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