on peace

 

‘When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’’

John 20.19

‘Jesus said to them again, ‘Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.’’ John 20.21

‘A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’’ John 20.26

Twice, just three days after he was tortured and executed, and again seven days later, Jesus says to his apprentices, ‘Peace be with you.’

This would appear to be important, the heart of his message. The word ‘peace’ means wholeness, to be at one with (within) yourself. How can someone so recently and so thoroughly broken apart proclaim wholeness?

It has been said that trauma is not what happens to us, but what happens within us in the absence of empathetic witnesses. (This is why doctors’ bedside manner matters so much in emergency care.)

Jesus went through unimaginable pain, but—contrary to popular belief—was not alone. We know that several of his female apprentices and at least one of the men were at the foot of the cross. The others stood at a distance, looking on, as much as they could bear. Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus will lower Jesus’ body from the cross, wash it and anoint it with spices, and lay it in a tomb. Several of the women saw where they laid him. When the women later return and find the tomb empty, Peter and another apprentice—traditionally identified as John but perhaps Lazarus, who himself had walked out of a tomb and would have a particular interest in witnessing that again—ran to the tomb to see for themselves. That they were not taken there by the women, but ran straight there, implies that they, too, had been participating witnesses in Jesus’ burial.

Most of all, it has been claimed that on the cross, God—the Father—could not bear to look. Songwriters have penned words, describing the Father turning his face away. But this is to fundamentally misunderstand the text. When Jesus cries out, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ he is not describing his experience but praying a psalm, Psalm 22, exploring the appearance of abandonment, precisely to reach out and hold fast to the God who is, in fact, there with us and for us. As he hangs from the executioners’ scaffold, the sky turns black. When God descends, as on mount Sinai, he cloaks himself in thick darkness, so that the people do not die of fright. The sky turns black because the Father has come to hold his Son’s outstretched hand and look upon his beautiful face.

Jesus does not suffer and die alone, but surrounded by empathetic witnesses. And he returns, showing his wounds, not simply to prove that it is he and not some other, but, in a safe space, to take his apprentices back to their own place of unbearable suffering, where each one of them felt abandoned and without empathic witness, and therefore experienced trauma.

Jesus takes them back, right into that place, so close, so real, that they can reach out and touch his wounds. And in revisiting that place, not alone but with the one who has died and been raised to life again, they, too, are empowered to let go. To lower the defences they have thrown up to protect themselves. To experience healing. To be brought back to a place of wholeness.

This is what Jesus does for them.

This is what Jesus wants to do for us, too.

To stand alongside us in the place of our deepest hurt, and speak the word we most need to hear, ‘Peace be with you.’

This is a process, not a one-off event. It is the process that Jesus’ apprentices, the Church, are called to participate in. To be a community that is becoming whole, moving from trauma to peace, as we see one another’s wounds—and his—with love.

 

John 20.19-31

‘When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, ‘Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.’ When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.’

‘But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, ‘We have seen the Lord.’ But he said to them, ‘Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.’ A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ Then he said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.’ Thomas answered him, ‘My Lord and my God!’ Jesus said to him, ‘Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.’

‘Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.’

 

sisters

 

The painting known in English as the Mona Lisa, by Leonardo da Vinci, which hangs in the Louvre in Paris, is arguably the most famous painting in the world. Another painting, also known as the Mona Lisa, hangs in the Prado in Madrid. It was not painted by the great master; but it is neither a fake nor a forgery. It was created, in his workshop, by one of his pupils (which one is debated) and it is an exact copy of the original in every detail. (And because the Prado Mona Lisa has been cleaned, it shows us what the Louvre Mona Lisa would have looked like originally.) This faithful reproduction is an example of what is known as sitting at your master’s feet.

In Luke 10, Jesus sends his apprentices ahead of him to every place he planned to go, ‘as lambs among wolves’ to find someone who would receive them (and, therefore, Jesus) into their home. In this context, Jesus tells a parable about a man on the road set upon by robbers (a lamb among wolves) and an innkeeper who receives the man and cares for him.

And in this context, we hear about two sisters, Martha and Mary. Martha receives Jesus into her home. Mary is not there, we only hear that she is one of those who sat at Jesus’ feet learning from him. That is, she is out there, on the highways and byways. Martha is offering hospitality, but she is distracted. And she is bold to ask Jesus, ‘Aren’t you worried about my sister? Aren’t you worried for her, who has forsaken me to serve you out there?’ (the word for service literally means stirring up the dust by moving from place to place). Aren’t you worried that she is a lamb among wolves? If you can tell a recognisable story about a man left filor dead by robbers, what will they do to a woman out on the road?

Martha speaks her truth before Jesus. And Luke gives us only a summary. But we know that she is distracted. Perhaps she is a little envious of her sister, out there having an adventure. Perhaps more than a little resentful, at having been forsaken, that Mary didn’t take her along with her. Certainly worried for her sister’s safety, wanting her back here where she knows that Mary has come to no harm.

The first thing Jesus does is let her know that she is not alone (accompaniment). ‘Martha, Martha,’ is not dismissive, not ‘Oh, Martha, you silly girl.’ It is quiet and tender, and says, You are seen. When I was a child, it was widely thought that children acted out because they were naughty, and that they should be sent to their rooms until they calmed down. But children — and adults — act out because they are overwhelmed; and being sent into isolation to somehow regulate themselves is the worst possible thing. What they need is the presence of a safe adult who will sit with them, not trying to fix the problem, but simply so they know they are not alone.

Jesus acknowledges Martha’s concerns acknowledgement). He does not dismiss them. Martha, Martha, you are concerned about many things.

And Jesus normalises those concerns (normalisation). It is not surprising that you are worried about your sister. That is perfectly understandable, normal. There’d be something wrong with your relationship if you weren’t. This is not a failure, not a lack of faith.

But Jesus (re)connects Martha with what she has lost sight of connecting with resource). I don’t think she is alone, with no-one to help her offer hospitality; but she feels abandoned by her sister. She is unable to focus on her thing because she is worried about her sister’s thing. Jesus brings her back. There is only one thing needful/lacking/you have almost everything you need.

Then (only then, not rushing to fix anything) Jesus holds out hope (hope). Mary has chosen the good portion God has for her, and it will not be taken from her. Not by any wolf on the road. Not by any robber. And, if this is true of Mary, it is also true if Martha. No one will take away the good portion God has for her.

What are you anxious about today? What worries do you carry? Can you name your truth in the presence of Jesus? Perhaps you are worried about growing older, about the ways in which your body or the body of someone you live and care for is inevitably falling apart. Perhaps you are worried about the declining numbers of the church congregation. Perhaps you worry for your parents, or children, or grandchildren. Perhaps you worry about what you see and hear in the news. The climate crisis — if not for yourself, for your grandchildren.

Such worries are normal. They are not a failure of faith, or nerve. Jesus sees you, and cares. Calls you by name. Sits with you. Acknowledges your concerns as legitimate. But also, slowly, gently, connects or reconnects you to the resources of the kingdom of heaven. Also speaking a word of hope.

The current building of the church I serve — the inn to receive all, of which I am current innkeeper — opened its doors for the first time in September 1939. The nation had just entered what would become the Second World War in a generation. Uncertain times. Anxious times. We are here for such times. We are still here.

Luke 10.38-42

‘Now as they went on their way, he entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, ‘Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.’ But the Lord answered her, ‘Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.’’

 

how to hold a human

 

The Old Testament reading set for Holy Communion today is Genesis 9.1-13. It picks up the account of Noah after the Great Flood. These are the survivors, human and animal, of a traumatic event. The sea level had risen and flooded the Fertile Crescent along the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, the Cradle of Humanity, from horizon to horizon: what today we would know as Kuwait and Iraq, hemmed in by the mountains of Iran to the east, Turkey to the north, and Syria and Jordan to the west. Every settlement washed away. But Noah and his family and their domesticated livestock survive, delivered by the god Yahweh, in an ark.

Like so many survivors who carry trauma in their bodies, and who lives with survivors’ guilt, Noah will attempt to numb his pain by drinking himself to oblivion. But Yahweh blesses Noah and his traumatized family. He informs them that the animals will be in dread of them, hardly surprising for they are traumatized too, but that they are given into the hands of Noah and his sons. They will be good for them, but food without lifeblood.

We all live downstream of the Great Flood, and no one gets through this life without experiencing trauma, whether a broad and shattering event such as natural disaster, or bereavement or living with dementia or suffering at the hands of an abuser. And it is this idea of being in someone’s hands that is significant here. For we are all given into one another’s hands, and the question God asks is, What will we do with the trauma survivors who are given into our hands as gifts?

Will we re-traumatize them with further mistreatment, as the Father gave the Son into the hands of his people and they had him tortured and executed?

Will we dehumanise them as objects of our altruism?

Or will we receive them as divine gift, as human with the dignity that is ours as those who bear the very likeness of God? Will we recognise that we, as community, are nourished by their being fully part of our community, that we are fed by them (that is, that we are fed by one another, for we are all simultaneously and paradoxically the one who receives in our hands and the one who is given into the hands of others) without bloodshed, without their life being consumed by us in some zero-sum game where there is only one winner so it had best be me?

May we receive one another in our hands, and be found worthy of the gift, by the Giver.

 

Bodies

 

The Gospel passage set for Holy Communion today is Luke 7:36-50. In it, we meet a woman who is described as a sinner. A sinner is one who falls short of the wholeness God desires for our lives. We are not told anything about the form of behaviour by which the fragmented nature of her life is expressed; though she is surely aware it is not considered acceptable, and her behaviour, even if it is necessary for any sense of living, may cause her additional shame. We can only speculate, but we must speculate responsibly. Some translations describe her as an immoral woman and as being of bad character. I believe this to be an example of irresponsible speculation. We should, rather, pay close attention to what the woman does, and how others respond. What kind of sinner is she?

Jesus has been invited to a meal, in the home of a Pharisee, someone who seeks to manage their life through very prescribed behaviour. In their culture, meals were eaten lying on the floor, with feet stretched out behind. The woman comes in. Perhaps she is noticed. She is known as someone whose behaviour is not considered acceptable. Perhaps others present are silently pleading, ‘Please don’t make a scene, please don’t make a scene…’

The woman allows herself to approach Jesus, to draw very close to his prone body. She allows herself to break down, to weep, in front of others, not caring what they think or how uncomfortable they feel. She allows herself to touch Jesus’ body, with her hair; and then to rub myrrh into his feet, embalming ointment for the preparation of the dead for burial.

In recent days Ukrainian troops have pushed back Russian invaders, and, yet again, stories have emerged of torture and killings. And I would like us to imagine that this woman, who has grown up in a land occupied by cruel soldiers of another country, knows this only too well. That, far too young, she had witnessed her parents, possibly other family members, die in traumatic circumstances. That she had had to prepare them for burial. That the past intruding into her present, triggered, as we would say today, by the smallest thing. Responding in violent outburst to the accidental brush of a passing stranger; waking her neighbours with her nightmares. A sinner, falling short of personal and relational wholeness. A sinner who dares to reach out and touch a prone body and rub ointment into flesh.

Jesus’ host is confused, but not hostile, and open to Jesus as instructor. If Jesus really were one who can interpret God's will, surely he would know that this woman fell short? And, yes, surely Jesus is perfectly aware; and, knowing God’s will, knows it is God’s will to close the gap between her present state, and wholeness. He speaks of an unpayable debt, as those who are traumatised are held hostage to events in their past, being sent away, setting them free. And he addresses the woman: ‘Your faith has saved you; go in peace.’

Your faith, your commitment to being restored, your trust that this will happen, somehow, in and through Jesus, has healed you; go on, in wholeness, your fragmented life restored to the integrated wholeness God desires for you, for all.

I am responding to the text with my imagination. But might that help us enter the forgiveness of sins, in a tangible way; and to be free to love, not fear, our neighbour, and ourselves?

 

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.

 

Cognitive dissonance

 

Today, a man, known jokingly by his colleagues as ‘the Rapist,’ has been sentenced to life imprisonment for the kidnap, rape and murder of Sarah Everard.

Today, also, as in many days since the start of the football season, the morning news was full of the on-pitch finesse of a man accused by at least three women of having raped them.

The defence is always “whatever happened to ‘presumed innocent until proven guilty’?” But presumed innocent until proven guilty is not a statement of fact. If a man rapes a woman, he is guilty of rape from that moment. If a man kidnaps or murders a woman, he is guilty of kidnap and/or murder, not innocent until that guilt is proven. Presumed innocent until proven guilty sets out a legal process, in which the cards are stacked in favour of the accused. And there are, perhaps, good reasons to uphold this principle; but it is a principle that can be easily abused.

Very few rape cases come to trial, largely because the ‘justice’ system subjects the women who need justice to incredible trauma. The most powerful football player on earth can engage lawyers who will present these women with a choice: be crucified by us in court, and by hundreds of thousands of trolls on social media, or accept compensation out of court, in exchange for a non-disclosure agreement. This is the closest to justice you can hope for. What should such women do?

An out of court settlement and NDA is an admission of guilt without consequence. (Sure, there is a financial consequence, but one easily absorbed.) Guilt without being held to account. Without having to face up to one’s actions. Because there was insufficient evidence to meet the legal threshold, in circumstances where such evidence is almost impossible. She said, he said.

When men perpetrate sexual violence against women (and yes, women perpetuate sexual violence against men, by how it is handled by society is different) we rally round to recast the victim as predatory gold-digger and the perpetrator as victim. And when we hold up these ‘wickedly wronged’ men as role-models, we tell less famous, less wealthy, less powerful men, this is how to treat women. This is what you ought to aspire to.

I hope that today feels like some kind of justice for the family of Sarah Everard. I hope that there are some very uncomfortable conversations within the Met, and that they lead to genuine culture change. But when I look at the bigger picture, I don't see the will, among men, to help make the world a better place, in which all can flourish.

Mercy flows

 

The Lectionary readings for Holy Communion today pair Joshua 3:7-11, 13-17 and Matthew 18:21-19:1.

Back story: Abraham had lived as a nomad in Canaan, largely at peace with the established inhabitants of the land, God fulfilling his promise to bless those who blessed Abraham and curse (or, place restrictions upon) those who cursed him. Later, Abraham’s descendants had gone down to Egypt, where, after generations of peaceable living, they had been conscripted into forced labour. Eventually, God had delivered them, and now, after years of being led by Moses in the wilderness, they were about to enter the land promised to Abraham’s descendants, under the leadership of Moses’ successor, Joshua.

God promises Joshua an extensive territory. But Joshua goes beyond, reading into that the driving out of the Canaanites, Hittites, Hivites, Perizzites, Girgashites, Amorites, and Jebusites, en masse. (This is never fulfilled.) These are the descendants of Noah’s middle son, Ham—whereas the Israelites traced their lineage from Noah’s firstborn son, Shem. The enmity between them stems from an account in Genesis 9:18-29. Post the trauma of the Great Flood, in classic survivor’s guilt, Noah gets drunk; and Ham at best dishonours and perhaps sexually abuses his father. In consequence, God blesses Noah’s other sons and curses Ham, declaring that his son Canaan shall be the servant of his older and younger brothers, Shem and Japtheth. So the tribes of Canaan are the servant of Israel—as Israel is the servant of the Lord God.

As already noted, the text from Joshua 3 is paired today with one from Matthew 18, and Peter’s questions to Jesus concerning the limits of forgiveness of a brother, and where the limits of mercy are set. Would, for example, enmity between peoples justified by an ancient tale of abuse, fall outside the boundary? But, just as the banks of the river Jordan had burst at the time when the Israelites entered the land to take possession of it, so Jesus insists that forgiveness, and showing mercy, overflow their banks. The river, of course, returns to its course eventually, but this reflects not the limit of forgiveness but, rather, the completion of its work, the restoration of relationship between estranged brothers.

There is no such thing as sole possession of a land, and this is even more important to understand in our context of increasing displacement of peoples due to political oppression, war, or environmental disaster. A land is simply a resource with which we can show, or withhold, mercy. Choose wisely, for choices have consequences. Choose mercy. Always, choose mercy.

 

A tragedy in the making

On Friday, a 28-year old Sudanese asylum-seeker was shot dead by armed response police officers in Glasgow, after stabbing six people. I don’t doubt the bravery of those police officers, nor that this was their last, not first, resort. This is a tragedy for all concerned, and for my hometown. And at the centre of the tragedy is a young man whose hopes of a new life were cut short. His name was Badreddin Abadlla Adam.

I am not a journalist, and I have not researched his background. But until last year, Sudan had lived under a 30-year long dictatorship, that had imprisoned and tortured opponents and practiced ethnic genocide in Darfur. This young man never knew what it was to live in a society at peace. He was precisely the kind of person who should qualify for asylum, having made it to the UK, most likely through the exploitation of people traffickers.

Before any facts were established, Nigel Farage had tweeted that this was precisely the danger to our citizens we face for allowing illegal immigrants. To be clear, this man was not an illegal immigrant, he was an asylum-seeker. But Farage is not entirely wrong, in as much as we do treat asylum-seekers as criminals. From the moment they arrive, they experience the ‘hostile environment’, official government policy (only just acknowledged and now to be reviewed) of making their life so miserable that they will choose, at any point in the process, to voluntarily return home. Preferring to take their chances with a genocidal dictator than in a democracy. Let that sink in.

Then, rather than direct resources to provide essential, expert mental health support for people suffering from PTSD, money is given to private companies to provide the most basic accommodation. Asylum-seekers being an income stream for unscrupulous landlords. In effect, they become property.

And so, yes, it is perhaps inevitable that sooner or later some such young man might just break, with devastating consequences for those who happen to be around him.

And it is easier to blame immigrants than to take responsibility for our own actions.

According to the most recent statistics I could find, two women are killed by their partner or ex-partner every week in England and Wales; and a further two women are killed by their partner or ex-partner every week in Scotland. As Scotland has a much smaller population, I can only assume that it is an even greater problem there than south of the border, that the men of the long-term, predominantly white, British population cannot control themselves and are a danger to those around them, especially British women.

And the silence is deafening.

So, don’t give me your bullshit about how we are civilised men of honour, taking a principled stand to protect our communities from those who would betray us with their bleeding hearts.

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.