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.

 

betrayals

 

I like to be fashionably late to a party, unless it is an actual party, in which case I like not to go at all. And so it is that I watched the third series of The Traitors, having not watched the first two (even then, I didn't pick this one up from the very start).

A couple of quick takeaways.

Firstly, people, even people who believe themselves to be en vogue, are incredibly change resistant. This series saw a couple of twists, variations on how the game was played in the first two series (in part to keep the game fresh; in part, I'm sure, to generate exactly the kind of response it achieved) and a whole lot of viewers were up in arms. Even though this is a game of twists, we want the format to remain unchanged. We like the pretence of being in control that knowing the rules of the game gives.

Secondly, collectively we enter into an agreement to play the game. As far as I know (though I admit I did not go looking and so I may be wrong) the media respected the format. That is, although the series was filmed some time before it was broadcast (and was broadcast over a much longer time than the game took to play) the media did not report who had won (at least, even if that information could be found somewhere, you could engage with the media without finding out). The news media took the traditional roles of reporting, for the record, what had taken place the day before (the day before, in this case, being a conceit, but still) and offering editorial thoughts on what might unfold next; as opposed to the more usual current role of informing us today what someone in the public eye is going to do (e.g. leaking extensive content of a Prime Ministerial speech a couple of days before they deliver it). And this meant that we were all in a traditional and now increasingly unfamiliar role as consumers of media, held in time (not real time, as the series had already been filmed, but common time). If you chose not to watch an episode as it was aired, or if you had no choice but to catch up later, you had to avoid finding out details the next day that would spoil your viewing; but you were essentially in the traditional place of a newspaper reader who only got their newspaper a couple of days after the events it was reporting. This agreement, this holding of common time in a world of on-demand media consumption, also gives us a sense of security, which is illusionary but an effective placebo.

 

Good and evil

 

We have started watching Inside Man (BBC One). In a cast full of individual performances given to perfection, the chemistry between Stanley Tucci and Atkins Estimond as two inmates on death row is to die for.

The premise is that we are all murderers; you just need to meet the right person. And this is a true revelation of the human heart. There are no good people, and no evil people; just people, who are capable of doing inspirational good or unimaginable evil.

To train ourselves, then, we do not do good for reward, which is so often not forthcoming, but for its own beauty. This is, at least in part, why the apostle Paul writes, ‘Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honourable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.’ (Philippians 4:8)

And we turn away from evil, not for its punishments, for, indeed, evil is often unpunished, and many times rewarded, but on account of its emptiness.

The liturgy forms us, if we allow it.

In Baptism, we are asked to respond to four questions, not simply in the service but every day of our lives. We are reminded of this at every baptism we, the ekklesia or chosen company, participate in as supporters of the baptismal candidate. In their simplest form, these are:

Do you turn away from sin?

Do you reject evil?

Do you turn to Christ as Saviour?

Do you submit to him as Lord?

Then, whenever we come to Communion, we begin with the Prayer of Preparation, in which we acknowledge that the desires of our heart, including those we hide even from ourselves, can become disordered—that, among other things, we can do evil in pursuit of good, or, the wrong thing for the right reasons—and affirm our dependence on God’s holy and lifegiving Spirit to cleanse the thoughts of our hearts, that is, our capacity for choosing between good and evil.

Only then do we move to Confession, the confession that we have thought and said and done that which we ought not to have done, and neglected to do that which we ought to have done—we are speaking of moral responsibility, not To Do lists—and of our trust in God’s forgiveness. Indeed, it is only possible to be so radically honest about and to ourselves kneeling on the ground of divine absolution, not of commensurate consequence but of ultimate emptiness, of being cut off from beauty, from Life.

And we must return to these truths again and again; for, even priests forget them.

 

Let go, keep watch : part 2

 

At the request of our fifteen-year-old son, whose classical education has holes in it on account of having been born too recently, we are currently working our way through every episode of The West Wing. On evenings when I do not have any meetings, we might get in two or even three episodes, and last night we reached the end of the second series and my favourite episode, ‘Two Cathedrals.’

President Bartlet stays behind after the funeral of his longstanding secretary at the National Cathedral, and lets rip at God. He accuses God of cruel indifference, the injustice that nothing he has done, none of the good his administration has achieved, counts for anything. As a Catholic who believes that salvation is by faith and good works, his good works have not changed the mind of God in favour of salvation.

Returning to the Oval Office, the President has a final conversation with the ghost of his secretary, who sets him straight about God (stop projecting your father onto Our Father) and speaks into his life as only she can for one last time before he is able to let go (stop projecting me).

God, of course, can withstand the storm of our wrath while it blows over. Jed Bartlet stands firmly in the scriptural tradition of Job. But, like Job, he needs to hear God speak. And what God says, through a beloved woman, resonates with the exchange between Jesus and his friend Mary in John 12:1-8.

Until you are able to let go, of God and of our neighbour, whom we are called to love as much as ourselves; until we are able to free God and our neighbour of obligation, of any debt owed to us; we are a liability.

For as long as we need to be the protagonist, the hero, we are doomed to force the hand of history with a helping hand, as Judas tries to do; or to create the hubris that humiliates us, as Peter does. We are condemned to the existential crisis that leads Judas to take his own life, and Peter to run away before he is eventually restored to community.

But when we let go of the demand that God repay us, we are freed to watch over whatever it is that God is doing. We are trusted to be a witness, to testify in defence of a loving, self-giving God who is roundly accused of perpetrating a great deceit. We get to point beyond ourselves to something greater than we could ever imagine.

Let go.

Keep watch.

 

Strength

 

Mr Putin is amassing invasion-ready troops on the border with Ukraine—and simultaneously accusing the US administration of provoking a war as a pretext to impose economic sanctions against Russia.

This is classic bully behaviour: reframing the story, when they are stood up to, the bully insisting that they are the one being bullied. The narcissist, on being held to account, crying, ‘I am the victim of a witch-hunt against me!’

Politics (in the widest sense) is about power: including the power to do good; and—with the best of intentions—to cause unintended harm. And power is easily abused. Therefore, (well-intentioned, most often Left) political solutions to the problem of bullying produce systems that are susceptible for co-option by the bullies themselves. The very structures put in place to protect the vulnerable end up creating cover for the Übermensch.

I am currently enjoying watching the tv series Superman & Lois with my wife and our teenage son. In the pilot episode, Clark Kent, his wife Lois Lane, and their teenage sons Jonathan and Jordan Kent move from Metropolis to Smallville, the backwater Kentucky town where Clark grew up. Smallville needs them; but Clark and Lois recognise, their family needs Smallville as much as (perhaps more than) Smallville needs them. This family needs Smallville, and something that is found in Smallville, but that Metropolis lacks.

Superman and Clark Kent are not so much alter-egos as the same person in different spheres. Superman is saving the world; Clark is trying to be a father to teenagers.

One sphere is concerned with power—and, yes, how to exercise self-control, and build (or lose) trust, and be accountable, all of which a father needs to pass on to his sons, for the political sphere is a sphere of all our lives.

The other is concerned with covenant. With commitment to the common good of a group of people who have much that is not shared in common. People with different personalities, facing different challenges, having different values and aspirations, coming to different conclusions as to the best way forward—yet committed to one another.

Smallville has endured some hard times, but here there is still a civil society based not on power or expediency but on neighbourliness and free association. It is at risk, cannot be taken for granted; but, nonetheless, it is still there, in the fabric of the place.

If we hope to be the kind of society where bullying does not flourish, we won’t get there by legislation, which is not to say that legislation does not have its place, but that it has is limits. We will need a very different vocabulary, a different playbook. We will need to learn to be curious, to ask questions for clarification, to suggest ways forward held lightly and open to counter-suggestions, to negotiate compromises, to take time-out, forgive, ask for forgiveness, seek to bless, prefer others over our own interests. In such ways we build resilience and healthy esteem for ourselves and for others.

There is a strength to power. But there is a greater strength to vulnerability.

 

The Responder, baptismal and otherwise

 

Two things I am known for: helping people prepare for baptism and watching tv dramas.

The Responder follows a police officer over several days, as his life falls apart. It is a fine performance from actor Martin Freeman, including the most convincing Scouse accent by a non-Scouser I have heard on tv. Indeed, this gritty, harrowing tale is full of fine performances from an excellent cast. And every single character, no matter what part they play in the story, is just about at breaking point.

It is easy to dismiss drama as exaggerating for dramatic effect. Or to rail against portrayals of corruption as unhelpful. If you work within an institution—the police force, for example, or the Church—it is easy to become defensive about portrayals of corruption (in fiction, or the news) as misrepresenting an overwhelming majority of good people. But, as The Responder sees with wide-eyed clarity, good people—or people who try to do good, or to do ‘the right thing’—make bad decisions when they feel forced into a corner. When they or their families are threatened with violence, or even loss of face. This is even more likely when we are under a more general stress pressure. And, like the full range of people from diverse backgrounds in The Responder, so many of the real people I know in real life are living with unbearable loads right now.

(This crisis response is as old as human nature: in the Old Testament reading set for Morning Prayer today, we see Sarah trying to cover herself when her eavesdropping is uncovered; and in the Gospel reading we see Pilate make successive and increasingly desperate attempts to save Jesus from a lynch mob, ultimately putting his own skin and that of his family ahead of the life of an innocent stranger.)

At the heart of Baptism are four questions and responses, made for ourselves or, in the case of an infant, by parents and godparents on their behalf. In their most simple form, these are:

Do you turn away from sin?

I do.

Do you reject evil?

I do.

Do you turn to Christ as Saviour?

I do.

Do you trust in him as Lord?

I do.

These questions and answers acknowledge the reality that The Responder depicts.

That there is a distance that grows between us—‘sin’—even between us and those we love the most, that must be turned away from if we are to close that gap, if we are not to vanish from our own lives.

That the refusal to love our neighbour—for that is the definition of ‘evil,’ an indifference towards others—must also be strongly, and communally, rejected. You cannot mitigate against indifference by indifference: this is not a vaccine scenario where a small dose of indifference immunises society against potentially fatal indifference.

But also that we find ourselves, from time to time, in a hole where to keep on digging would only make it deeper. We need saving, from those who would harm us, including our own actions. In Christ, God is with us and for us, not necessarily rescuing us from consequences, but rescuing us from the disaster we catastrophise by bringing life out of death.

For, in all things, he is at work to reconcile all things—relationships, conflict, pain, the good we fear losing but cannot hold on to however hard we try—to bring about not a neat resolution and a Happily Ever After fairy-tale ending, but fresh beginnings and a true peace even in the most complex and challenging of circumstances.

I would recommend The Responder to your viewing. But I would recommend baptism preparation—or, for those who have been baptised, a revisiting of the baptismal promises; and, for those christened as a child who have never made the rite your own through Confirmation—even more so.

 

The wind in the trees

 

‘Who Do You Think You Are?’ is a BBC show tracing the family tree of well-known actors, presenters, sports-people, and the like. The eighteenth series kicked off last night, following comedian Josh Widdicombe. I can’t claim to have seen every single episode, but—no spoilers—this latest was the most incredible I have seen, in part because of the stories uncovered, and in part because Widdicombe is so engaged and engaging.

When genealogy is brought to life by historians who raise the dead for us, the pursuit resonates with our shared human experience. The ancient writer Qohelet (aka Ecclesiastes) explored these themes. Qohelet impresses upon us the acknowledgement that life is as ephemeral and fleeting—and wonderous—as breath, wind. Moreover, we experience a great evil—not a moral evil, but an existential one—that all are brought low by death. Time and chance happen to all. The powerful are brought low; we work hard, only for some other, some stranger, to benefit. This being so, Qohelet advises that we take joy in the gift of life while it is ours. That we embrace life fully, while holding it lightly, and always mindful of the One who is Giver and Hallower and Sustainer of Life.

We see just such things in the stories of our great-great-many-times-great-grandparents, in their rising and falling, their opportunities and tragedies. In death, we sleep with our ancestors. In life, we work and eat and drink with them, hopefully finding satisfaction. In the lives to come, generations as yet unborn, the story continues, held in the love of God, who has made the world this way, in hope that we might ever reach out towards that love and hope held for us.

 

Friendship

 

I’ve been thinking about friendship, what it does, why we need it, why we find it so hard to make and sustain such relationships—especially, perhaps, as we get older.

And, on Sunday evenings, we’ve been watching Mortimer & Whitehouse: Gone fishing (series 4, BBC2) in which comedians Bob Mortimer and Paul Whitehouse travel around the UK, going fishing, and having gentle conversations about life and growing older. Paul obviously knows more about fishing than Bob, but you don’t need to know—or even care much—about fishing to appreciate this study in sustaining friendship.

Robert Alter translates Genesis 2:18 in this way:

And the LORD God said, “It is not good for the human to be alone, I shall make him a sustainer beside him.”

adding the Commentary:

sustainer beside him. The Hebrew ‘ezer kenegdo (King James Version “help meet”) is notoriously difficult to translate. The second term means “alongside him,” “opposite him,” “a counterpart to him.” “Help” is too weak because it suggests a merely auxiliary function, whereas ‘ezer elsewhere connotes active intervention on behalf of someone, especially in military contexts, as often in Psalms.

It is not good for the human to be alone, so God provides another. At this stage in the story, there is not yet gender differentiation: though we will come to a man and a woman—which will then be further related to marriage—even more fundamentally than that, here is the intended relationship between people. Any people.

I shall make him a sustainer beside him. The word beside can also express opposite, counterpart. It can refer to the two corresponding banks of a river. Hence the image of Mortimer and Whitehouse, standing alongside one another on one bank of a river flowing past them, casting a line towards the other side. And the wider the banks are apart, the greater the body of water they hold between them. As it matures, the capacity of such a relationship—whether a marriage or any friendship—to hold blessing for others grows. It carves out space to the benefit not only of the friends themselves but for life in its wider sense. Friendship shapes, and helps sustain, the world in which it is found.

So Bob and Paul mess about on the river bank, or on a boat on a lake, or on the sea shore, fishing. And in the evenings, they ask questions of one another, about life, their childhoods, their experience of growing older, where they still find wonder in the world, what gives them joy. They relate to one another in a way that is sustaining, they intervene for one another. In their conversation, casting out a line, a float bobbing on the apparently inconsequential surface, only to be pulled into the deep and moving, out of nowhere, if you have the patience; then reeled in, perhaps too rushed, an insight getting away before it can be examined closely, others held in the hand, enjoyed for its beauty, released back into the wild, carried off by the stream.

If you want to understand friendship, you could do a lot worse than watch Mortimer & Whitehouse.

 

Our duty and our joy, at all times and in all places

 

Something quite marvellous is happening across the UK this spring. At nine o’clock on Sunday evenings, an estimated nine million of us are sitting down in front of LineOf Duty—and revisiting it at the water cooler on Monday morning.

Not literally, of course. Anyone who is employed in the kind of workplace that has a water cooler is still working from home. But Line Of Duty is a prime example of the water cooler phenomenon, that shared experience so powerful it spills over into our everyday lives. Thanks to social media we don’t need to wait until Monday morning, we don’t need to wait at all. On the other hand, we are made to wait a full week for the story to be carried on. This feels almost counter-intuitive at a time when so many of us have turned to streaming on demand to get through lockdown (Jo and I watched all eight series of French drama Spiral between Christmas and Easter). And yet that water cooler phenomenon relies on it, on a necessary mass of us watching this together in time, even if others will be catching up later.

In a world of engaging at our own convenience, we are reminded of our need for a collective experience—and one with drama, and a good measure of confounding mystery, and a cliff-hanger to boot.

There is much to reflect on here, as one called to curate the things, the good news, of God—to present the gospel afresh in each generation, within and beyond the Church:

the joy of shared familiar liturgy (in the case of LOD, technical policing terms in general, and Ted Hastings’ Ted-isms in particular);

an appreciation that not knowing what is going on, indeed not having a clue, is not necessarily a barrier but can in fact be a positive, where we are drawn deeper into mystery;

the central importance to our wellbeing of experience shared in time with other people;

a forensic attention to our motivations and behaviour, with brutal honesty and some wisdom as to how much to share with whom;

the kind of conclusion to our shared hour that propels us back out into the world wondering how things will unfold, and buzzing with our thoughts, our personal investment, to share.

It is not that church (or, more significantly, the gospel) is, or ought to be, like watching Line Of Duty. It is not that those who like LOD might like church. It is simply that those who believe in something greater than the welcome distraction of a good tv drama might have more questions to ponder than easy answers. Something quite marvellous is happening across the UK this spring. Those with eyes to see, take note.

 

Précédemment d’Engrenages

 

The eighth and final series of Spiral has recently aired in the UK, and we are working our way through the back catalogue of this French (original, French, title Engrenages) police and legal procedural drama on BBC iplayer. It is described as ‘disturbing,’ on account of the behaviour of the police and lawyers often being indistinguishable from that of the criminals—all interlocked in a ‘spiral of violence’—but this is the very thing that makes it so interesting. Justice is not black and white, but includes many shades of grey.

It might surprise you to hear a vicar make such a claim, but it should not. Any honest reading of the Bible must recognise that even the most fundamental of laws require interpretation. Take, for example, the command not to bear false witness against your neighbour. To uphold this command, there are times when one is surely compelled to lie, to perjure oneself, to subvert the course of in/justice in order to protect another’s life.

In the centuries between the history recounted by the Hebrew Bible/Christian Old Testament and the New Testament, the Jewish community developed a complex legal system built on the Law given through Moses, including different and at times competing schools of interpretation. Christians are often quick to dismiss all this out of hand as legalism, but such a response verges on and may trespass into anti-Semitism. It is foolish, because English law (among others) is to a significant extent built on biblical law. It is foolish, also, because every community involves different schools of interpretation. Jesus himself does not dismiss the Law of Moses, or even the Oral Tradition per se, but stands in a long line of prophetic voices that call out those who confuse legal application with legal principle; those who overly worry about legal procedure; and those who hide behind the law to exploit others. And the apostle Paul does not so much concern himself with opposing Jewish self-understandings of the law, as addressing tensions between members of the Christian sect of Jewish and of Gentile background, as to the grounds on which Gentiles are included. Law, including moral law, is not static but dynamic.

To return to Spiral/Engrenages: if actions do not distinguish those operating ‘on the side of the law’ from those operating ‘outside the law,’ what does? In part, motive, and conscience, however murky; and in part the key theme of (the possibility of) being redeemed, of being freed from compulsive or addictive behaviour, to step into a freer life. The characters on the side of the law are painfully aware of their weakness, but—even if they cannot bear to admit to their (ironically, clearly visible) vulnerability before others—long for redemption, for themselves…and for the redemption of those who struggle alongside them, often wrestling, in a spiral not so much of violence as of hope. Even as character after character pre-emptively presses the self-destruct button, hope nonetheless endures, defiant.

At the end of the day, redemption cannot be found in ‘righteousness according to the law’ (nor in any other honour code) but is found in acceptance—acceptance within an adoptive family of others, and acceptance of ourselves. Redemption is the bloodied labour of self-sacrificial love.

 

Ashes

 

God our Father,

you create us from the dust of the earth:

grant that these ashes may be for us

a sign of our penitence

and a symbol of our mortality;

for it is by your grace alone

that we receive eternal life

in Jesus Christ our Saviour.

Amen.

 

This year, Ash Wednesday is on 17th February*. This year, due to coronavirus restrictions, I am unable to impose ashes upon foreheads. This year, some question whether a reminder of our mortality is what is needed. And this year, I approach this day against the backdrop of watching Russell T Davies’ incredible It’s a Sin.

To be clear, this five-part series depicting the lives of a group of (mostly) gay young men living (and far too often tragically dying) through the HIV/AIDS crisis of the 1980s won’t be suitable for everyone. There are a lot of explicit sex scenes, though these are in no way gratuitous, but integral and essential to the story being told, the lives being honoured. There are painful scenes of the void between parents and sons, the gulf between the necessary institutions of society and a compassionate society. You’d need to make your own decision on whether to watch or not. My wife and I are watching with our teenage sons (and the only reason we aren’t watching with our teenage daughter is that she has already left home).

Ash Wednesday is about truth and grace: about acknowledging our mortality in its heart-bursting joy and heart-breaking pain; about recognising our failures and the complex ways in which we wound one another—through weakness, through negligence, through our own deliberate fault—and receiving forgiveness for guilt and cleansing for shame. It’s a Sin is a touching exploration of all of these things. (It also sits well with the life-lessons of Ecclesiastes, the Old Testament book the lectionary for Morning Prayer is working its way through at the moment.)

I do not believe that HIV/AIDS was God’s judgement on homosexuality. I am more inclined to believe that it was God’s judgement on wider society for our refusal to embrace gay sons, though I am not convinced even of that. In any case, there are times when our hearts must be broken and made new. I’m not sure how far we have come in British culture, in terms of sons (in particular) talking openly and honestly to their parents about, well, anything of importance to them. I’m not sure how far we have come in how we face up to a mysterious and terrifying epidemic that is spreading through the community, either.

There are times when there is nothing that we can do to change the circumstances, and we must choose between daring to love fiercely or pushing away unbearable pain. The pain is real, and beyond bearing in our own strength, whichever way we decide. We are but dust, and to dust we shall return; but, for now at least, we are animated dust—dust that, as an eloquent friend of mine puts it, sings. Oh, the songs!

There are times when we can, and must, change circumstances, at least to a mitigating extent; where we must reckon with both our responsibility towards our neighbour, and our limits. 100,000 deaths with Covid since last Ash Wednesday would suggest that we need a different approach to bravado. That we need this moment this year as much as any other.

If you have not already watched It’s a Sin, and if you can bear it, it might be something to consider as we contemplate our lives in the shadow of an ashen cross.

Lord, have mercy.

 

*The date of Ash Wednesday moves around, tied, as it is, to the date of Easter Sunday, which is, in turn, tied to the lunar cycle; in contrast to, say, Christmas Day, which is always the same date, and instead wanders around the days of the week.

Culture wars

We are currently watching Mrs America, the ‘dramatised history’ account of the efforts of second-wave feminists including Betty Friedan, Gloria Steinem, Shirley Chisholm, Flo Kennedy and Bella Abzug to see the Equal Rights Amendment ratified, and the STOP ERA counter-movement led by Phyllis Schlafly. The production values are high; the cast, stellar. And it is fascinating to see how the culture wars of the 1970s have continued to shape the landscape today, and not only in the USA.

There is much that I would affirm of second-wave feminism. I take on board some of the criticisms levelled against it by later waves; while, on other issues, I’d remain more closely aligned to the second-wave: I do not subscribe to the idea that the values of each generation are inevitably and unquestionably better (or worse) than those of earlier generations. And alongside this, I have sympathy for some of the concerns culturally conservative women had—and have—regarding feminism.

What is striking about the series (which is not unsympathetic towards any character) is how deeply divided the women are, not only across the Right-Left, conservative-liberal, Republican-Democratic divide, but also within the uneasy (and, at times, unholy) alliances on either side of that divide. In this regard, of course, they are no different to—no better than, no worse than—the men who dominated public life. And while this is a drama based on history, shaped for dramatic impact, we can be confident that such personal battles took place, and still take place. [Though note this response on who benefits most from such a focus in their depiction.]

Left and Right, female and male, black and white, as mirrors—in a hall of mirrors seemingly with no way out?

And what is so deeply needed is to be able to see—without our distorting lenses—and appreciate the ‘other’. In its deep and generous empathy as well as its unvarnished honesty, Mrs America is a welcome example of engaging the challenge. Catch it if you can.

Liturgy and trauma

While we aren’t simply sitting in front of the tv in these days, we are continuing to work our way through season three of This Is Us. It is, in my opinion, the finest tv show of all, and an incredible study in trauma. Trauma is much more common than is acknowledged, and will be the lasting collective impact of the C-19 crisis.

In the most recent episode we have got to, an older man looks back over his life, disrupted by Vietnam, and says, “First [as a young child] I wanted to be a writer. Then [as a teenager] I wanted to be a doctor, or a scientist. Then [after Vietnam] I didn’t want to be anything.”

When we get through the present suspension of public worship, Church will look very different, and that is a good thing. But I hope that it won’t look completely different, because we have learnt a thing or two about living life to the full—as fully as is possible—with the reality of trauma. And much of this is carried in our liturgy, our habitual words taken up together over and over again, by which our lives are shaped and remade, new every morning.

First, there is the recognition that lives ‘in recovery’ need the structure of regular meeting—at least weekly and sometimes more often than that—with people who go from strangers to family, through commitment to one another and to relentless forgiveness when we, inevitably, let ourselves and one another down. The AA and sister organisations understand this too.

Then, there is the Prayer of Preparation, a beautiful prayer that speaks of God as the one ‘to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hidden…’ This holds our deepest selves, our God-given longings, including those that have not been fulfilled and might not ever be fulfilled, due to the circumstances of our lives. Nonetheless, we are known and loved and held by this God.

Then, there is the regular practice of Confession and Absolution. Of receiving forgiveness for our guilt and cleansing for our shame, over and over again—for that is what the one who has gone through trauma needs, whether, objectively, their guilt or shame is justified or not.

Known. Loved. Held. Forgiven. Cleansed. Again and again, one day at a time. In how we re-imagine Church for these disorienting times, we must not lose sight of these.

Those who suggest that all we need is Jesus are naïve. Jesus himself, having cleansed ten lepers, sent them off to take part in the liturgical response of the faith community, not simply to verify their cleansing to others but also to reiterate it to themselves. Yes, thankfulness was also needed, but we also need one another, and a communal wisdom.

Trauma

I absolutely love This Is Us, and would recommend it to anyone, with the caveat that you must watch from the very beginning and in unbroken sequence — this is not a show you can jump into, or in and out of. It is the simple story of an American family, told over several generations. But the casting is wonderful, the writing exquisite. This is small screen storytelling (four 18-episode seasons to date) at its finest.

What This Is Us boils down to is an exploration of trauma and its effects. The accumulative, generational trauma of turning to alcohol to hide from the monster your parent became through turning to alcohol to hide from the monster their parent became. The sudden, endless trauma of the unexpected death of a loved one. The ways in which our ways of seeking to cope with one trauma sow the seeds of another. And the ways in which our collective way of life — in this case, the American Way, but anyone living anywhere in the West will be able to relate — inflict trauma on all of us. As the story unfolds, we come to recognise that trauma is not a rare exception we can hope to avoid — why me? — but common to humanity.

This could be bleak, but it really isn’t. Heart-breaking, yes, but not bleak. Why? Because, true to life, the lives unfolding before us are shot through with faithfulness, hopefulness, and love that knows no horizon — the very things that transform life into a bitter-sweet tragic comedy and great romance, instead of something meaningless and cruel.

If we are to understand the trauma we all experience, we will need a range of insights to draw on, from the psychologist to the theologian, but, to communicate truth effectively, we shall definitely need skilful, collaborative storytellers. The team behind This Is Us show us how it can be done, and I am thankful for them.

The Circle

We have been watching Channel 4’s fascinating social experiment, The Circle (the second series ended on Friday). The premise is relatively simple. A group of contestants enter an apartment block where they live without coming into contact with one another, or any contact with the outside world; communicating only by intranet chat (the Circle). They can, therefore, play as themselves or as a ‘catfish’—someone pretending, online, to be someone other than their true identity, with the deliberate intention to deceive others. On a regular basis, contestants are made to rate the others; the two players scoring highest becoming influencers, and having to reach agreement as to which of the other players to block from the Circle. Regarding strategy, some choose to be friendly—something apparently so unusual it arouses suspicion—and others (catfish or not) to be manipulative. The viewing audience get to see more of what is going on, including players’ rationale (though we, too, are being manipulated to a degree, by editorial decisions; which may matter, as we, too, have votes at certain times, making us both quasi-player and quasi-production team).

One of the things that this experiment highlights is how much time and energy we all spend second-guessing the motives and responses of others, especially in but not restricted to our online interactions. Some of this, of course, is based on our previous experience; but it often exposes our own prejudice and the near universal belief that we are a good judge of character.

Another, related, thing that is highlighted is how much of our identity is constructed—even if we are not a catfish. For example, sexuality is a (very complex) construction. LGBTQIA+ sexualities are, clearly, social and political constructions; but so, equally, is being straight—and in the construction of ‘straight’ there is an excessive weight given to the male gaze, and (as an aspect of patriarchy) of the desiring-to-control gaze of the older man upon the younger woman. God didn’t give you any of these identities; though God did make us persons, socially constructed and constructing beings.

It was interesting to observe how sexuality was played by the players. The young lesbian woman who catfished as a straight female, to avoid being judged or the unwanted interest of men seeing ‘turning’ her as a challenge; but who felt that she needed to be ‘straight’ (as opposed to undeclared), to seek opportunity to flirt with guys to gain advantage. The straight men who flirted, aggressively. The younger straight women, who, within their armoury, dressed to kill; and who, when in girl group chat (and much to the discomfort of a male catfish) became very ladette. The middle-aged straight woman, catfish, who used photos of her son, but who—instead of playing as someone she presumably knows very well—sought to adopt the generic persona of a twenty-something straight lad, and did so with toe-curling clunky-ness; the clumsy flirting of a black woman catfishing as a white middle-class guy—embarrassing; but not necessarily inaccurate—and the recently-divorced cougar off the leash. The female catfish adopting a less glamourous female persona, so as not to be judged as nothing more than a body, while passing the most judgemental views on the bodies of women that didn’t conform to her own real-life construction. The tedious predictability of two straight contestants, strangers brought together in a shared apartment, getting it on. The brazen lust of a young gay man, and the way he used sexuality to evaluate the usefulness of other players to him, and the way in which a straight male strung him on. The inquisitiveness of the youngest contestant, a male identifying as bi-sexual, at ease in affirming other players regardless of gender or sexuality, but sensitive to unease (and so a great catfish detective). The dissonance of a male catfish, presenting the viewers with trimmed beard and bulging biceps (top never on) and the other players with a photo-filter single mum missing her baby son—a vulnerability hiding behind toughness, and a toughness hiding behind vulnerability.

The confidence of straight contestants, and the cautious approach of those of other sexualities. They ways in which sexuality, which impacts all of our relationships and not just potential sexual partners, was used to make first impressions and strategic decisions concerning who posed a threat and who posed little or no threat.

It was frankly refreshing to witness a middle-aged celebrity catfish relate to a beautiful young woman (on being blocked, players get to meet one player of their choice face-to-face) without objectifying her.

It was interesting, too, that the only player (celebrity catfish aside) to be in a long-term relationship, an older gay man, was so very comfortable in his own skin. This is not to suggest that you have to be in a long-term relationship to be so, but he had no need to impress anyone. Moreover, he had clearly constructed, deconstructed, and reconstructed himself, in various ways, many times; finding joyfulness and a genuine interest in how others were doing the same, taking ownership of givens and strategies in relation to the gaze of others, to construct a more fully liveable life.

Every contestant was a work of social construction, and was further socially constructed within the Circle. Such is all our days. Overall, we’re quick to justify our own constructions, our power-plays for ‘right reasons’ and to ‘good ends’; quick to judge—favourably or unfavourably—others on their constructions; and quick to weaponize what we construct. But underneath, there is a person, wounded and wounding, healing and healing others, to be seen and loved and interrogated for understanding—best done face-to-face over a meal—not for our advantage.

Thank you, Channel 4. We love The Circle.

Ethics

The defining revelation of God in the Old Testament is that given to Moses, recorded in Exodus 34:

“Yahweh, [my name is] Yahweh, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, maintaining love to a thousand generations, and forgiving wickedness, rebellion and sin. Yet I do not leave the guilty unpunished; but visit the consequence of the sin of the parents on their children and their children’s children, to the third and fourth generation.”

Yet alongside this revelation of mercy and justice (of moral action and moral consequence) we have the testimony of Jonah (Jonah 4) who speaks for God’s people in declaring his anger that God’s mercy; slow, measured, proportional anger at injustice; measureless, unchanging love; and willingness to forgive and relent from punishing, are not partisan. They are directed to the wrong sort of people. To our enemies, as well as us.

I’ve been watching The Capture (BBC), a drama series exploring the ethics of ‘correction,’ the use, by the intelligence services, of deep fake cctv evidence to show “re-enacted truth” where they have no physical proof of something they are confident happened.

It has been gripping; but the final episode (which sets us up for a second series) is deeply unsatisfying, because the villains (on ‘our’ side, using the end to justify the means) do not get their comeuppance.

We want to be vindicated, and we want to see others punished. And it has little to do with justice, and more to do with bloodlust and delight at another’s downfall. Get in!

Yet, the game is more complicated than we tell ourselves, and is not over yet.

And if the end does justify the means, the beginning and end of God is steadfast love.

Ragnarok

Last night, we watched Thor: Ragnarok with Elijah, who is working his way (and ours) through the Marvel Cinematic Universe. It is easily the most humorous of the films in the MCU so far. In any case, the Norse myths are hugely entertaining, and lend themselves well to retelling—we loved New Zealand’s contemporary tv adaptation, The Almighty Johnsons.

At one point, Thor, god of thunder, is thrown into a cosmic rubbish dump, and must escape from a nightmarish dystopia where enslaved champions are forced to fight one another, in order to return home to Asgard and defeat his sister, Hela, goddess of death.

When Thor finally confronts Hela, she gouges out one of his eyes. Near death, he sees his father, the one-eyed Odin, in a vision. Odin remarks that Thor never really saw very well when he had two eyes. (This would make more sense if Marvel had stuck with the traditional back-story of Odin sacrificing an eye in exchange for wisdom, and from then on seeing more clearly with one eye than he had done with two; rather than account for it as a battle-wound.)

In the Gospel reading set for Morning Prayer today, Mark 9:38-50, Jesus says that it is better to cut off your hand or foot or tear out your eye and to enter life in the kingdom of God maimed, than, with both hands, feet, and eyes, to be thrown onto the hellish rubbish dump.

The context is one of infighting between the disciples (Mark 9:33-37) and John’s attempt to win approval by informing Jesus that they had come across an outsider casting out demons in Jesus’ name and had told him to stop, because he wasn’t one of them.

Jesus’ response is uncompromising. You’re better off thrown into the sea with a millstone tied to your neck than you are preventing other people from ushering-in life in greater fullness.

The self-mutilation is hyperbole. And the hell is not some post-mortem punishment, but rooted in this life. Gehenna was Jerusalem’s rubbish dump, where refuse was burned, and where, when Jerusalem had fallen to armies in the past, the corpses of her fallen citizens were burned (this would happen again, at the hands of the Roman army, in AD70).

Essentially, Jesus’ teaching here is that we must live in peace with one another, and ruthlessly cut off at source any temptation to believe ourselves to be superior to others, or else we will find ourselves presiding over a wasteland. Better to compromise your vision than to have it intact, but be kings of the trash-heap.

This speaks to our political situation here in the UK, where we see competing ideologies fight to the death to rule over a nation reduced to rubble by their fighting. Better to compromise in order to work together.

And it speaks to our global environmental crisis, where westerners are unprepared to sacrifice their unprecedented collective privilege, prefering to be kings and queens of a wasted planet than work together for our shared home.

Thank God for those who seek to build common platforms, and imagine a new world. May God strengthen the resolve of the UN, in the face of many distractions.

Pray

Last night was the first of our eight-week Prayer Course, exploring the Lord’s Prayer. Then Jo and I went home to watch The Great British Bake-Off (recorded, whizzing through the advert breaks).

After a while, Jo said, “There’s a lot of prayer going on in that tent.”

And there was. It was striking. Again and again, as contestants put their biscuit mix in the oven, they commented:

“All I can do now is pray.”

“I just have to pray that it bakes in time.”

I don’t imagine that most of them would describe themselves as religious. And yet, their go-to is prayer. I can’t be certain, of course, but I think that what they are saying is:

“I’ve done all I can; and I know that it is not enough. I need the universe to smile on me. I need a little magic.”

What good is prayer? Well, prayer does two essential things. It connects us to a power that is greater than ourselves. And it reminds us that that power is not of ourselves.

Without that connection to a power greater than ourselves—however we understand that—we quickly deflate, give up. Without recognising that that power is not of ourselves, we become self-important, think too highly of ourselves, and, too little of others.

Prayer, as those in the know, know, both energises and grounds us.

Prayer won’t make biscuits cook any faster in an oven. But it will energise and ground the baker. It will empower them to enjoy the experience, no matter the outcome; not taking themselves too seriously, power to rise above being a sore loser or an inconsiderate winner; power to cheer on fellow competitors, to bond with others. Power to keep on baking, for others, beyond the tent.

It is not surprising that there is a lot of prayer in that tent. It is not surprising that there is a lot of prayer in the world.

Whatever you face today, take time to pray.

Endeavour

I much prefer small-screen drama to the big-screen. Television series lend themselves to a longer narrative arc than movies. Moreover, they rely on story-telling. They cannot hide a thin plot behind overwhelming special effects.

My favourite genre is detective fiction. It tells us so much of what we need to know of the human condition. And one of my favourites is Endeavour, the very fine prequel to Inspector Morse. Shaun Evans is a delight to watch in the title role. I reckon there is another twenty years between where we are ‘now’ in 1968 and when we first met John Thaw in the role; and I hope they will keep commissioning more series: they just keep getting stronger.

One of the things that makes Endeavour so poignant is that we know what becomes of Morse (though not how). We know that, though he will fall in love many times, he will never take the risk, seize the moment, to marry. That the women he loves remain to him a—completely unsolvable—puzzle to be solved, rather than a mystery to enter deeper into. We know that in the end, many years from now, his dying moments will be filled with a regret that spills over to grasp, too, at his colleagues with its chill fingers. And every time one of those colleagues urges the younger man to change before it is too late, we simultaneously long for him to do so, and know that he cannot.

I do not believe in a deity who has a fixed plan for our lives, a plan we can only fail to live up to. I believe in a God who, fixedly, longs for good for us, while leaving generous possibilities as to what that might look like. The sadness of Morse is perhaps not that he did not live the life he could have done, but that in a sense he remained a detached onlooker on the life he had.