What disciplines reveal

This week I was struck by something a friend, Scott, wrote on Facebook. It has stayed with me ever since, has really got under my skin. He wrote:

“Your disciplines reveal to whom/what you are a disciple.”

Your disciplines reveal to whom/what you are a disciple.

If it is my discipline – my prioritised, habitual, life-shaping practice – to go out every pay day and buy something that I do not need just because it is new – I am not speaking here of the very real need of many to shop for necessities or pay bills on pay day – then I am a disciple of the advertising industry.

If it is my discipline to replace my iPhone – and again, this is a hypothetical example – every time a new version is released, then I am a disciple of Apple.

If it is my discipline to read only one particular newspaper, of whatever persuasion, and to accept everything I read in it to be true, then I am a disciple of the media mogul who owns that paper.

If it is my discipline to watch a particular tv soap, religiously, then I am a disciple of the script-writer.

Disciplines are not necessarily unpleasant at the time – though they demand something, of time or money or effort. Disciplines can be comforting, providing structure within which life can be enjoyed; can be enjoyable.

What are the disciplines of your life?

Whom/what do they reveal you to be a disciple of?

Hospitality from the margins

Throughout Lent, we’ve been exploring hospitality at the Minster, through our sermon series and accompanying discussion group, and through the unexpected opportunity that arose when the people who were running a café in our building decided to move on to other things – we’re filling the gap with friends and volunteers until we can appoint a new manager, to be an integral part of our staff team.

This past Sunday I introduced the idea of hospitality from the margins, or how the opportunity to extend hospitality can empower people who lack power in society.

At our Tuesday evening conversation, we reflected on the story, told in 1 Kings 17, of Elijah receiving hospitality from a widow. Our reflections included:

[1] the possibility that she is a widow because her husband had died as a result of the drought, which would make Elijah complicit in her situation – and even if not, we find ourselves complicit in the issues of in/justice in our society.

[2] Elijah addresses the widow in very direct terms – not tentatively, and without (our) cultural niceties. Is he guilty of a sense of entitlement; or is he, by being so direct, demonstrating a confidence in the widow’s ability to provide that she herself lacks? And are we aware of the ways in which our words, spoken with a particular intent, can be taken as having a very different value-judgement?

[3] Elijah’s presence results in the widow being painfully reminded of her failings; indeed, she labours under the belief that God might be punishing her. Despite the miraculous provision she has seen, and participated in as someone with agency, she falls back on a lack of confidence in herself and in God when presented with a new crisis. Are we aware that our best intentions to empower others can also result in disempowerment? Not that this is reason to do nothing, but rather invitation and opportunity lead on to further challenges to be addressed.

We also reflected on our own personal experiences of receiving hospitality from the hands of someone with fewer resources than us – my experience of staying in the home of a Zambian widow; my conversation partner’s experience of working alongside a homeless man in a soup kitchen.

Have you experienced hospitality from the margins? (Where? When? Who? How? Why?)

Can you describe the impact, both intended and unintended?

Commonwealth Day

Today is Commonwealth Day.

The British Empire was built on the two pillars of piracy (stealing what belongs to others, just because we can) and paternalism (believing that we know better than others what is best for them) (both enjoying a late revival in Westminster at present). Nonetheless, as the Commonwealth of Nations shows us, however imperfectly, by the grace and mercy of God these things can be transformed into partnership. Oppressed and oppressor can be freed together (an ongoing process), enemies can become friends (and this gives hope for other contexts).

Today I give thanks for all my friends from Commonwealth nations, both colonial and indigenous - and, indeed, mixed - in heritage.

May the sun continue to set on an empire on which it once never set. And may the sun continue to rise on commonwealth friendship.

At Morning Prayer, reading from Hebrews 11: a list of people whose faith enabled them to endure, subvert, and stand against their circumstances, in hope that their descendants would have a better future.

Feels appropriate today.

In the square overlooking the Houses of Parliament, alongside statues of British politicians including Winston Churchill, are statues of South African colonial and post-colonial leaders, Jan Smuts and Nelson Mandela; and the father of India, Mahatma Gandhi.

Smuts and Gandhi disagreed strongly, but had a deep mutual respect for one another. Churchill treated Gandhi with contempt.

Days like this

I recently wrote a post about a day in the life of Sunderland Minster. This one is, by way of a follow-up, a day in the life of the Minster Priest…

Contrary to popular belief, vicars don’t work only one day a week. Nonetheless, Sundays are a ‘high-stakes game’, as so many people come together with such an emotionally-charged investment in what they are participating in. I always wake up earlier on Sundays than any other day of the week, always experience butterflies in my stomach.

This Sunday was no different than any other, in that regard. It turned out like this:

8.00am Holy Communion (Book of Common Prayer – a monthly service, only 3 of us present today), in the Bede Chapel. The Commandments, and the set readings, lend themselves to engagement with the latest art installation in the Minster…

9.45am Sung Eucharist (Common Worship – contemporary Anglican liturgy, formal setting – our ‘main’ weekly service, with an attendance of around 100). I’m preaching a series on hospitality through Lent, and not following the Lectionary. Today we’re thinking about hospitality from the margins, or the art of empowering. Before Christmas I have chosen readings – Elijah receiving hospitality from (first carrion birds and then) a widow preparing to die; the imprisoned Paul receiving hospitality from a runaway slave. As I listen to the first reading, to Elijah hiding in a wadi, I am struck by how the sculpture, with I AM YAHWEH cut into it in elongated letters, looks like wadis cut into the cliff face.

Between the readings, the choir sings a setting of the opening verses of Psalm 129 –

‘Many a time have they fought against me from my youth,’

may Israel now say;

‘Many a time have they fought against me from my youth,

but they have not prevailed against me.’

The ploughers ploughed upon my back

and made their furrows long.

But the righteous Lord

has cut the cords of the wicked in pieces. –

and I am struck that the marks in the sculpture might also be those furrows, of which the Lord is deeply aware. And I am also struck, in the light of the sermon I have prepared, by the next word, But…

These creative interactions are not planned. They are serendipities. And I am not alone in noticing them. Someone else finds me immediately after the service to ask whether I had noticed, too…

During the distribution of communion, I offer prayer and anointing with oil in the Bede Chapel. Today, only one person takes up the offer; yet it is precious, a God-appointed meeting, in which healing flows.

11.00am today we had an opportunity to hear from George Vasey, the curator of the Northern Gallery of Contemporary Art, with whom we have partnered in bringing Nicholas Pope’s Yahweh and the Seraphim to Sunderland – a major contribution to Sunderland’s bid to be City of Culture 2021, and an exciting opportunity to engage in a public conversation about the nature of God and of faith.

11.15am (ish) while Feast (informal service, currently incorporating Bible study discussions in English and Farsi, alongside contemplative and creative/making response opportunities; attendance around 30; I am not usually involved) is going on, I’m in the café with members of the 9.45am congregation, hearing about their week, listening to what is going on in their lives.

12.00 Throughout Lent, we’ve been having soup lunches and donating money to Christian Aid. I get to meet three delightful Dutch Royal Navy sailors, docked in Sunderland for three days on their way home from Norway, who have just attended Feast. Our conversation is gift to me, as much as our hospitality is gift to them.

2.00pm Holy Baptism, in the Bede Chapel. I have the privilege of baptising a baby boy, whose older sister I had baptised when she was the age he is now; a lovely Nigerian family; a small gathering, in flowing festival robes – including mine.

Sundays are a pressure-point, and I’m very aware that is so for many others, not just me (my clergy colleagues, and many other members of the church have been as busy as I have been, and I'm grateful to and thankful for them). But, by the time I get home in the mid-afternoon, with a bit of admin to attend to but no evening service ahead, I think to myself on days like today my job is the best job in the world.

And it is done for the day, so all that remains is to toast muffins for tea, open a bottle of wine, and, once the boys are in bed and the girl is curled up in a chair listening to music in another room, to settle down in front of the tv with Jo and watch The Night Manager…

Yahweh and the Seraphim

The latest artwork to be installed in Sunderland Minster, and the most ambitious project to date, is Yahweh and the Seraphim, by Nicholas Pope (ceramics, 1995). Pope is an internationally acclaimed sculptor, and this is the first time that this work has been shown in the UK. The work comprises of a central figure, Yahweh – the name of God in the Bible – surrounded by six figures representing seraphim – angelic beings of the heavenly court. Together – especially in their current setting – they invite us to reflect on our own image of God, of the nature of God and angels and, indeed, of faith, our own faith, whatever that might be in.

‘Yahweh’ is rock-like. The rock of the Judean wilderness is a significant image for God, in particular in the experience of the psalmist king David. Carved into the monolith, as water erosion carves into the cliff faces of the wilderness, are the encircling letters ‘I AM YHWH’ – I AM being the name by which Yahweh made himself known to Moses. From the back of the nave – the main space of the Minster – it is striking how closely the ribs of the carvings mirror the ribs of the stone columns supporting the vault of the roof overhead. Although not visible, the piece is hollow, and that connects this rock to Masada and the great defensive structures of the Judean wilderness, with their cavernous water cisterns, as large as cathedrals, carved out by hand to enable life to exist through the hardest drought or siege. And these attributes invite us to contemplate God as shelter, and the faith community as a place of work for the protection of life in an otherwise inhospitable context. What is the place of faith in our often dehumanising society today?

This ‘Yahweh’ may also be considered phallic. Indeed, the fiery tops of the seraphim might bring to mind eggs surrounded by sperm. Here, if one chooses, is an image of fertilisation, of the moment of life. And this might be offensive if taken literally, for God is not male, and God does not create by reproduction with angels but through his creative Word – which, in the fullness of time, as the Gospel According to John puts it, became flesh (including a circumcised penis) and dwelt among us. But here too is an opportunity to reflect on the nature of God; on the ways in which certain representations have been problematic for some viewers, including women and Muslims; indeed, on the ways in which any understanding of God is potentially false and enslaving, even if it might be true and liberating.

‘Yahweh’ is surrounded by ‘the Seraphim’, tall and beautiful figures whose form and colour, in this setting, reference the white anti/space of the walls between the exposed stonework. These are beings that are for the most part invisible to our eyes, though on occasion some, permitted to look upon God and live, have seen the glorious beings that attend his throne. But what are angels? From time to time on the Minster prayer board, where anyone can write a prayer or prayer request, someone writes of a child tragically lost to death in terms of God having needed them for an angel. And while I believe that God holds such children in safekeeping for us, I can’t believe in a monster God who tears children from their parents for such a ‘higher purpose’ than to be a human being and know and share in human love.

Within the span of their touching ‘wings’, as they call out to one another, ‘the Seraphim’ speak of both the beginning and the end of life, of the seen and unseen. Moreover, their irregular spokes speak of the (precarious? or simply joyful?) connecting ladder between the heavens and the earth, on which Jacob, asleep on a stone pillow in the wilderness, saw angels ascending and descending. When he awoke, Jacob recognised the place where he had slept as the very gate of heaven – and he had known it not. And so, in hope that he would know it again, he set his pillow stone upright, a finger pointing those who passed to God.

The installation will be in the Minster for several months, through what remains of Lent, through Eastertide, and Pentecost. A rock – or a stone marker – in the wilderness. A disfigured representation of I AM, before whom we must stand and wonder at the sight. A band of flame-headed witnesses standing round. Pope’s artwork forms a fitting backdrop to each of these seasons of the Church year. And I am looking forward to welcoming regulars and visitors alike, and having conversations about the things that matter deeply to our hearts.

Vindication

What do you do when you become aware that people are spreading a story about you that you know to be untrue?

That’s the question I asked today, from the (alternative set of) readings for Holy Communion, Exodus 17:1-7 and John 4:5-42.

Moses has led his people out from the cruellest of slavery, but now they claim he brought them out to kill them with thirst, and are set to turn from an angry crowd to a lynch mob.

What do you do when people are spreading a story about you that you know to be untrue?

A woman of Sychar comes to draw water from the well at noon, deliberately avoiding the other women of her town. It turns out that she has had five husbands, and the man she now lives with will not take her as his wife. It is most unlikely that this is an immoral woman. Had she been found guilty of adultery, she may well have paid with her life. Even if spared, in a close-knit community it is much more likely that six men would visit a prostitute than marry ‘spoilt goods’. No, it is most likely that her experience has been Levirate marriage: the expectation – given for the protection of women – that the brother of a man who died childless marry his brother’s widow, if necessary through a line of brothers; and that the sixth brother was prepared to give her a degree of protection but not risk the fate of his brothers.

The word on the street concerning this woman was not, ‘Stay away from her, or she might steal your husband too’ - it was, ‘Stay away from her, or death might steal your husband too’.

What do you do when people are spreading a story about you that you know to be untrue?

Moses cries out to God. And God responds by drawing water from a rock. A miraculous sign; a two-fold symbol of divine stability and lively movement towards humanity. And a very public vindication of Moses as God’s servant.

The woman cries out to God. And God responds by sending Jesus to her, to fulfil her longing for cleansing, life-giving water; for living water. A very public vindication of a woman not cursed but cherished.

What do you do when people are spreading a story about you that you know to be untrue?

Moses and the woman of Sychar model a good response:

we cry out to God for vindication, and trust that we will encounter him – perhaps in a way that we could never have imagined.

How we lose and find ourselves

In the week I turned eleven, the world came closer to nuclear war than it had at any time since the Cuban Missile Crisis ten years before I was born. NATO was engaged in a major exercise testing their ability to respond to a nuclear strike on the West; but the Soviets feared this was in fact the cover for a genuine nuclear first strike against Moscow and her allies, and put their own nuclear capability on alert.

The events leading up to those ten extremely tense days form the backdrop of the brilliantly-woven German drama Deutschland 83 (eight episodes; recently shown in the UK), in which a young East German soldier is sent undercover into the West German army as a Stasi spy.

It is a study in ideology – how (every) ideology needs to create a (false) enemy in order to justify its own existence – and of how our unquestioned beliefs blind us to our own moral accountability and blind us to the people – ‘allies’ and ‘enemies’ – around us.

But it is also a study in identity. In ‘becoming’ Moritz Stamm, Martin Rauch takes on a double-life that calls his very identity into question; but, in fact, living a double-life is the common motif shared by every main character in the series, whether spy, soldier or civilian, on either side of the Berlin Wall.

Having just completed watching Deutschland 83, we watched the film Still Alice, which tells the story of a renowned linguistics professor at Columbia University who develops early onset Alzheimer’s, and explores the impact of the disease on her and her family. This, too, is a story about identity and, in a particular way, leading a double-life.

The double-life in question here is that, despite losing her mother and sister in a car accident when she was in her late teens, and her father later on to the alcoholism that towards the end robbed him of control of even the most basic bodily functions, Alice has pursued her brilliant career as if she is immortal.

Leading a double-life isn’t restricted to hiding an affair from our spouse, or a gambling addiction from our family, or radicalisation from our neighbours; isn’t restricted to the things that make for dramatic storylines in soap operas, and destroy bystanders in real life. In certain regards we all lead double-lives; tell ourselves that this is the necessary safety-net, the trade-off that enables us to get on with our lives at all; when all the while it makes living additionally tiring.

I cannot imagine what it is like to live with Alzheimer’s. But because of living with Dyspraxia, I can identify with the deeply painful embarrassment of – apparently randomly – not being able to recall to mind the most familiar of names, habitual of professional acts, or the earlier part of a current conversation. And, god, it takes so much effort to hide this from most of the people most of the time. Too much effort.

But we do not live super-heroic ‘gain trajectories’. Frailty is fundamental to our human experience. We become less – confident, able – in certain ways even alongside becoming more – confident, able – in others; in predictable and unpredictable ways. And yes, it is especially poignant to watch a fictional linguistics professor, an expert in human communication, have everything stripped from her until there is nothing left but love; but Alice is an everywoman, an everyman.

I am not my enemy, to be out-smarted, or to have my place taken by an imposter. (Or, if I am my enemy, Jesus told his followers to love their enemies.)

I am my neighbour – who turns out to be just-like-me – to be reached-out to, known, in the most perilous and ordinary of times: today.

Sight-seeing

We spent a day sight-seeing in London at half-term, with our friend Andy Wooding Jones. This is one of my favourite photographs – a street performer at Covent Garden Market, drawing a crowd and adding a splash of colour to a rainy Saturday in February.

More photos here.

A day in the life

Today at the Minster, I looked around and observed that ‘All of life is here:

congregation members cleaning,

art students practicing perspective,

members of the public sitting and remembering a loved one,

a Scene Of Crime officer dusting for prints,

those who came for the 10am Eucharist,

someone who came in off the street to have a look around,

local radio station team scoping out a possible community festival...’

I love the way in which these different lives converge, touch, and go out again; leaving traces, weaving connection:

that some are wiping away the dust that is inevitably brought in, while another is spreading dust in order to better-see fingerprints (yesterday two gentlemen tried to carry-off our heavily-weighted donations box, only to make their exit as a couple of police officers were walking past the building – the men were arrested);

that the slightly-dishevelled man wanting to look around might be genuinely interested in ecclesiastical architecture, as he claims, or might be casing the joint, and either way needs an attentive welcome;

that there is a man who loves to come in and sit in this open church whenever he is in town shopping, who seeks it out as life-giving, sitting alongside students who are struggling to see what is physically there, let alone what is more substantially so;

that we are not here simply for those who come to us, but rather, we are potential gift one to another; so that – in the pattern of Jesus – at times I am host in this space, and at times I am guest of those who come to us, and at times I am simultaneously host and guest…

That is just one day. Today. But every day, this is a living, breathing, God-filled space; where people encounter one another and our perspective is changed…

Painted sky

This morning I stood at my back door and watched the sky for a good ten minutes, breathing-in the cold air.

I didn’t know until later on that the ribbons of pink and green I was looking at were Polar Stratospheric Clouds (PSCs; also known as nacreous clouds), but the sky has been shimmering all day, and it has been beautiful.

Note to self: most days don’t begin with nacreous clouds, but more days should begin with pausing to receive the gift of beauty, with gratitude.

ND13 and BB8

Babel

January at Sunderland Minster again sees the installation of artwork marking Holocaust Memorial Day (27 January; this year’s theme is Don’t Stand By), including ‘Babel’ by Barrie West.

‘Babel’, depicting businessmen (crafted from toy soldiers) climbing over a glittering tower constructed of guns, confronts us with the global arms trade. We have chosen to site the work at right-angles to both the birth of the Prince of Peace (the crib scene will remain in the south transept until the end of January) and his crucifixion (on the wall above the altar in the Bede Chapel). Here, it is held in tension, caught in the cross-hairs of love.

Here, we too are held in tension…

The stars look very different today

Earlier today on Facebook I made two quick observations on the social media responses to David Bowie’s death, with the intention of reflecting on them more fully. Of the outpouring itself, it is worth noting the need to stop and express gratitude and mark loss that is personal if not relational, but beyond that I am struck by the clearly recurring content of the responses.

I wrote:

‘Firstly, Bowie created environments that gave people permission to be themselves, to be creative, and to not be alone in the world. Secondly, he demonstrated that in order to remain fundamentally the same person over time we must change our perspective again and again. Both insights feel profoundly biblical. Yet the Church is not known for creating such environments, nor for demonstrating repentance; is not a community people look to, in relation to these fundamental human longings...’

What might we learn through doing some thoughtful cultural exegesis here?

Biscop, and the Starman

Today is the commemoration of Benedict Biscop – also known as Benet, and Biscop Baducing – patron saint of the city of Sunderland, pioneering innovator, an iconic individual who changed the cultural landscape forever.

Musician, artist, producer and arranger of others’ work, creating and inhabiting a space that introduced generations to a whole new way of seeing the world and the possibility of reinventing themselves within it, Benedict Biscop died in the same week as David Bowie, but 1,326 years earlier.

In honour of both, I have added Ziggy Stardust’s face-paint to Charles Robinson’s 1904 illustration, from Percy Dreamer’s The little Lives of the Saints.

Benedict Bowie. David Biscop.

Giving Gifts

Gold is currency – top-end currency at that – and currency is simply codified influence. The first gift that I can give to you is to recognise, to acknowledge, that you have influence.

Everyone has influence, from the moment of birth – indeed, from before our birth. We can use our influence to exploit others (usually explicitly), to manipulate others (usually implicitly), to compete with others, to nurture others, or to cooperate with others – to take a stance upon, over, against, for, or with others. But I can only take a stance for and/or with you when I am willing to value your influence.

For whom, and with whom, will you exert influence in 2016?

Incense rising is the articulation of hopes and dreams in the form of prayer. The second gift that I can give to you is to recognise, to acknowledge, that you have hopes and dreams.

Everyone has hopes and dreams, by definition beyond our reach, even if we are content to let the present be enough for now, and however we choose to exert our influence to try to turn vapour into substance, or base mineral into gold. I cannot be your alchemist but, again, I can take a stance for and/or with you only when I am willing to value your hopes and dreams.

How will you (name and) nurture your hopes and dreams in 2016? Who else’s hopes and dreams will you nurture? With whom will you cooperate, finding overlapping common ground, in hope of a future more expansive than either party could have imagined?

Myrrh is balm, for the body of the dead and – more so – for the soul of the living. It represents the healing, in time, of our memories: wounds becoming scars; and scars, markings; stories, or landmarks, to navigate by. The third gift that I can give to you is to recognise, to acknowledge, that you have sorrow.

Everyone has sorrow. In time, we reach a tipping-point, after which we can never return: the discovery that life is bitter-sweet, as opposed to unrelentingly bitter (as we had imagined it must be, after our first unbearable loss). I can only take a stance for and/or with you when I am willing to value your sorrow.

How will the past you must leave behind equip you – and others – to step with confidence into the future?