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.