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.

 

further on prayer

 

Notes on Luke 9.28-36

The stories we read in the Bible are rich in symbolism, in recurring motifs. For example, whenever you read about a tree in the Bible, you are reading about a person, and so we should enquire, whom does this tree represent? Or to give another example, the sea stands for chaos.

The Gospel text for this Sunday, Luke 9.28-36, is a story about prayer, and about what comes into being through prayer (the Greek employs the phrase ‘it came into being’ five times in nine verses—and my English translation erases every one of them under ‘Now,’ ‘And while,’ ‘Just as,’ ‘While,’ and ‘came [a voice]’ which is interesting in itself). And this passage employs four recurring biblical symbols: mountain; light; cloud, and (implied, in their returning) valley.

In the Bible, mountains stand for talking with God, or prayer. It is interesting to note that many people report feeling closer to God out in nature, by which we mean in places largely untouched by human activity, by buildings and traffic. But most of us (humans) are now urban dwellers. Jesus claimed that if you have faith, you can say to a mountain, be thrown into the sea, and it will be done. This is often presented thus: the mountain represents obstacles we face, which we can overcome by faith. But in the Bible, mountains do not symbolize obstacles we face; giants, or armies do. Jesus’ point makes more sense as being able to transfer the experience of being with God in the quiet space he models for us to seek out, into the chaotic circumstances we must return to. But if the regular practice of prayer is like being out in the mountains, this invites all kinds of imaginative engagement, from taking a leisurely pace, to needing a map and compass, to moments of breathtaking panoramic view, to times of descending mist. Like getting away from the noise of the city, prayer reshapes us where speed and busyness have deformed us. We come into being, again.

In the Bible, light stands for union with God, our ability to know God affectively with our whole body. As Jesus prays, his face changes, and his whole body radiates with light. The saints of the Church are depicted in art with halos, coronas of light around their heads. We pray with our whole bodies (not just our minds) and prayer changes our bodies. It can cause the face to shine. Ten years ago, eighteen-year-old photographer Shea Glover conducted a social experiment, taking two photos of subjects, the second captured immediately after telling them ‘You are beautiful.’ Their faces literally lit up. (You can find these images shared online.) Union with God is bathing in love shared between us: we gaze on Jesus and Jesus gazes on us as his beloved. Again, we come into being—from one degree of glory to another, as Paul and Timothy, two early apprentices of Jesus, described it.

Throughout the Bible, people pray with arms outstretched and the palms of their hands facing up. For Christians, this ‘orans’ posture symbolizes Jesus on the cross. I adopt this posture whenever I lead the congregation in the Prayer of Thanksgiving at Holy Communion—and for the first Christian millennium, they would have all joined me in the same posture. Early in the second Christian millennium, praying with hands clasped or palms pressed together became more common—a posture many of us were taught as children. Recently, someone asked me to pray; I bowed my head and started to speak to God, but they interrupted, demanding that I prayed ‘properly,’ that I put my hands together. My initial, internal response was not positive: it does not matter what we do with our bodies in prayer! But on reflection, I realized that it does matter: that for this person (and every person) the posture of hands together (or body) was not merely an outward form or a slavish traditionalism, but a posture that helps her come to God—and will help her to do so when she cannot do so consciously, with independence of mind, and when Christ comes to her embodied in a sister or brother.

In the Bible, cloud stands for mystery, the limits of our mind, of our ability to know God cognitively. We know God because of divine self-revelation, through the prophets and most fully in the person of Jesus; but we do not know God in full, because the fullness of God is far greater than our ability to hold that knowledge. And this is surely a good thing, because a god that can be contained within our mind is a creature of our own imagination. We are terrified by the prospect of cognitive impairment, especially of dementia: of being more known by others (chronologically, sequentially) than they are known by us. Yet the reality is that we are all more known—and especially by God—than we are knowing; that our cognitive ability, important though it is, is only part of a bigger whole. My own cognitive impairment—I recognize people not by their faces but by their voices, mannerisms, postures; and routinely struggle to recall names—is a gift, albeit unwelcome at times, that draws me (even kicking and screaming) to simply be with the other in the present moment. To be caught on a mountain in the cloud can be chilling and disorienting, but also an invitation to trust something beyond our interpretation of our senses, and to lean into the experience of others who have erected cairns along the path. We come into being with them.

In the Bible, valleys stand for obedience, trusting God in our daily lives. Jesus takes Peter, James and John with him up the mountain, but they return to the valley with him, having heard the voice that told them to listen to him. Their learning to listen involved not speaking about those things they weren’t to share, yet, for sharing them would jeopardize the departure—the exodus—Jesus was called to lead others in. And testifying as witnesses to what they had seen come into being, when the right time to do so had itself come into being. The valley is the place of obedience and trust. Valleys are also centres of population, human-shaped landscapes, filled with interaction, the context in which we love our neighbour as ourselves. The culmination of the mass, of encountering Christ in bread and wine, is the dismissal, the people of God being sent out into the world in peace, to love and serve the Lord. There is no mountain, light, or cloud without its attendant valley. This is where what has come into being in us—peace, love, a posture of service—is revealed, tested, refined. But what has come into being, through prayer, is the work of God’s Holy Spirit, not some self-betterment.

Mountains, light, cloud, and valleys are recurring symbols in the stories told in the Bible—in the story the Bible invites us to enter-into. Where have you known these in your own life?

 

On prayer as holding space

 

I have been thinking about intercessory prayer, about what it means to be a community that prays for our wider community, people who pray for our neighbours. I have been thinking about how we pray, and what happens when we pray, and why sometimes we find prayer so difficult, and how we might grow as intercessors. And the wonderful passage from the Gospel this Sunday has been transformative. Let’s take a closer look at Matthew 15.21-28. Our story begins like this:

Jesus left that place and went away to the district of Tyre and Sidon. Just then a Canaanite woman from that region came out …

Now, it doesn’t come across in the English, but the Greek uses the same word, έξέρχομαι (exerchomai) ‘to depart from’, for both Jesus and the Canaanite woman. Jesus departs from, or steps out from, his region—his community—and the Canaanite woman departs from, or steps out of, hers. There is a beautiful mirroring here, a reciprocity of action. Jesus and the woman each crossing the boundary between them, stepping outside of their world to encounter someone from a different world. Between them, they are holding a space between two worlds: between Galilee and Sidon; Jew and Gentile; male and female. There is mutual vulnerability and dignity, and no power imbalance or coercion.

In Jesus we see the revelation of what it is to be God, and what it is to be human. Here in this encounter, we see that when we pray to the Father, in the power of the Spirit, through Jesus the Son, for our neighbours, we are invited to hold space between two worlds. To _hold space between heaven and earth_ or, between the ‘now’ and the ‘not-yet’ of the kingdom of God. We hold a space that we do not control, trusting that God will act to bless and transform those who pray and those for whom we pray. Let’s continue:

… and started shouting, ‘Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.’ But he did not answer her at all. And his disciples came and urged him, saying, ‘Send her away, for she keeps shouting after us.’

The English says shouting, but the Greek says κράζω (krazό) ‘to scream, or shriek’. No wonder the disciples are uncomfortable in her presence. This account is reminiscent of Hannah pouring her heart out before God, her anguish at being childless, and bullied for it, and the old priest Eli mistaking her anguish for drunkenness and berating her, trying to move her on. I love that, in contrast, Jesus’ first reaction to the woman is to say nothing, to resist the urge to enter into conversation, to fill the void with words, to offer insight. Sometimes the best possible response—the God-revealing response—is silence, is simply to sit with another so that they know they are not alone, so that they know that they are seen and heard, and not recoiled from.

When we pray for our neighbours, we are invited to _hold space for strong emotions_. If we have truly taken a step from our world into theirs, we can expect shouting (theirs, and ours) and silence (ours, and theirs) as what is on the inside bursts the boundaries of respectable behaviour and break into the outside world. Words can be a barrier, a power game. If our prayers are too neatly packaged, too wordy, too cold, these are sure signs that we haven’t stepped out at all. Let’s continue:

He answered, ‘I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.’

Lost sheep is again a little misleading. The word for sheep is πρόβατον (probaton) ‘a little sheep’ and the word translated lost is άπόλλυμι (apollumi) ‘to destroy utterly; that is, perishing’. When the disciples plead with Jesus to send away the shrieking Canaanite woman, he responds, ‘I was not sent if not to the little sheep, being utterly destroyed, of the house of Israel’. Jesus is not sent to send away this Canaanite woman, or indeed anyone. Sorry, boys, but it’s a ‘no’ from me. That is to say, the disciples’ prayer is not in line with God’s will, in this situation. Instead, the woman offers a prayer of her own.

But she came and knelt before him, saying, ‘Lord, help me.’ He answered, ‘It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.’

Two words here—τέκνον (teknon) ‘a dependent child’ and κυνάριον (kunarion) ‘a puppy’—add to the image Jesus is building: little sheep, little children, little dogs. All three are vulnerable.

She said, ‘Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.’

How is it that food falls from the children’s table? As any parent will tell you, food falls from a child’s table, or highchair, because they are overwhelmed. Because they have not yet mastered the necessary motor skills and hand-eye-mouth coordination. Or because they have not mastered their emotions, their frustration at not being able to communicate with their parent in any way other than to push the bowl over the side. This is not wilful disobedience, but an attempt to communicate, to be understood. And where the child is overwhelmed, the puppy cleans up the mess on the floor.

The disciples are overwhelmed by the presence of a woman who is overwhelmed by the unhappiness of her afflicted daughter. But the woman acknowledges the messiness of her life, where the disciples try to manage it, to keep it out of sight and sound. The woman also recognises that if her prayer is answered, then the disciples will also get what they desire. While, culturally, the disciples would have seen themselves as children and their Canaanite neighbour as a puppy, the woman reveals that she recognises herself in the child and Jesus’ disciples as puppies hoping for scraps. The tables are turned, as it were.

When we pray for our neighbours, we are invited to _hold space for becoming_. This is in direct contrast to the overwhelming conditions we so often find ourselves in that lead to lives being utterly destroyed. Where despair is obvious, we are called to make hope a viable possibility in people's lives again. The little sheep becomes an ewe, with little sheep of her own. The dependent child becomes an adult. The puppy becomes a companion, guard, and guide. None of this occurs overnight.

Then Jesus answered her, ‘Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.’ And her daughter was healed instantly.

The woman’s faith is great—or goes beyond the boundaries that life has set for it, creating a more spacious life, for her, for her daughter.

Intercessory prayer, then, is a response to the invitation to hold space between heaven and earth, to hold space for strong emotions, to hold space for becoming.

It is a privilege and an adventure. So let us pray, today and every day. Amen.

 

We Are Together

 

The western Ukrainian city of Lviv is home to the Lviv School of Iconographers, a collective of women and men who are keeping alive deep-rooted traditions, not by slavishly reproducing past forms but by labouring with the Holy Spirit to birth twenty-first-century descendants.

This icon, titled ‘We Are Together’ is by Shadrina Katernya. It is a stunning depiction of human solidarity, not as a humanist construction but finding its source in God. Seven human figures cleave together in one mass, stunning colour, blue and pink and green, luminescent in the darkness—which is, itself, set within bounds by white light—evocative of the sevenfold Spirit of God spoken of by the prophet Isaiah and by the disciple John stretching to describe the Revelation given him on the island of Patmos:

the Spirit of the LORD, the Spirit of wisdom, the Spirit of understanding, the Spirit of counsel, the Spirit of power, the Spirit of knowledge, the Spirit of the fear of the Lord.

In the Ignatian inheritance, consolation is to be moving towards the active presence of God in the world, with growing awareness of the Mystery and in contrast to desolation, or, moving away from the active presence of God in the world. In the darkness, deep but having limits set upon it, we are consoled. As we gaze on the Mystery, we encounter this sevenfold Spirit of God: are drawn to the light of God’s wisdom, which is folly to the desolate heart; to God’s understanding, which confounds the desolate mind; to God’s counsel, which is death to the desolate soul; to God’s power, which is weakness to the desolate body; to be known by God, and to experience God’s Holiness and our holiness come together naked and unashamed.

Here is solidarity, human and divine, with every hurt that wrings the human breast.

As we gaze upon ourselves, and our God, Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

 

Attack

 

The western Ukrainian city of Lviv is home to the Lviv School of Iconographers, a collective of women and men who are keeping alive deep-rooted traditions, not by slavishly reproducing past forms but by labouring with the Holy Spirit to birth twenty-first-century descendants.

This icon, titled ‘Attack’ is by Danylo Movchan. If we think, for a moment, of icons as psalms in paint, there are the careful and deliberate meditations on the wonder of God’s glory, and then there are the urgent cries of the heart. Written in free-flowing watercolours, ‘Attack’ is an example of the latter, a lament in response to the Russian bombing of a maternity ward and a children’s ward in Mariupol.

Four skulls cut through a yellow-gold field that evokes Ukraine as the breadbasket of Europe. In as much as skulls are universal symbols of mortal danger—poison bottles, pirate ships—or even manifest evil, we notice that they cut an obliterating trail through the gold, they cause real harm. And yet, far more gold remains than not. Hope is not easily erased.

In as much as skulls represent our common human frailty, our mortality, we may see here a different kind of attack. The failure of life to reach fulfilment, to take hold of Life: too few sperm, failing to reach an egg; a child, stillborn. And the troubling, accusing questions that trail in the wake: Why are we unable to conceive, when others find it so easy? Is it my fault I could not carry this child to full term?

In as much as skulls stand for death, we gaze on death crushed beneath Christ’s feet.

In as much as skulls stand for human creatureliness, we gaze upon the skull transfused by Christ’s own life-giving blood.

We gaze upon the field, the Land, transformed into a hospital, a church, a place of healing, for body and soul, under the cross of Christ and centred on his self-sacrifice, his bruised and battered body, luminescent in darkness, agony shot through with glory.

Come, Lord Jesus, to the mothers and the children, to the sons and daughters, to the men who are prepared to lay down their lives for those they love, and the men who are prepared to kill.

Come, Lord Jesus, to the life fighting for Life, to the lives drowning in sorrow.

Come, transfuse us with your life, and set us free.

Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

 

The Still Point

 

The western Ukrainian city of Lviv is home to the Lviv School of Iconographers, a collective of women and men who are keeping alive deep-rooted traditions, not by slavishly reproducing past forms but by labouring with the Holy Spirit to birth twenty-first-century descendants.

This icon, titled ‘The Still Point’ is by Ivanka Demchuk. It depicts the infant Jesus taking first steps, released by his father, Joseph, moving towards the embrace of his mother, Mary. The child is held in the watchful encouragement of his parents, in the paradox of letting go and receiving. The Christ does not grasp hold of being one with his father, but takes on our nature, as one who must learn to walk, as one who willingly and joyfully takes human nature upon himself. The one who will call others to come to him, and to go sent out by him, must first make this journey for himself, for he is the pioneer and perfector of our faith.

To walk, to run, to propel ourselves forward requires that we repeatedly throw ourselves off balance, in motion. But at the heart of every step, every stride, the still point, where our most recent step of faith finds its home-coming, its stability, its rest, before embarking on the next step. The calm centre in the eye of the whirling wind, or breath. This is the transcendent moment we are drawn into here.

In the background, that wind blows, free. Tugging at the domestic scene of washing hanging on the line to dry. Scattering the carpenter’s tools from his workbench.

We hold before our God those lives blown by the wind, scattered, asking that they, too, may find the still point held between letting go and being gathered up in the arms of love.

Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

 

Nativity

 

The western Ukrainian city of Lviv is home to the Lviv School of Iconographers, a collective of women and men who are keeping alive deep-rooted traditions, not by slavishly reproducing past forms but by labouring with the Holy Spirit to birth twenty-first-century descendants.

This icon of the ‘Nativity’ is by Lyuba Yatskiv. It may seem strange to gaze upon an icon of the Nativity in Lent, as we prepare to celebrate Easter, but the mother and child are framed by the bread and wine: the Incarnation and the Passion are apiece.

At the centre of the icon, a mother and her child.

She might be Mary of Mariupol, her child, wrapped in bandages and lying in a cot or an incubator.

Or she might be a Russian mother, receiving back the body of her son for burial.

The Christ-child, born as one of us, and sharing our death. His eyes meet ours, hold our gaze.

We hold before God all mothers caught in the conflict zones of our world, and their children.

Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

Mary, Mother of God, pray for your sons and daughters.

Above the mother and child, hiding them under their wings, the angels look on, in wonder. And as we lift these mothers and children before God, we pray that they may be shielded from harm; we pray that messages of hope would reach those who live in fear or despair this night.

Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

At the bottom of the icon, the South of its Compass, St Joseph, pensive. In his face we see all that he knows lies ahead, and all that he knows he cannot know. We hold before God our hopes and fears, the limits of our knowledge and foreknowledge. Our vulnerability, frustration, shame, our hope, faith, love.

Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

To the East of Joseph, we see the shepherds: youth, maturity, old age. We see the grandparents, leaving their homeland behind, not knowing when or if they will see home again. We see the fathers, shepherding their families to the border and then leaving them there, returning home, to fight. We see the children, carrying their dogs, cradling their pets, holding on to loyal love. We note the human instinct to protect the innocent from harm. And, lifting our eyes to the Christ wrapped in his borrowed manger and his borrowed tomb, we acknowledge our limitations, that we cannot protect those we love from harm. We hold our limitations and our frustration before God.

Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

To Joseph’s West, we see the Magi: on their difficult journey, bringing their gifts, an outpouring of heart and mind and soul and strength. We see ourselves, our human desire to respond, to gather-up and transport items, practical and symbolic in nature, and to send money, to offer up our resources, perhaps to open our homes. And we recall that the journey of the Magi did not reach the right people, or only indirectly, and that their coming resulted in unintended harm. We pray that God would receive our offerings and keep them from resulting in greater sorrow.

Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

Gazing upon the bread and the wine, we pray for the Communion of the Saints, joining with our sisters and brothers in Ukraine and Russia, in Poland and the surrounding nations, all around the world, and with those who have gone before us, who see God now more clearly. Lord, make us one, as you are one.

Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

Gazing upon the cattle, we pray for the nations of the world, that they would return to peace and security, to gentleness and productivity, to working alongside one another for equity and justice.

Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

Gazing upon the vine, fresh growth from the stump cut down, we pray for the restoration of cities, neighbourhoods, destroyed, for the renewing of communities, for the remnant who will return to rebuild.

Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

Gazing upon the Sun, blazing forth, we pray that in the tender compassion of our God the dawn from on high shall break upon us, to shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, and to guide our feet into the way of peace.

Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

 

Strengthened

The Lectionary readings for Holy Communion today are 1 Corinthians 1:1-9 and Matthew 24:42-51.

[1] In the passage from Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus tells a parable in which the master to whom we are all accountable is delayed in returning, in which the one given charge of the household might persist in diligent service of others or take opportunistic advantage to exploit those for whom they have oversight.

[2] In the opening verses of what is commonly referred to as Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians, but is in fact Paul and Sosthenes’ letter, they write, not once but twice, of being strengthened to endure: ‘just as the testimony of Christ has been strengthened among you’…’He will also strengthen you to the end, so that you may be faithful on the day of our Lord Jesus Christ.’

This is no coincidence. Sosthenes’ name combines two root words, the first meaning to save or be saved, and the second meaning to strengthen or be strengthened. As a ‘Christian’ name (as a name given new focus and purpose by Christ) it points to the One who both saves and strengthens.

[3] Today, the Church remembers Monica, the black African mother who prayed for seventeen years that her son, Augustine, might come to put his hope in Jesus. For seventeen years, there was no evidence that her prayers were heard, let alone being answered. There was no evidence that Augustine was being drawn back to the faith Monica had raised him in as a child. And yet, after seventeen years her prayer was answered. Augustine went on to become a great theologian, and, indeed, a bishop.

I cannot think of Monica this year without thinking also of Julia Jackson, the black American mother of Jacob Blake, an unarmed black man shot seven times in the back by a so-called law enforcement officer. And of her prayer for the healing, not only of her son but—from before he was shot to public attention—of her racially divided nation.

[4] Yesterday, the theologian Miroslav Volf posted on Facebook, ‘When we lack reasons for optimism, hope is what we need. Optimism is about the future that grows out of the present. Hope is about the future beyond the possibilities latent in the present. Like the birth of Isaac, the object of hope is a new thing not coming from the situation we are in, but from God.’

There is nothing in Julia Jackson’s situation to be optimistic about, just as there was no reason for Monica to be optimistic. It is hope, alone, that resists despair, or the abandonment of doing what is right in favour of doing what is expedient or self-serving.

[5] We need to experience strengthening, because we are in this for the long haul, before we will see that which we hope for made manifest in our situation. The mother who prays for her children’s future, as she takes them to the food bank. The army veteran, contemplating suicide as they struggle with civilian life. The elderly man whose wife died not so long ago and whose daughter has just died of cancer, who cannot even imagine tomorrow and needs strength just for today, and today, and today, until tomorrow dawns. We need to know that the One who has saved us, and is saving us, and will save us, has strengthened us and is strengthening us and will strengthen us.

This is why Paul writes with Sosthenes.

 

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.