on the ecology of community

 

The Gospel passage set for this Sunday is Matthew 13.1-9, 18-23, see below. [We are not following the Lectionary at St Nicholas at the moment—we are in the middle of a summer sermon series on the Psalms—but I am covering at another church this weekend.]

In this passage, Jesus tells a parable about a sower. If we are familiar with the parable, we most likely view it through the lens of individualism, and a culture that promotes polarisation. We are invited—tempted—to view ourselves as ‘good soil,’ and label others as compacted, stony, or thorny soil. Or, we compare ourselves unfavourably with others, lamenting the poor quality of the soil of our life in contrast to their greater worthiness.

But, in common with the majority of human experience, Jesus lived in a society that was more communal, where neighbours lived in greater interdependence.

Most lived in villages we would consider hamlets. While families owned land—and if you found yourself needing to sell it, you did so to the nearest possible relative, and with a return clause—each village also had its common field. This field was divided into strips that different families took responsibility to care for, alongside their primary role in the community (e.g. building, fishing).

The Holy Land is hilly, and cultivated land is terraced. Agriculture requires certain features. Places where the bedrock is close to the surface are necessary, providing the foundation for the stone walls that create the terracing. The perimeter of the cultivated land was surrounded by thorny plants, necessary to keep wild animals away from food intended for humans. The field also required paths, allowing access to each strip without trampling the entire field.

A sower scattering seed on the ground would inevitably send some seed into those areas. But in the parable, the field produces a one-hundred-and-ninety-fold return. The compacted, stony, and thorny ground contribute their part in that, as does the good soil they encompass and bisect.

As well as the common field, the village also had a common granary. The harvest was pooled, and distributed according to need, not according to the yield of the strip your family had tended. The family whose strip included thorny ground received what they needed, as much as the family who had only good soil to tend. And from the common granary, next year’s seed for sowing also came.

(And yes, there were privately owned fields and granaries too; and elsewhere Jesus tells another parable about a man who seeks to increase the size of his private granary.)

So this is a parable about a common field—think, the community listening to Jesus. We might call that common field a church congregation. Within that congregation, there are different kinds of ground, necessary for its survival. Note that nowhere does Jesus say, break up the stony ground, or root out the weeds. (How tempting it is, for those of us who scatter seed, to believe we must break every hard ground, without discernment.) This is, in fact, the ecology of community—of any kind of community.

In our congregations there are those whose service, over time, has enabled us to live together in relative harmony, not trampling over one another’s lives. Who have created, and maintain, habitual paths, or ways of doing things. Think governance. Yes, there may be times when they get stuck in their ways—when the path becomes the most important thing, where paths become barriers, where way-makers become toll-keepers unhelpfully restricting access. But the paths themselves, and those who tend them, play an essential part in the whole, even if it doesn’t look directly fruitful. Even if they miss out on the opportunity to produce a harvest, they don’t miss out on being fed.

In our congregations there are those who respond to everything with enthusiasm, that does not last. They may be ADHD, needing a different structure, but also bringing a different—and needful—gift or perspective. They—we—may be looking at the wrong metric, for what being part of the village, the field, the community looks like. They may be shoring up a defense against the odds in their personal lives. They may be discouraged that their presence in the community is taken for granted, or not valued as highly as that of others. They may have a valid point. They certainly have pastoral needs. They, too, should not miss out on being fed.

In our congregations there are those whose lives contain many cares, including financial worries. The elderly, whose bodies have begun to betray them. Their adult children, simultaneously being there for aging parents and their own children. The parent who is concerned about the bad actors who have influenced their children for harm. The one who is struggling to pay the bills, to keep food on the table and a roof over their head. These are legitimate concerns—and we rightly look to maintain both safeguarding and practical pastoral care, as a framework within which all can flourish. But it is hard work. This is one reason why in some places the strip within the common field that each family tended would be reallocated year on year, so no one had to maintain the wall or the hedge for too long. It can be disheartening work. Those who have many cares deserve special attention and care; and to not have additional burdens of judgement placed upon them. Jesus does not identify them for our censure but for our compassion.

Within our congregations, everyone has a part to play; everyone has a gift to bring; and, yes, no one is uniformly receptive to the word of the kingdom. And yet, overall, the field and the seed together produce a harvest.

So, where do you find yourself today, in relation to the common field? (Which could be, entirely outside of it.)

Whatever your answer, you are part of a village.

Where there are well-worn paths, boundaries, defence mechanisms, and a good harvest in our personal lives, may all be offered and shared to the common good.

 

good

 

The first reading set for Morning Prayer today is Judges 11.1-11.

The Book of Judges tells the story of the loosely federated tribes of Israel, after they settled in Canaan and before they were united into a kingdom. Throughout this period, various of the tribes were in conflict with various of their neighbours, who were either already living in the same territory or also seeking to take control of it. The Book of Judges presents a cycle of defeat to and oppression by neighbouring peoples, followed by successful uprising and temporary liberation under the leadership of a usually flawed hero.

Judges 11.1-11 introduces Jephthah, whose story (spoilers!) will ultimately end in tragedy. Jephthah is the child of an adulterous relationship, and though he grows up to be described as a mighty man of valour, his half-brothers drive him away, determined that he will not share the inheritance with them.

What interests me is that the account tells us that Jephthah flees to the land of Tob. Tob, or towb, means good, or pleasant. It describes an environment where healing from abuse can take place. Where someone who has been wronged might be seen, and affirmed, for who they really are. And as Jephthah removes himself to such a place, we are told that others gather to him. Men described as worthless gather to a man described as being of valour.

It is worth reflecting on who has assigned these descriptions. Jephthah himself is considered worthless by his brothers—indeed, at least for now, by his wider community; though they will come to fetch him back when they think his skills as a warrior might serve them: this, too, is abuse—though the narrator clearly has a different perspective. Likewise, the worthless fellows, or outlaws, who gather to him are outlaws because they have been driven out by their families or communities.

And in the place of Tob, the good and pleasant place, they experience healing and come to see themselves not as worthless but as skilled warriors. As a thorn in the side of the communities who drove them out.

Sometimes families can be toxic, and sometimes the wisest and bravest course of action is to cut ties (though to be clear, Jephthah will go on to make some disastrous decisions as a parent: trauma can beget trauma, even where there has been a measure of healing). But healing doesn’t happen in isolation. We need the land of Tob, the good and pleasant place. The community that honours our stories, that sees us without rejection, that is good to us. That chooses, again and again, to love someone who, because of their brokenness and baggage, resentment and bitterness, or simply because their response to potential danger is stuck on high alert, may be hard to love.

Whatever your story, may you know a ‘land of Tob.’

 

on Psalm 65

 

Our summer sermon series at St Nicholas’ explores the Psalms. This coming Sunday, our psalm will be Psalm 65 (text below).

Psalm 65 is written for the person who presides over the public worship of the gathered community, which makes it very appropriate for this weekend, when my colleague Katherine will step into that role for the first time.

It is a ‘David psalm’—a psalm composed in the tradition of David, with a David outlook, from a David perspective. And it speaks of the temple, which, at the time of David, did not exist. It is future-oriented.

For Christians, that future orientation points to Jesus—who claimed that the temple was a ‘type’ fulfilled in his own body—and to the community who proclaim him as Lord—as the rightful heir of David—those whom the disciple Jesus gave the nickname ‘stone’ imagined as living stones being built into a temple.

Psalm 65 speaks of people rooted in place, a community close nearby, or surrounding, the temple. We might call that a parish. A community, of young and old, of many different kinds of people, who find their lives blessed by proximity to the temple, or to the community who is rooted in both this place and that Lord Jesus.

We are told, in our neo-liberal world, that there is no such thing as community any more, only (increasingly polarised) individuals. But, in fact, we are created as persons, who only find the fullness of identity in relation to other persons—not just like-minded persons, but in the diversity of persons found in, and committed to, the place we are found. This diversity is the glory of a parish; and the tragedy of many a local church congregation has been their inability to embrace certain identities as divine gift. The local congregation, within the local parish, should function as a community that holds us, grounds us, nurtures us, such that we discover who we are—whom God has created us to be—and are able to flourish. Too many people have felt that they have had no choice but to leave the community behind in search of a more nurturing one.

But Psalm 65 goes on to speak of salvation, of God at work to save, to bring us into a place of healing and wholeness. To calm the storms that rage, within us and around about us. To usher in something new: morning and evening; fruitful creativity and harmonious order, and joyful celebration and rest.

Hard ground softened. Barren ground swollen with good things.

Again and again, in time, in season.

There’s a hymn often sung at funerals and cup finals that says, ‘change and decay in all around I see; O, thou who changest not, abide with me.’ But this is, at best, only part of the picture; for God is continually bringing about change, drawing life out of death, hope out of hibernation.

And it is the role of the one called to oversee the worship of the community to notice that which is not yet; to call the people back to a future-orientation; to remind us of hope that is grounded in God’s faithfulness in every age before us.

Psalm 65

To the leader. A Psalm of David. A Song.

1 Praise is due to you,

O God, in Zion,

and to you shall vows be performed,

2 O you who answer prayer!

To you all flesh shall come.

3 When deeds of iniquity overwhelm us,

you forgive our transgressions.

4 Happy are those whom you choose and bring near

to live in your courts.

We shall be satisfied with the goodness of your house,

your holy temple.

5 By awesome deeds you answer us with deliverance,

O God of our salvation;

you are the hope of all the ends of the earth

and of the farthest seas.

6 By your strength you established the mountains;

you are girded with might.

7 You silence the roaring of the seas,

the roaring of their waves,

the tumult of the peoples.

8 Those who live at earth’s farthest bounds are awed by your signs;

you make the gateways of the morning and the evening shout for joy.

9 You visit the earth and water it;

you greatly enrich it;

the river of God is full of water;

you provide the people with grain,

for so you have prepared it.

10 You water its furrows abundantly,

settling its ridges,

softening it with showers,

and blessing its growth.

11 You crown the year with your bounty;

your wagon tracks overflow with richness.

12 The pastures of the wilderness overflow;

the hills gird themselves with joy;

13 the meadows clothe themselves with flocks;

the valleys deck themselves with grain;

they shout and sing together for joy.

 

smile

 

I had my hair cut this morning. It takes me about twenty minutes to walk there, and twenty minutes to walk back.

I smiled at everyone I walked past on the street, and some stationary drivers. Some intentionally looked down or away, before I smiled, to avoid eye-contact with a stranger; but everyone who saw me smile, smiled back. That’s a human response; it says nothing about my lop-sided smile, or how comfortable or otherwise I may be in my own skin: such hang-ups are mine alone.

If I smile at someone approaching me, walking in the other direction—not because I know them, but simply in recognition of another human being going about their day, just as I am going about mine—and if they smile back in return—the smile continues after we have passed each other, eventually fading after about 20 seconds—and then immediately triggering a second smile, caused by the remembrance of the first, lasting perhaps another 10 seconds. Every time.

30 seconds is actually quite a long time. Certainly, as a physically active, ambulant man (even if I can’t walk in a straight line) who is just over six foot tall with the stride that you’d expect from that height, even at a leisurely pace I can cover some distance in that time. But regardless of how far apart we move—the other person and me, walking away from each other—30 seconds is long enough to have an impact on our outlook. Whatever nonsense we are carrying—whatever resentment at the behaviour of someone else, who is not present—whatever conversation we are rehearsing or grudge we are nursing in our mind—it is hard to maintain this in the face of the smile. The smile does a work of softening our heart, as rain softens sun-hardened ground.

And this is only half the story. What can I say about the other person, whose presence in the world—simply going about their own business—initiated my smile towards them? All other things being equal, they too will smile, and have a subsequent shorter smile recollecting the smile as soon as it fades. But a smile can have an even bigger impact. I smiled at one person this morning as we stood on either side of a pedestrian crossing point waiting for the break in the traffic, and they beamed and beamed as if I was the only person who had smiled at them that day. Which I might, or might not, have been. I have no way of telling. And that is the point. A smile could just save a life—that is not an exaggeration, it could literally make the difference between someone giving up on life and their keeping going—and you have no way of knowing. So—for love of God and neighbour—smile. You’ll be showing loving-kindness to yourself at the same time.

 

MIND THE GAP

 

I took a photo on the westbound platform at Limehouse station (Docklands Light Railway) of the words MIND THE GAP

Of the ten letters, five—D, T, H, A, P—were partially worn away. Two—T, H—were significantly erased; one—T—almost entirely obliterated. (Almost, and yet still making its presence known. Mind the gap.)

And yet the words were still readable, still made sense. Though only because of a shared alphabet, and understanding of the context, the other letters around each letter, and what they communicate together.

Indeed, the very fact that these letters were not pristine adds interest, makes them noteworthy, not simply as a warning but as something storied. Since these letters were laid down, how many feet, how many buggy wheels, suitcases, wheelchairs, have passed over them, on and off trains, on their way to or from work or home or meeting a friend?

These letters, fully fifty percent impaired, spoke to me of people. Able-bodied and disabled. Neurotypical and neurodivergent. Privileged or marginalised—sometimes erased—for a host of different reasons: gender, ethnicity, socio-economic background...

We are all human. And the truth is that all of us—whether we fall into a category of cultural ‘perfection’ or ‘imperfection’—only have meaning in relation to the rest. (One of the foundational divine statements is that it isn’t good for humans to consider themselves complete on their own.)

All of us fall short of some narrow ideal, that does not embrace genetic mutation or wear-and-tear. (Or, fall short when we insist on such a narrow definition of who is, and who is not, fully human.)

All of us are storied, increasingly so over time, and that is part of what makes us interesting.

And so we need to be reminded to MIND THE GAP. To attend to the spaces—the bodies—that interrupt our expectations, and present us with a richer reality. To be broken open, ourselves, into a beautiful vulnerability.

 

Mammon

 

Yesterday I travelled to London by train. We were informed that our journey could be delayed (in the event, it was not) due to emergency services responding to an incident between Peterborough and Stevenage. The last time I travelled home from London, three weeks ago, my train was delayed, twice, for the same reason.

On average, someone in the UK takes their own life every 90 minutes.

There is no performative outrage.

On average, between one and two women are killed by their partner or ex-partner every week in this country.

Again, there is no performative outrage.

We have a crisis in this country.

It is not a crisis of the presence of immigrants.

It is a crisis of the absence of hope.

Of belief in any purposeful future.

We have collectively said ‘yes, yes’ to the idea that the purpose of business is to generate maximum profit, for the benefit of the few—rather than to create opportunity for everyone to contribute to society, and in return to be paid enough to live well on.

To this end we have pared work to the bone, in the name of efficiency. We are left without the capacity to cover for one another when we are sick; or to train people into a role—which is a key reason why it is so hard for young people to find work. If a young adult gives up after sending 200 applications and not even getting a rejection letter back (we do not have the capacity to write those) it is not their moral fault.

We have turned our backs on a God of generosity and compassion, and looked to Mammon, the deification of money, to save us.

And Mammon demands human sacrifice.

And this is a price we willingly pay, without question.

 

on Psalm 23

 

What we call the Book of Psalms is in fact a compendium of five collections of in total 150 songs. Many are associated with (written by, or in honour of) David, though some are older and many more were composed after David’s time. Unarguably, the most famous of all is the twenty-third psalm.

The theologian Walter Brueggemann notes that many of the Psalms either ground us in the dependable goodness of God (psalms of orientation) or express lament in times of suffering or distress (psalms of disorientation) or give thanks for deliverance through such times (psalms of reorientation). The twenty-third psalm works its way through all three.

David lived about three thousand years ago. As a boy he was a shepherd, overseeing his father’s sheep. As a man he became an army general, then outlaw, and eventually a king. The twenty-third psalm draws on the experience of both shepherd and sheep, and general and troops.

Psalm 23

A Psalm of David.

1 The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

2 He makes me lie down in green pastures;

he leads me beside still waters;

3 he restores my soul.

He leads me in right paths

for his name’s sake.

The psalm begins by grounding us in the dependable goodness of God, who brings us again and again to rest—bringing us back to ourselves, when we have become scattered, pulled in every-which-way by fear or competing demands. (We engage with this through habitual practices such as Sabbath, one day in every seven to simply be and to enjoy the goodness of life.) It is interesting to note that rest is the state the shepherd-general wants for us, knows we need. It is in rest that we find comfort.This rest is not ‘doing nothing,’ but in fact essential for our lives to flow, to dance with vitality—with a contrast, lost in translation, between slow-moving waters and sparkling sheep (soldiers) flowing after their shepherd (general). The imagery continues, depicting sheep being led, to rest, along familiar trails, but the choice of words in the Hebrew the psalm was written in also describes the perimeter encircling an army camp, within which soldiers are able to rest. This is multilayered imagery, connecting to David’s varied life experience; but every layer is another way of describing coming to rest in God’s dependable goodness.

The psalm continues,

4 Even though I walk through the darkest valley,

I fear no evil,

for you are with me;

your rod and your staff,

they comfort me.

Here the scene narrows right down from a spacious pasture to a narrow gorge whose high sides block out the sun. If you are a sheep, this is the perfect place for predators. If you are a soldier, this is the perfect place for enemy soldiers to set an ambush. And yet, the sheep follows her shepherd and the soldier follows his general, because they trust them. The shepherd carries a club for driving back predators, and the pastoral staff we are familiar with shepherds (and bishops) holding. The primary thing a shepherd does with this staff is, lean on it: it enables the shepherd to rest, and also to walk without losing her footing; and because the sheep knows that the shepherd is secure, the sheep may also experience rest, confidence and sure-footedness even in the dark passage.

This dark and narrow place is where we find ourselves in bereavement, at the death of a loved one, or the loss of a job, the breakdown of a friendship, or all manner of transitional seasons. It is the experience of mid-life, where our choices narrow, where we may move from being a generalist to a specialist; where, if we have them, our children leave home while our parents face old age and dying. The dark and narrow place is not one we can avoid, retreat from back to the spaciousness of younger years, or rush through. It is inevitable, and difficult, and formative; and even here we can experience rest in the dependable goodness of God.

The psalm continues,

5 You prepare a table before me

in the presence of my enemies;

you anoint my head with oil;

my cup overflows.

6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me

all the days of my life,

and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord

my whole life long.

If you are a sheep, the table prepared is a pasture that opens out from the narrow gorge, bejewelled with wild flowers. But the word choice of preparing also refers to the arranging of his troops for battle by a general. And the way the Shepherd prepares for us to come face-to-face with our enemies is to invite them, and us, to sit down together. That, over a shared meal, enmity might be transformed into friendship. Here, too, the pouring out of oil, which—whether a sheep who has picked up snicks along the way or a soldier who has been wounded in battle—is a medical image.

There are those who live in war zones, whose enemies are flesh and blood. But my own enemies are for the most part internal: my anxieties and fears; my catastrophising; the way my own physical body lets me down as it ages; shame. These are invited to the table, so that I might make peace with them. With myself, my whole being. That I might experience healing for my wounds.

The psalm concludes with goodness and kindness (the most underrated thing in the whole universe) and rest, in the sheep pen or in the great hall prepared for those who have come through the strife. Ends, where we began, with resting in the dependable goodness of God. Here, life is not what it was, but is still good: reconfigured, experiencing the love of God in a new season of life. That life has its changing seasons is inevitable: whether we experience rest in this, or fight it—becoming a ridiculous caricature of our younger selves, or resentful and bitter, in older age—is a matter of choice. To rest, or not to rest: that is the question.

Christians are aware that Jesus claims this psalm, the imagery of the Good Shepherd, for himself; and Christians also see Jesus as the Captain of our Souls, the one who leads us through suffering to glory—in this world and beyond. May we always return to rest in him, in every season.

 

on love

 

The Church is currently in Ordinary time, from ordinal numbers, or ranking things in the sequence in which they occur: first, second, third; gold medal, silver medal, bronze medal. These are all the days that are not tied to Christmas (Advent, Christmastide, Epiphanytide) or Easter (Lent, Holy Week, Eastertide, Ascensiontide, Pentecost).

But when Jesus speaks of the first and second commandments, he is not speaking of ordinal numbers. By ‘protos,’ he means the charge from which all other instruction originates and against which it is measured for likeness. By ‘deuteros,’ he means a second telling of the same thing—that is, ‘to put it another way...’—not a subsequent thing. (Exodus, the second book of the Law of Moses, tells how God brought his people out of Egypt and gave them the Law; Deuteronomy, the fifth book, presents a second giving of the Law, to the next generation.)

The charge is, love.

As the sun is made to give light, and the rain to water the earth, so humans are created to participate in love.

And to do so fully involves heart (kardia) and soul (psuché) and mind (dianoia) and strength (ischus).

Heart means, our thoughts and feelings, and our ability to shepherd these. If your thoughts and/or feelings towards someone else do not run to love, we are not yet where God longs for us to be.

To be clear, you may have been deeply hurt by another person, and we are not claiming that this is okay and you need to embrace them. What we are saying is that if your response to the one who has deeply wronged you is, ‘I hope they burn in hell!’ rather than, ‘I am so sad at how they turned out, so far from what God longed for them,’ then there is still work to be done. For your own sake.

Soul means the breath of life. We are clay of the earth (and our bodies will, eventually, return to the earth from which we came) animated by the life of God. Your life is a gift. And if we do not participate in that gift in love—if we are overly defensive, or possessive, for example—we are not, yet, where God longs for us to be.

Mind refers to our ability to weigh a matter and reach conclusions. And if our conclusion, in relation to another person, or kind of person, or group of persons, is that they are deserving of only conditional or qualified love, then we have reached the wrong conclusion.

Strength refers to our ability to resist and overcome opposition. The strength available to us fluctuates, over the course of a lifetime, or a day; but, we possess such strength. And in a world that daily encourages us to hate or despise others, to see others as a threat to our own life (as if anyone else could take away the gift that God has given) we are called to exercise our strength to stand for love.

And if we do this, and if we acknowledge the ways in which we fail to do this and seek the Love that we have denied, then we will participate in the kingdom of God, which is the reign of Love.

Mark 12.28-34

 

on being parishioners

 

Years after the death, resurrection, and Ascension of Jesus, his former apprentice Peter—now himself apprenticing others in the Way of Jesus—wrote to the still-infant church.

He calls them aliens and exiles. And that is what they were, in a worldly sense; and this is true of some but not all Christians today. But these sacred writings are handed down to us to shape our imagination, to frame how we see the world and ourselves within it. And Peter encourages us to see our primary citizenship as belonging to the kingdom of heaven.

The word Peter uses for aliens is ‘paroikos,’ from ‘para,’ meaning to be close alongside (as in, parallel lines) and ‘oikos,’ meaning house or household. Paroikos meant resident alien, those who lived close alongside the citizens of a place, but did not possess all of the rights of a citizen.

This is the word from which we get our words ‘parish’ and ‘parishioner.’ We primarily think of a parish as an area, and the parishioners as those who live within its boundaries. But most people do not think of themselves as parishioners; and even those who do, don’t think of themselves as resident aliens.

Peter pairs this word with ‘parepidemos,’ or pilgrim: one passing through a place, dependent on the hospitality offered by the residents. We are to think of ourselves as immigrants and pilgrims.

How we see ourselves determines how we see others. If we think of ourselves as possessing a place, we may find ourselves seeing others who move in alongside us as a threat. If we understand ourselves to be resident aliens, here (wherever ‘here’ is) to be a blessing to the local population, then we will more likely see other immigrants as a blessing. Certainly as deserving compassion.

But this is hard, which is why Peter tells us to actively distance ourselves from fleshly desires, which, given the context, must include the desire to possess a place in the world.

1 Peter 2.2-5, 9-12

 

a parable

 

Jo and I enjoy watching ‘Race Across the World’ (BBC). In the latest series, which aired its final episode this week, five teams of two—a brother- and sister-in-law, two cousins, a father and daughter, a brother and sister, and two best friends—raced, over fifty-one days, across eight countries from Italy to Mongolia. Before they set out, they surrender their bank cards and mobile phones: no access to the internet, so no GPS enabled maps, no transport routes or timetables, no translation apps. In exchange, they are given a one-off tight cash budget, the destination they must get to in each leg of the race, a booklet for each leg listing where they might work in exchange for cash to replenish their budget or bed and board in the family home of a stranger, and a device that will send them minimal directions by text when they reach the general destination, leading them to the checkpoint.

The production team are amazing, giving viewers an introduction to often less-travelled but beautiful parts of the world. But the pairings are also key to the success of the programme. Over time, participants open up about past challenges they have overcome, often bereavement; discover things about themselves, as they heal and grow and change; see their relationship with their team partner strengthened or transformed for the better; overcome language barriers; experience the hospitality of strangers; have their breath taken away by beauty. And while only one team will win the £20,000 prize money, everyone who finishes feels that they are a winner, having had a once-in-a-lifetime experience or a new lease of life, and having made new friends along the way.

‘Race Across the World’ is a wonderful parable of the life of faith within Christ’s pilgrim people, daily renewed by the Holy Spirit.

 

on imposter syndrome

 

I do some work for the Church of England nationally. Such working groups bring together people with a wide and relevant range of knowledge and experience; but—self-deprecation being a national pass-time—it is not unusual to recognise the expertise of others in the room, while failing to recognise the particular expertise you yourself bring to the table, and so to experience imposter syndrome.

One person in the room was asked whether they still experience imposter syndrome, and they replied, no, they had worked through that between 2008 and 2016. Which is both (intentionally) humourous and also carries truth: that imposter syndrome is real; that it can be overcome; and that it takes a long time.

The biographer John records Jesus praying in the hours before being arrested, and the prayer includes the statement that God, whom Jesus called our Father, loves those whom he has given to Jesus as he has loved Jesus:

‘that the world may know that you have sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me.’ (John 17.23)

Jesus isn’t saying that God loves him, and also loves us, but not necessarily as much or in the same way; he is making the claim that those whom the Father has given to the Son—all who are united to Jesus by baptism—are loved by God in exactly the same way as Jesus is. Fully, and unbroken, from before the creation of the world. As the church planter Paul would go on to write, ‘nothing in all creation can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord’ (Romans 8.38, 39). (And it is not that God does not love others in the same way, but that we do not know it until we know it revealed by Jesus.)

And this is where I come across imposter syndrome more often than any other context.

Those who believe that God is too occupied with global problems to be interested in them.

Those who believe that they are less worthy of God’s love than other, more deserving, people.

Where we have not known love, or known love conditionally, it can take years—and a supportive community who gently but firmly remind us the truth of who we are—to work through that sense of imposter syndrome. Again, the church planter Paul describes this work of declaring what God has said—prophesying—as one of building up; restating God’s decision to those who need encouragement; and consoling, or bringing closer to God, those who feel distant (1 Corinthians 14.3)

 

given

 

Seventh Sunday of Easter: Lectionary readings Acts 1.6-14 and John 17.1-11.

God the Father sends Jesus the Son into the world, and gives people to him so that they might know and be drawn into the Love they share. The Son, in turn, will send the people whom the Father has given him to the world, that others might know and be drawn into that same embrace: to experience peace within themselves (which is no small feat) and with their neighbours and with God.

The people the Father gave to the Son included ‘Peter, and John, and James, and Andrew, Philip and Thomas, Bartholomew and Matthew, James son of Alphaeus, and Simon the Zealot, and Judas son of James.’ (Acts 1.13)

Peter is a nickname. His parents called him Simon, but Jesus called him Peter, which means rocky. Jesus told a parable about a sower sowing seed on various soil. The seed that fell on rocky ground sprung up quickly but wilted just as quickly in the heat of the sun. This, he said, described those who responded to the message of God’s reconciling love with enthusiasm, but fell away as soon as living in that love turned hard. Jesus knew what he was doing when he called Simon, Peter: one who is all in, and then out; all in again, and out again.

Jesus also gave a nickname to the brothers John and James, ‘the sons of commotion.’ When the Aramaic word proved unfamiliar to the Roman audience of his Gospel, Mark reached for ‘thunderstorm.’ John and James brought the drama.

Andrew is the only obvious choice on the list of people the Father gave the Son. At what we would call primary school, Jewish children committed the Torah (the first five books of the Bible, Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy) to heart. Then most left schooling to apprentice to their father’s trade. But the most promising continued with school alongside that, committing, over several years, the rest of the Bible (what we know as the Old Testament) to memory. And the best of the best might then apprentice to a rabbi, before becoming a rabbi themselves, one whose position in the community was to help others live life fully and well. When we first meet him, Andrew is already a disciple of rabbi John the Baptiser, before John tells Andrew that he has taken him as far as he can, and now he must apprentice to rabbi Jesus instead. Andrew, at least, is an obvious choice.

Philip has a popular Greek name. He is an immigrant, the child of immigrants. Were this twentifirst century England, Philip would be Muhammad; and he was likely as popular then as immigrants are here and now.

Thomas means the Twin. But we never meet Thomas’ twin. If this is his name, rather than a nickname, perhaps he was the twin who survived birth, his parents wanting him to know that he was not alone in the womb. That would be very common. Or perhaps both twins survived, but later had a falling out. Whatever, there is a hole in Thomas’ life. After the resurrection, Jesus invites Thomas to put his hand in the hole in Jesus’ side, to discover that holes can be filled. Perhaps you can identify with Thomas.

Bartholomew is another nickname, possibly belonging to Nathaniel. It means the Giant’s Offspring. Specifically, Talmai (Hebrew, or Ptolomy in Greek). Talmai was one of the Nephilim, a cross breed with fallen angels for fathers and human mothers. Giants and monsters. Watch out, here comes Bartholomew. The freak. The monster. Imagine the other kids closing one eye and crying out, Cyclops, Cyclops. Perhaps you can identify with Bartholomew.

Matthew is a gambler. A tax collector. To raise capital for public works, the Romans would auction the rights to collect tax in a given area. Effectively a private loan to government, in the hope that you might collect the expected level of tax—or more—but with the risk that you might not. Like playing the stock market. Tax collectors were despised. The testimony of a tax collector was inadmissible in court—so, of course, the Holy Spirit would choose Matthew to write an account of Jesus’ life.

James son of Alpheus lived in the shadow of James the brother of John (and also in the shadow of his own brother, Matthew). The Church would come to call him James the Less, to tell him apart from James the Great (though James the Great would eventually have his head removed by a sword, making him, well, less). Perhaps you can identify with living in the shadow of someone else.

Simon the Zealot was a Patriot. One who co-opted religion to justify violence against ‘the other’—or who might justify resorting to violence to protect religious cultural identity. If this was today, he would fit right in at a rally organised by Stephen Yaxley-Lennon. He would hate Philip, and Matthew, for different reasons. And the Father gives him to the Son, to find reconciliation. The agenda is not Make Israel Great Again, but, see beyond your tribe to a common humanity, a brother- and sisterhood.

We don’t really know much about Judas son of James. Some think he was the same Judas who wrote the Letter from Jude; some don’t. But Judas son of James is also known, forever, as ‘Judas—no, not that one.’

It is hardly a promising list. As noted, Andrew is the only obvious choice. Except that if the purpose is to experience reconciliation—the healing power of Love—then this is precisely the kind of list you might choose. Almost as if God knows what God is doing.

Here’s the thing. If you find yourself drawn to Jesus, you are one of the people whom the Father has given to the Son, to discover and come to peace through Love—and whom the Son sends into the world to carry (through our actions as well as—and perhaps even more than—our words) that good news.

And so are the people you might find sitting around you when the church gathers.

Like the first people the Father gave to the Son, we are a motley crew. But that, too, is good news, because it is relatable.

 

not notable is not nothing

 

In 1867, the Society of Arts inaugurated the Blue Plaque scheme, identifying the former homes of since-deceased notable people, initially in London but later widening across the UK.

Between my vicarage and the supermarket, there is a house on Silksworth Lane that bears a false blue plaque declaring On This Site In 1867 Nothing Happened.

Of course, it isn’t true to say that nothing happened. Silksworth Lane existed, albeit bounded by farmer’s fields rather than houses. At the very least, rain fell, grass grew and was eaten by livestock. Trains passed by carrying coal on the first line to use steam engines (albeit not as notable as the first passenger train line). People must have walked along the lane, perhaps driving animals, perhaps travelling by horse-drawn cart. Almost certainly, conversations took place, perhaps discussing the events of the day, further afield, or perhaps purely domestic matters. Women might have gossiped about the dismissal, by the all-male House of Commons, of a proposal to give women the vote, along with extending the male franchise. Menfolk might have sneered, among themselves, at the very idea. Just as I saw today, on my walk, older couples might have hobbled along hand-in-hand, propping each other upright.

The claim Nothing Happened simply means nothing we consider Notable.

Your life is almost certainly not Notable, or Important. Get over it.

That is not to say that your life does not matter. It matters deeply. Indeed, it matters far more than the things, judged by strangers, that earn your ghost a blue plaque. Because you matter to those who know you, now.

 

pebbles

 

There’s a man in a white house who seeks to manipulate everything to his personal gain, whose behaviour has made the world a more dangerous place. And there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. I don’t even possess one single, solitary say in the land where he lives.

What I can do, what I did do this morning, is take shelter from the storm in God. To hide until the storm is past—one day, the waves the man is making in the world will have ceased; but the storm within me can be calmed much sooner. A child in their safe and secret place.

And so, this morning, I sat with God—in God—in silence; in prayer, which is a state of paying attention, of becoming more aware. We sat, together, God and I. And, like an autistic child with his pebbles, I took out whoever came to my mind and held them there, on my palm, to show God, ‘Look, look how utterly wonderful this one is!’ And in the silence shared between us, God simply said, ‘I know, I KNOW.’ Not, ‘I made them’—no need to take credit, though in fact God did make them; no need to take anything away from my wonder. And then, like an autistic child with her pebbles, God held out whoever came to God’s mind—and to be fair, they would not have come to my mind had God not shown them, for God’s collection of (unlikely) treasures is far greater than my own. But there is a level of trust there, between two persons, safe enough to show the other what matters most to them, which is usually beyond words.

And in the world beyond, I could not tell you what, if anything, had changed. But a storm had blown itself out. And that is why I need to return to this place on a daily basis in this stormy season.

Peace be with you

and also with you.

 

glory

 

Church was glorious this morning. Not slick—we don’t do slick—but real, and, glorious.

At Communion, in this Eastertide, we are using Eucharistic Prayer G, which includes the following words:

‘How wonderful the works of your hands,

O Lord.

As a mother tenderly gathers her children,

you embraced a people as your own.

When they turned away and rebelled

your love remained steadfast.’

It was precisely as I was saying these words that the youngest member of the congregation today, held in her mother’s arms, decided that she had a lot to say, and say with conviction. Glorious. I almost lost it in giggles at the perfect timing of this illustration, of what it means to say these words about God. Of who we are:

children in arms, sometimes wrestling against the love and security we need;

needing—and free—to express ourselves;

loved.

Glorious.

This is Church. The life of faith, from birth to death, embodied, enacted, given voice.

After that service we had a time of baptism preparation with two families, for a girl born in lockdown and the little sister of a big brother who had been born in lockdown. We role-played our way through baptism, its significance, and the connections between the symbols of oil, water, and a little candle, and everyday life.

This, too, was glorious.

And now, the sun is shining, and I am on annual leave.

Glorious.

 

un/aware

 

I wonder when you first became aware of the presence of Jesus?

Perhaps you were a child. If you are old enough now, perhaps it was kneeling by your bed saying your prayers before bed, though I suspect this generation has all but passed. Though if you are a Boomer or Gen X, and grew up in the UK, your mental image of Jesus was probably shaped by pictures like the one shared below, which hangs near the front at St Nicholas’ Church. Scandinavian Jesus, with flowing blonde hair and beard and blue eyes. Bjorn Borg at Wimbledon.

I wonder when you first lost awareness of Jesus?

It may have been in the wake of a bereavement, the death of someone you loved. Or in the suffering they endured before dying. It may have simply been that life, in all its busyness, got in the way. Or that the more you learnt about the world, whether its injustices or the wonders described by science, that the stories you heard told in church became implausible. For too many, it may have been a growing awareness of the gulf between what the Church proclaimed and how the Church acted, or between what the Church proclaimed and what Jesus proclaimed; and if this is your story, I am truly sorry. For others, who remained in church, it may have been that church itself changed, and something that had been deeply important to you was left behind (this, too, is bereavement).

I wonder when you became aware of Jesus’ presence again?

And, how that awareness grew. Often, as something intangible, a sense inside the body, that might be described as a burning—warming—of the heart, long before the understanding catches up. An integration of the life lost within the life we have now.

This repeated process, of becoming aware of the presence of Jesus, losing that awareness, and later becoming aware again, is the process by which we move from a naïve faith to a more mature faith; from rules (that train us) to freedom to love well; and from a dependency on certainty of knowledge, to peace with not needing to have all the answers. The disciples on the road to Emmaus move from not recognising Jesus, to seeing him, to not seeing him but now having a faith deeper than sight.

This is the process by which we leave behind that which has served us well (enough) in the past (even Scandi Jesus) but will not (cannot) serve us now. And how we differentiate between Jesus, and all the trappings.

This is the Way. And as we walk on it, we are accompanied by Jesus, whether we recognise his presence (at times) or not.