use the word ‘evil’ we are making a moral judgement. A nation of dog-lovers, we would consider someone who took pleasure in torturing a dog to be evil. In most biblical contexts, such a person would not be called evil but ‘wicked,’ a word we no longer use to describe moral wrongdoing; if we use it at all, it has come to mean ‘exceptionally good’ (as in, ‘That was a wicked sermon, vicar!’)

Often in the Bible, evil is not a moral judgement, but a description of those conditions of existence that are vexing, that burden the spirit, resulting in weariness. So, growing old is evil. Not that being old is immoral; nor that senior citizens are wicked, at least, not simply by virtue of their age: one is wicked, regardless of age, on account of deliberate and repeated choices made. The evil of growing old includes not being able to hold on to the vigour of youth, or a zest for life; as well as the losses of cherished ways of life, possessions, and people.

When Jesus says, ‘Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.’ he surely has in mind those burdened by evil, in this sense (whatever else he might also have in mind). And if they come to him, he will give them rest.

In the beginning, God created the earth and all that is in it. An earth, and its inhabitants, that would continually pass away. Things good, or even very good, but fleeting. And on the seventh day, God rested; stepped back, to enjoy what was, before it was no longer, before it gave way to something else.

To rest is to step, temporarily, away from labour. The thing that might be counter-intuitive for our culture is that rest actually honours labour, gives it worth. To rest from the burden of the evil of aging creates space to look back with gratitude for all that was good, but also, perhaps, space to discern what is good in the present. To find gift and enjoyment in our life as it is now, and so to be set free from the burdens of nostalgia or bitterness.

Growing old is not the only evil in this sense. Every stage and season of life has its vexations; every stage and season must give way to the next. Life, even a good life, is hard work, at times; and rest is the antidote to evil (just as justice is the antidote to wickedness).

Take time to rest today, whatever rest looks like for you. And may you meet Jesus there, waiting to bless you.

 

Come and go

 

Today when the congregation gathered at St Nic’s there were almost as many who weren’t there (I counted 33) as were there (35). The church is not only those who gather, any given Sunday, but also those who are scattered, who are visiting family or friends around the country, or who are frail or ill, or, in Jo’s case, attending General Synod. And by the same token, we had two visitors in our midst, not regular attenders, simply aware of a longing to reconnect with God, and a sense that they might find God in this place, in this shared practice. You would be welcome, too.

Jesus calls us to him; and sends us out ahead of him. So, some of us gathered, to meet him in Word and Sacrament, to receive the love of God which empowers us to love God with our whole being in response, and love our neighbour as ourselves; and allows us to receive forgiveness where we fail at this, and wholeness where we are scattered in ourselves.

Heather and Christine read aloud from the Bible. Brenda led us in prayer for the Church and the World. Dave carried the cross, visual reminder of Christ’s passion; Peter carried the Gospel; and together they assisted in preparing bread and wine to offer to those hungry for God. I spoke of repentance, of changing our mind having spent time with someone else, which is the work of bridge-building between neighbours; and pressed bread on people’s palms as a symbol of God’s grace that supplies all our needs; and blessed those who, for whatever reason, felt compelled to come but unable to eat; and anointed many with oil for healing of body, mind, and spirit, for there were many there who needed that particular grace in their lives. And we sang, old hymns and a contemporary worship song, familiar paths and unfamiliar steps, the hymns accompanied by Susan on the organ.

After all had been fed, or blessed, and anointed, and some had gone, back to their homes and those they care for, I sat briefly with Joan, for whom Sundays are hard at times, too full of ghosts and the cloud of heavenly witnesses, the collision of past, present, and future, until her lift was ready to take her home. Then tea and biscuits with those who stay on.

This never gets easy, never gets old. Fifteen years a deacon, fourteen years a priest, and counting. Thank you, Jesus.

 

Repent

 

I was struck, on Friday, by the final speech made by Rishi Sunak as Prime Minister, and by the first speech made by his successor in that role, Keir Starmer. Both men acknowledged the role that the support and hard work of others had played in the opportunity presented to them; the will of others in constraining their own hopes; and the reality that whatever can be built, however our common life is shaped, is and can only be done together.

We do not impose our will on the world, or other people, as a blank canvas or a lump of putty. Indeed, we do not only discover the extent to which our will may be realised in engagement with other people and the physical world we share; our will is actually formed in relation to the will of others.

In the Gospel passage set for this Sunday, Mark 6.1-13, we are reminded that Jesus is constrained by his work as a carpenter, by his family of origin, and by the wider community in which he is situated. This embeddedness places limits on what he is able to do, and in this passage he discovers something of those limits. But these constraints are not solely negative. It is within the contexts of these constraints, these interactions that combine to give shape to what is possible, that Jesus comes to understand himself not only as the Son of Mary, but as the Son of Man, that is, what it is to be a human being, part of humanity. It is within these same constraints that others come to see Jesus as the Son of God, or also the Son (descendant) of David, both of which are to say, the legitimate king of Israel.

Within this embedded context, indeed within the specific context of coming up against the push-back of others, Jesus calls twelve others to him, and sends them out ahead of him into the surrounding area. As they go, and meet other people in the embeddedness of their lives, they proclaim that all should repent. To repent means to change your mind, in relation to something; but, more than that, to change your mind as a consequence of having spent time with another person, of getting to know something of them and their life. The twelve do not go out telling people, repent, or that certain types of people need to repent, but proclaiming that all (that is, the twelve included) should repent.

In other words, this is the work of building bridges, between people, between me and you, together. For this to happen, I must reassess what I believe, including my assumptions about Others, in light of having met with you, having listened to you, having seen you, and you, me. This is listening to people on their doorsteps, rather than just speaking at them.

This goes against the grain of our cultural assumptions, which denies the existence of a grain to work with. We surely only need to programme our desired outcome into the 3D printer. But Jesus was a carpenter, and a carpenter becomes a master carpenter in the mutual submission of the carpenter to the wood and the wood to the carpenter. They work together, this sentient being, and this given material reality or Other, which would only frustrate the inexperienced or immature worker.

We live in a world where the grandson of immigrants, or a man who grew up in a working-class home can become Prime Minister—and can be removed from office. But this is not to say that you can be anything that you want, which is an unbearable burden that can only result in a sense of failure and the deep shame that comes with it, the sense of inadequacy for which we alone are to blame. It means that we start, somewhere, with a set of givens that shape possibilities, that shape further possibilities. Like sailing across a lake, at times we advance carried by the wind, at times we must tack into the wind as a corrective; and at times the wind is so hard against us that we can only get anywhere at great effort, abandoning our ideal plan for what is possible.

Generally speaking, we would prefer that other people repent, than we are willing to repent ourselves. We want to impose our will, or we surrender any willpower and abandon ourselves to fate. We need, instead, to learn that the world is created, and that we are creative agents in that world, through mutual submission. That requires trust, and the willingness to honour the other, even (especially) those with whom we disagree. In this, on Friday gone, Rishi Sunak and Keir Starmer both served us, as a nation, well.

 

Vote

 

Politicians like to say that archbishops (their shorthand for the Church) should stay out of politics. That is, they should not publicly criticise governments, or call society to account on matters of political debate. This is a nonsense, of course, both because in a democracy everyone should be encouraged to engage with politics, and also because the Church is inherently political, in the sense that God demands justice for the poor.

The readings set for Holy Communion on this General Election day are Amos 7.10-17 and Matthew 9.1-8.

Amos consistently spoke out against the indifferent exploitation of the poor by the wealthy in ancient Israel, warning that if they insisted on pursuing this trajectory it would end badly for them. Amaziah, an advisor to the king, who today we would call a politician, demands that Amos shut up and go home, attend to his own affairs. The Church ought to stay out of politics. Amos responds that, as Amaziah has committed himself to his life of casual exploitation, such a calamity would befall the wealthy of the land that his wife would be forced into prostitution, his sons and daughters die by the sword, his wealth be divided up, and he himself die in exile. It is important to note [1] that Amaziah’s wife and adult children were not innocent bystanders, collateral damage, but fully complicit in the exploitation of the poor, and [2] this was not God’s best will for them—God’s will was that they return to him and turn their back on injustice—but, rather, the inevitable eventual consequence of their conscious and deliberate choices.

In contrast, in our Gospel passage we meet a group of friends who are bringing a paralysed man to Jesus, as to one they hope will show compassion. Their action is inadequate—they are recycling either a dining mat (in this culture, people ate reclining on one side) or a funeral bier to carry the man—but it is the best they can do with what they have available to them. The first thing Jesus does is forgive their sins, or, address the shortfall between what they want to do and what they are able to achieve. Addressing their sense of inadequacy, which, left unaddressed, might paralyse them, too. When some bystanders object to this audacious grace, Jesus responds by healing the man, physically. By making up the full gap between what the friends can do and what they hope for.

When you cast your vote, cast your vote in the best interest of the most vulnerable person you know. Your action, and whatever is done by whoever forms the next government, will be inadequate. Ask Jesus to forgive—to send away, or write off debt—the inevitable shortfall, and trust that he chooses to do so.