Glory

 

‘Indeed, to this very day whenever Moses is read, a veil lies over their minds; but when one turns to the Lord, the veil is removed. Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another; for this comes from the Lord, the Spirit.’ 2 Corinthians 3:15-18

We heard these words read at Holy Communion this morning. A little later, the sun itself was eclipsed by the moon passing between us.

Whenever Moses spent time in God’s presence, his face shone, both reflecting and sharing in the weight of God’s luminous glory; and when he then walked among his neighbours, he covered his face, because they could not bear the weight of it.

I imagine that over the past year-and-a-half, many of us have become accustomed to veiling our faces behind a mask. And a great deal of weight has been laid upon Monday 21 June as our ‘Freedom Day.’ In recent days there has been a stirring-up of wrath, that the UK Government is preparing a ‘new narrative, “data, not dates”,’ to justify delaying Freedom Day by a couple more weeks. But the narrative has always been ‘data, not dates’: that the remaining restrictions would be lifted no earlier than 21 June, not necessarily on 21 June. Whatever takes place, 21 June is not my Freedom Day; every day is freedom day, for, where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.

Masked or casting masks aside, we are invited to see the glory of God reflected in the face of all creation—including the majestic sun, veiled, momentarily, by the moon that reflects its light in so mesmerising and winsome a manner—but nowhere more-so than in the faces of human beings. For those with eyes to see, that glory, partly hidden and to some degree distorted—as is the way, with light—is nonetheless visible, in you, and me, in the face of everyone we meet. For all are made in the likeness of God, and the Spirit of God is being poured out on all flesh, inclusive of age and gender and ethnicity.

So, shine. And worry not if your face is covered, whether by a mask out of love for your neighbours, or a dark cloud passing overhead. I see you. And you are glorious.

 

Tool of the trade

 

This coming weekend marks the eleventh anniversary of my being a priest in the Church of England.

There are, I suppose, various tools of my trade.

The cloak I wear at gravesides. Always borrowed from the church I am serving, not my own; our lives are borrowed, and will be reclaimed from us when we depart.

The home communion set I will use this week for the first time in over a Covid year. A gift to me when I moved on from a previous congregation.

But perhaps the most significant tool of my trade is, in fact, in no way specific to being a priest at all. Deep though that goes, I run deeper, and wider, than the priestly things I do. My pen is the tool that most gives expression to who I am—even though I write electronically as well as in ink—the human activity I do, in a priestly way, rather than priestly activity per se.

And perhaps this is true of many of us. That we are more than specialised selves, but make our mark, our contribution, with common goods.

A year ago today, I wrote a Facebook post, on the need to topple idols, that was shared over 100 times. In another space, I am closing in on 2,500 posts here on my blog, kairos : kisses. In a sense, the numbers aren’t important, other than pointing to my lifelong love with words. Here’s to the next chapter.

What tool of the trade most expresses who you are?

 

Painted

 

While I mow the lawns to the front and side of the vicarage, the bank immediately behind us is too steep for me. And right now, it is a riot of yellow and orange, pink and white. Beautiful.

 

According to the flesh?

 

Initial thoughts on the Lectionary readings for this coming Sunday, 1 Samuel 15:34-16:13 and 2 Corinthians 5:6-17 and Mark 4:26-34.

If I am honest, I don’t think I have ever felt entirely at home in my body. Not because I do not believe the body matters; I do. I hold no truck with a pseudo-spirituality that views the body as of less value than the soul. Nor is it that I feel trapped in the wrong body; though I appreciate that that is the experience of some, including people I know. Rather, it is in part because, in my body, I live with dyspraxia—it is hard to be at ease in/with a body when that body has to work so damn hard to process things that neurotypical bodies take for granted. And it is in part because my body is not mine alone. My shared DNA, in particular as it shapes the contours of my face, is an embodied reminder of a web of relationships, past and present, storied with pain as well as joy and wonder, open wounds as well as old familiar scars. When I look in the mirror, I see too many ghosts, of the living as well as the dead, bodies I am apart from in the body.

There is, then, a longing, not for a day when I shall be freed from the body, but for a day when every wound shall be glorious, in the likeness of the wounds of my risen Lord. Every scar, a history of unfolding, enfolding, grace. But for now, in those ways I rejoice over my body and in those ways I weep over my body, I make it my aim to please him.

It comes down to a matter of heart, the seat of our desire to know God as we are well known to God, and of the will to present my body, on a daily basis, in God’s service. My body, as it is: its strength and weaknesses, in sickness and in health. ‘For the Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.’ (1 Samuel 16:7b; cf. 2 Cor 5:12)

In our Gospel reading, we hear again two parables of physical transformation, culminating in fruitfulness and purpose. The seed that sprouts, producing first a stalk, then the head, then the full grain to be harvested. And the smallest seed, that grows up to be the largest—and most vigorous—of shrubs. The one to the farmer’s joy; the other, to the farmer’s consternation.

The seed was not made by God to remain in the form of a seed, but to pursue its response to the gift of life. The sower observes the mystery of life, transformed; and also the wider mystery of creation. Day and night do not so much follow one another in an endless dance as change their outward form through unfolding stages of dawn and dusk.

All bodies change through time, whether they simply age from baby to child to youth to adult to maturity and the fading grandeur of decline and eventual decay, or whether the process involves multiple medical procedures, shaping the body to better the purposes of its heart. Whether my body, or bodies with more complex histories, each as well known to God.

The Church has understood itself in bodily terms, as the body of Christ, and lives with the tension of being a body, not wholly at ease in her own skin. But we are seeking to be more at home in the body, by faith, until we see Christ face to face. More at home with our various constituent bodies, both our own—as it transforms—and those of our sisters and brothers, cys-gender and transgender, presently able-bodied (enabled bodies) and for now dis-abled. We are seeking to boast about, and enable, one another's hearts, not pass judgement on outward appearances. And in this, we shall need the grace of God, and forgiveness.

‘But the Lord said to Samuel, ‘Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him; for the Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.’’ (1 Sam 16:7)

 

‘From now on, therefore, we regard no one from a human point of view; even though we once knew Christ from a human point of view [Greek: according to the flesh], we know him no longer in that way. So if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!’ (2 Cor 5:16, 17)

 

‘He also said, ‘The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how. The earth produces of itself, first the stalk, then the head, then the full grain in the head. But when the grain is ripe, at once he goes in with his sickle, because the harvest has come.’

‘He also said, ‘With what can we compare the kingdom of God, or what parable will we use for it? It is like a mustard seed, which, when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth; yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade.’

‘With many such parables he spoke the word to them, as they were able to hear it; he did not speak to them except in parables, but he explained everything in private to his disciples.’ (Mark 4:26-34)

I am not inferior to you

 

We are still working through Job at Moring Prayer. Job’s speech, in chapter 13, having had a belly-full of his friend’s opinion, and demanding that God give him a fair hearing, is as brilliant as any Shakespeare. How I would love to see this work, unabridged, on the stage.

‘Look, my eye has seen all this,
my ear has heard and understood it.
What you know, I also know;
I am not inferior to you.
But I would speak to the Almighty,
and I desire to argue my case with God.
As for you, you whitewash with lies;
all of you are worthless physicians.
If you would only keep silent,
that would be your wisdom!
Hear now my reasoning,
and listen to the pleadings of my lips.
Will you speak falsely for God,
and speak deceitfully for him?
Will you show partiality towards him,
will you plead the case for God?
Will it be well with you when he searches you out?
Or can you deceive him, as one person deceives another?
He will surely rebuke you
if in secret you show partiality.
Will not his majesty terrify you,
and the dread of him fall upon you?
Your maxims are proverbs of ashes,
your defences are defences of clay.

‘Let me have silence, and I will speak,
and let come on me what may.
I will take my flesh in my teeth,
and put my life in my hand.
See, he will kill me; I have no hope;
but I will defend my ways to his face.
This will be my salvation,
that the godless shall not come before him.
Listen carefully to my words,
and let my declaration be in your ears.
I have indeed prepared my case;
I know that I shall be vindicated.
Who is there that will contend with me?
For then I would be silent and die.

‘Only grant two things to me,
then I will not hide myself from your face:
withdraw your hand far from me,
and do not let dread of you terrify me.
Then call, and I will answer;
or let me speak, and you reply to me.
How many are my iniquities and my sins?
Make me know my transgression and my sin.
Why do you hide your face,
and count me as your enemy?
Will you frighten a windblown leaf
and pursue dry chaff?
For you write bitter things against me,
and make me reap the iniquities of my youth.
You put my feet in the stocks,
and watch all my paths;
you set a bound to the soles of my feet.
One wastes away like a rotten thing,
like a garment that is moth-eaten.’

 

On the side of the angels

 

Contains no plot spoilers

One of the things I love to do on holiday is get lost in a novel. This holiday, I have read All The Devils Are Here, the sixteenth in Louise Penny’s series of Chief Inspector Gamache Mysteries. These are among my favourite stories. Here’s why.

[1] The way in which Penny evokes place:

Penny understands the joy of discovering certain almost magical places for the first time; and the even greater joy of introducing someone else to that place, and their loving it, too. This, of course, comes with the great risk that they won’t see it for how you saw it: I well remember introducing a friend to the first Gamache mystery, and them hating it, a feeling as intense as my own but the exact opposite. To be honest, it caused me to question their judgement, even their character—in turn inviting me, in a very Penny-like way, to question my own second-guessing and conclusion-jumping in relation to my friend.

Penny also understands how place both changes and stays the same through time (including seasons), and that a dear space can be violated by the actions of others, but can even then be redeemed, scars remaining but adding to its depth of character, the richness of its story-holding.

[2] The insight Penny has into human nature:

Penny understands that everyone is capable of good and evil—and that we must be invited, again and again, to give greater weight to good, to choose good over evil. Even those we love are flawed; have tendencies, and make choices, that make them hard to love, at times. And yet, we are invited to love them, despite their flaws, and even, on account of the flaws we perceive (our own perception being not without flaws of its own). We are invited to choose forgiveness, again and again; and to recognise that it is never too late for the one who is consistently loved and forgiven to change. We are invited, also, to always take responsibility for the consequences of our actions.

Penny believes this—that a person can change, can make amends—because her own life had lost its structural integrity, and spectacularly imploded, by her mid-thirties, only to be redeemed, entirely unexpectedly, by love. This truth is explored not only through the story-arc of various recurring characters, but also by the motif, in several though not all of the stories, of structural engineering.

[3] The way Penny never loses sight of our blind spots:

Penny understands that we are all unreliable witnesses, in as much as we do not only observe things but supply an interpretation to what we see. This is inevitable, but problematic, for the reader as well as the characters. One of the things Gamache does (though it is hardly the focus of novels) is teach a class at the police academy, where his first act each year is to write Don’t Believe Everything You Think on the board. Our mind is a great weapon in the fight against evil, but it is a weapon with which we can shoot ourselves in the foot.

To mitigate, Penny arms Gamache with four other powerful statements, which he imperfectly but habitually lives by, and passes on to others:

I don’t know.

I need help.

I was wrong.

I am sorry.

They are insightful statements, from an insightful author, whose body of work helps me to be a better human. For, as author Neil Gaiman put it, fiction is a lie that teaches us deep truths.

Like Sayers, and in contrast to Conan Doyle or Christie, Penny loves her very human detective creation, flaws and all. She is not alone.

 

Shame and glory

Today was my son Noah’s last day at Sixth Form College. Noah’s cohort have had such a disrupted A-level experience. It has not been what they, or their teachers, would have wished. And it is hard enough to deal with disappointment as an adult, let alone as a seventeen-, eighteen-year-old whose pre-frontal cortex is essentially undergoing something akin to the hidden transformation of a caterpillar into a butterfly.

Undoubtedly, Noah and his peers have not always handled these past two years as they might, had they been thirty-five; and so, on top of the disappointment, and often anger, they have experienced a great deal of shame, of being wrong or a failure or a disappointment to others, to their parents and teachers. Shame that, unaddressed, overshadows their hope for a meaningful future.

The antidote to shame is glory. Not the tawdry bling of making a name for yourself, but a personal share in God’s glory. For the glory set before him, Jesus scorned the shame of the cross, of the humiliation of public execution. That glory was you, and me, having a share in God’s glory, as those lovingly fashioned by God from clay (malleable, like a teenage brain) and entrusted with a share of the life-breath of God’s own utterly free Spirit—literally, inspired by God—and invited into reconciled relationship with God, through Jesus, in the power of the Holy Spirit. Drawn into mystery, and adventure; into disruption and uncertainty, yes, but a redeemed and creative, life-generating, disruptive grace, and faithful journeying through life.

I see the glory of God in my son, and in his peers, in their teachers who have given their all and done their best for their students in challenging circumstances. Just as love casts out fear, so glory overthrows shame. The academic year is over, though teachers must still deliberate their assessments and students await their grades. But for now, rest in peace, and rise in glory.

Those who live in houses of clay

At Morning Prayer at present, we are reading in the book of Job, a masterful piece of theatre exploring the tragi-comedy of existence. In the play’s prelude we witness the assembly of the council of the gods, before the sovereign Lord of the universe. The Lord engages one of the lesser, created, gods in conversation, the shadowy Satan (or, Accuser), a restless god who walks back and forth on the earth in agitation. They debate the righteous human, Job, and enter into a wager. Satan will test the limits of job’s righteousness; while the Lord will question the far corners of Satan’s agitation, for, we shall see, that the Lord is present and attentive to the pain of all creation.

The drama then shifts to Job and his friends. In his suffering, they are, at first, magnificent in their empathy, sitting with him in silence for seven full days. Then Job speaks (chapter 3), a heart-felt soliloquy giving voice to his pain, and the dam breaks. In turn, his friends offer their insight, conventional but deeply flawed wisdom. First to speak is Eliphaz (chapter 4), who recounts a vision he has had by night, in his fitful sleep as he keeps watch with his hurting friend. Eliphaz mistakes the spirit who appears before him for the Lord, when, in truth, it is the sly, sweet-talking Satan, insinuating seeds of doubt, of both human and divine nature: neither are to be trusted.

He does, however, come out with one of the most incredible descriptions of the human being ever spoken: ‘those who live in houses of clay, whose foundation is in the dust,’—speaking not of domestic architecture, but of the body, crafted from the clay of the earth, to which it shall return, and animated by the breath of God. For, contrary to Satan’s accusation, the Lord does not only put trust in human beings, but entrusts his very breath.

What impact does it have, what questions does it raise, for us to be those who live in houses of clay?

 

‘Then Eliphaz the Temanite answered:

‘If one ventures a word with you, will you be offended?
But who can keep from speaking?
See, you have instructed many;
you have strengthened the weak hands.
Your words have supported those who were stumbling,
and you have made firm the feeble knees.
But now it has come to you, and you are impatient;
it touches you, and you are dismayed.
Is not your fear of God your confidence,
and the integrity of your ways your hope?

‘Think now, who that was innocent ever perished?
Or where were the upright cut off?
As I have seen, those who plough iniquity
and sow trouble reap the same.
By the breath of God they perish,
and by the blast of his anger they are consumed.
The roar of the lion, the voice of the fierce lion,
and the teeth of the young lions are broken.
The strong lion perishes for lack of prey,
and the whelps of the lioness are scattered.

‘Now a word came stealing to me,
my ear received the whisper of it.
Amid thoughts from visions of the night,
when deep sleep falls on mortals,
dread came upon me, and trembling,
which made all my bones shake.
A spirit glided past my face;
the hair of my flesh bristled.
It stood still,
but I could not discern its appearance.
A form was before my eyes;
there was silence, then I heard a voice:
“Can mortals be righteous before God?
Can human beings be pure before their Maker?
Even in his servants he puts no trust,
and his angels he charges with error;
how much more those who live in houses of clay,
whose foundation is in the dust,
who are crushed like a moth.
Between morning and evening they are destroyed;
they perish for ever without any regarding it.
Their tent-cord is plucked up within them,
and they die devoid of wisdom.”

 

Deep darkness

 

At least as powerful as any Shakespeare soliloquy, this speech from the mouth of Job is as raw an articulation of human experience as you will find. It is not the final word. Ultimately, the deep darkness is found to be claimed by God, in love, as is Job, and every troubled soul—even Satan! And there may come a time when you, also, embrace that love, for yourself, and showered on others. These words might, however, find you where you are today. And it might be enough to know that you are not alone.

‘After this Job opened his mouth and cursed the day of his birth. Job said:

‘Let the day perish on which I was born,
and the night that said,
“A man-child is conceived.”
Let that day be darkness!
May God above not seek it,
or light shine on it.
Let gloom and deep darkness claim it.
Let clouds settle upon it;
let the blackness of the day terrify it.
That night—let thick darkness seize it!
let it not rejoice among the days of the year;
let it not come into the number of the months.
Yes, let that night be barren;
let no joyful cry be heard in it.
Let those curse it who curse the Sea,
those who are skilled to rouse up Leviathan.
Let the stars of its dawn be dark;
let it hope for light, but have none;
may it not see the eyelids of the morning—
because it did not shut the doors of my mother’s womb,
and hide trouble from my eyes.

‘Why did I not die at birth,
come forth from the womb and expire?
Why were there knees to receive me,
or breasts for me to suck?
Now I would be lying down and quiet;
I would be asleep; then I would be at rest
with kings and counsellors of the earth
who rebuild ruins for themselves,
or with princes who have gold,
who fill their houses with silver.
Or why was I not buried like a stillborn child,
like an infant that never sees the light?
There the wicked cease from troubling,
and there the weary are at rest.
There the prisoners are at ease together;
they do not hear the voice of the taskmaster.
The small and the great are there,
and the slaves are free from their masters.

‘Why is light given to one in misery,
and life to the bitter in soul,
who long for death, but it does not come,
and dig for it more than for hidden treasures;
who rejoice exceedingly,
and are glad when they find the grave?
Why is light given to one who cannot see the way,
whom God has fenced in?
For my sighing comes like my bread,
and my groanings are poured out like water.
Truly the thing that I fear comes upon me,
and what I dread befalls me.
I am not at ease, nor am I quiet;
I have no rest; but trouble comes.’

 

When in Rome

 

This week, the lectionary for Morning Prayer takes us into the Old Testament book of Job and the New Testament book of Romans. Job is an incredible work, that teaches us that we do not know the whole picture, and that God desires for all persons to know wellbeing and works for that by being present to us in our pain. Romans is a brilliant letter, written by Paul to the house churches of Rome, concerned with the scope of salvation in Jesus Christ, encompassing Jew and Gentile and breaking down the divisions between them.

Yesterday, we found ourselves in the second half of the first chapter, which is widely seen as condemning same-sex relationships. I regularly encounter three different responses by Christians to this (there are others, but these are the ones I most frequently meet). Some argue that Paul is simply wrong in this regard, and must be put aside. But I hold to the view that Paul writes under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit and in order to reveal truths needful to salvation. Others claim that Paul is enlightened for his time, but of his time; and that we are called to continue that trajectory of liberation in the light (and darkness) of our time. Again, I would uphold that Paul is not simply enlightened for his time, but inspired by the Holy Spirit; and, moreover, that he was not a man of and constrained by his time (any more than we are of ours) but sent to his time and rooted in the history of God’s plan of salvation (as we, too, are sent, and rooted). Still others affirm that Paul, writing under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, condemns same-sex relationships as incompatible with God’s plan for humanity, and that is the end of the matter. But here I would respectfully suggest that, in declaring the ‘plain meaning’ of the text, they have not paid careful attention to what Paul actually wrote, under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit.

In setting out a revealed understanding of the nature of God and of humanity, Paul emphasises that God handed humanity over to urges, too strong for us to resist, to treat other people in dishonouring ways, that fail to acknowledge that they are created in the likeness of God, and result in shame. Paul restates this handing over several times. It is the same word used in the Gospels of Jesus being handed over to the authorities, and speaking of his followers being handed over to the authorities; and, in Romans chapter 8, in the context of a list of shameful things done or that might be done to Paul and his companions, Paul uses it of God handing over his Son, for our sakes. Jesus, the antidote to shame. Whatever it is that God is doing here, it is laying the foundation for salvation.

As Paul continues to explore what it is that God is doing here, he turns to same-sex relations, both between women and between men. It is not entirely clear what manner of relationship Paul is describing—some point out that the Greek suggests same-sex prostitution—but the emphasised point is that this activity is ‘contrary to nature’. Again, it is not immediately clear what is meant by this—does it, for example, mean contrary to the self-evident cultural expectations of the Jews among Paul’s audience, as where, elsewhere, he says that it is contrary to nature for men to have long hair and women, short? It is, however, a crucial point that Paul is laying down.

Crucial, because Paul will return to it. In chapter 11 [What? How are we supposed to track an argument constructed so painstakingly!] Paul describes the Gentiles as having been grafted into the olive tree that symbolises God’s people, grafted in by God, contrary to nature. Paul goes on to note that those Christians of Jewish cultural heritage are natural branches that have been broken off the tree by God, and then grafted back into the tree by God, contrary to nature. Therefore, both Gentiles and Jews find their place in the people of God as a result of God’s contrary-to-nature action. This is as true for Paul, who can list his qualifications in the flesh, as well as recognise that this has never really been the way in which Israel is truly constituted—see chapter 9, immediately following on from the part about the Son being handed over, and the victory, in him, over shame—as it is for anyone else.

Contrary to nature, therefore, is not opposed to God’s salvation plan, but key to it. Contrary to nature is not Paul’s prejudice exposed, but God’s loving activity revealed.

Now clearly, the commodification of bodies through same-sex prostitution is as far a fall from God’s will for humanity as is envy, murder, strife, deceit, craftiness, gossip, slander, hatred towards God, insolence, arrogance, boasting, inventing evil, rebelling against parents, foolishness, faithlessness, heartlessness, ruthlessness—or all the other ways in which any and all human relationships are bound by strong urges that overpower us. Even so, herein lies a key revelation pointing to God’s salvation plan. In the same way that marriage between a man and a woman points beyond itself to the relationship between Jesus and the Church—and, therefore, the use of prostitutes violates this—might not committed same-sex relationships point beyond themselves to God joining Jew and Gentile together as one flesh?

 

Ascended

Wednesday evening and Thursday this week saw the Christian celebration of Ascension Day (the start of Ascensiontide, the final ten days of the 50-day long Eastertide) coincide with Eid al-Fitr, the Muslim celebrations marking the end of the month of Ramadan.

While there are profound differences in how Christians and Muslims view Jesus, both faith traditions claim that he ascended bodily to heaven, from where he will return, to take up a judicial reign of justice and peace.

Ascensiontide is the Christian expression recalling Jesus ascending to the throne prepared for him at the right hand of God, to be seated there until God subjugates his enemies under his anointed one, establishing the heavenly reign on earth through this faithful anointed one who will judge the nations. In this, Jesus fulfils the intention begun in David, king of Jerusalem (see Psalm 2 and Psalm 110), of whom it was claimed God bestowed the title ‘my begotten son’.

Ascensiontide is, for Christians, a period set aside for prayer that this future reign of justice and peace might not only come soon but also be anticipated, felt, in the present. That we, who acknowledge Jesus on the throne, might be empowered as peacemakers, in our troubled world. That the nations, and indeed the whole cosmos, might be brought into harmony—not a uniformity, but an interdependent diversity.

Peace be with you, today. Peace be between you and your neighbours, of all faiths and none. Peace be on the holy city of Jerusalem, and on the whole human family. Lord, have mercy on us.

 

Ascension Day

I just love the Preface to the prayer of thanksgiving on Ascension Day, today. It cries out for children (and the young at heart) joining-in with big, bold, expressive actions:

 

It is indeed right and good,

our duty and our joy,

always and everywhere to give you thanks,

holy Father, almighty and eternal God,

through Jesus Christ the King of glory.

Born of a woman,

he came to the rescue of the human race.

Dying for us,

he trampled death and conquered sin.

By the glory of his resurrection

he opened the way to life eternal

and by his ascension,

gave us the sure hope

that where he is we may also be.

Therefore the universe resounds with Easter joy

and with choirs of angels we sing for ever to your praise:

 

(Proper Preface to the Eucharistic Prayer on Ascension Day, from Common Worship: Times and Seasons, copyright © The Archbishops’ Council 2006)

 

Deep waters

 

I’m baptising some folk at the weekend. They asked me to include the well-known religious poem Footprints, which speaks of Jesus walking alongside us throughout our lives, and carrying us in the hardest times. I’m happy to, but I shall also be retelling an account from the gospels, where Jesus tells his fishermen friends to put out into deep the water, and there, their empty nets—for they had fished all night without a catch—are miraculously filled.

Much of the gospels are centred on Lake Tiberius, the Sea of Galilee. And the lake functions in the stories of Jesus in at least three ways.

It is, firstly, the compass of the everyday lived experience of Jesus’ fishermen friends.

However, throughout the Bible, the sea, contrasted against the gift of the land, often represents the chaos that routinely threatens to overwhelm our lives—the shore, then, being where the gift of life and the possible destruction of life meet.

And yet, the lake is also the place where the disciples are given a deeper insight into who Jesus is—calming the wind and the waves, walking on water, directing miraculous catches of fish. Into the mystery of who God is, in and through this neighbour who is, in some undefinable sense, more than the boy next door. Here, then, the shore is the meeting-place of the fully human and fully divine.

This week is Mental Health Awareness week, and it pertains to all of us, in our everyday lives: the things we do, the places we go, the people we live alongside.

It is possible to live with underlying mental health issues that are well-managed, enabling us to experience life fully, and, broadly speaking, positively—just as it is possible to live well with underlying physical health issues.

It is possible to have no underlying mental health issues, and yet, at times, feel overwhelmed, even to the point of great danger, the threat of losing (or, indeed, the consequence of having lost) what we hold dear.

It is possible to know both gift and danger in our personal makeup—and to encounter God in both the gift side and the danger side. To grow deeper into the blessing of the particular clay—with its unique properties—God has fashioned me, or you, from, breathing life into us. And to put out deeper into the mystery of the God who has created us, and invites us into friendship.

Don’t be afraid of your mental health, and don’t be afraid to speak about mental health. Put out into the deep water. You might be surprised by what happens.

 

Abstaining

 

Across the UK today, 06.05.21, people are voting in a variety of elections. The Church is non-partisan, but encourages people to use their democratic right and responsibility wisely, and church buildings are commonly offered to the wider community as polling stations in order to facilitate that. Once again, both churches I currently serve are hosting polling stations today.

How might we go about voting, and relating to one another well in a society where people hold diverse opinions, on a wide variety of issues? At our service of Holy Communion today, we heard again Acts 15:7-21, an account of a time when the church was wrestling with issues of diversity within the community and determining the level of conformity that is needed for that community to be community at all. Key principles in this process included much debate—no quick or uninformed decisions—and respectful, attentive listening to people’s experience, including their experience of having been with people from very different backgrounds and worldviews. Only then is a way forward offered: that what was needed for a diverse church to flourish was to abstain from the contamination of idolatry, and from the commodification of sex, and from treatment of animals that did not revere their life.

Clearly this list is contextual, and relates to the church rather than wider society. Might it, nonetheless, have anything to say to us in relation to how we vote, and how we relate to those who vote differently? Perhaps.

An idol is something—usually, something good in and of itself—that has been elevated above all else, taking the place of God in our affections. Political parties can become idols. If, for example, we believe that the party of our preference is the only party capable of addressing the issues we face as a society, then it has become an idol to us, a good thing contaminated. Or to give another example, the NHS has become an idol to many. For some, this justifies selling it off. For others, this proposed course of action is an example of the idolatry of Money at play. How we view, and review, the NHS is a complex matter to which we must attend, but in doing so, we might want to reflect on what happens to us when we elevate anything—socioeconomics, even healthcare itself—above all else.

The commodification of sex objectifies both us, ourself, and others—as opposed to a mutual self-giving in which each person is both the object and the subject of desire, desirable and desiring. This extends beyond sexual activity to the recognition—or not—of sexuality. But this misuse of bodies, our bodies, is a principle we might extend to any objectification of others: for being poor, or rich; native, or foreign…In how we chose to vote, and in how we relate to those who vote differently, in addition to asking “What do we care about too much?” (above) we might want to ask, “Who do we care about too little?”

Finally, from Acts 15, our voting might do well to be informed by care for the environment, the wider creation. Again, this is not a simplistic matter—there is more than one approach to environmental sustainability—but it is a simple matter: if a candidate has no informed opinion, or denies that the environment matters, they are not going to be a good steward of something that is of a fundamental importance to the flourishing of community.

These, then, are matters for much debate, and attentive listening to one another, not only as we come to cast our vote but as we then work out what it means to live together with the outcome.

 

Closure

 

As of today, 04.05.2021, the way in which marriages are registered in England and Wales has changed. Some of the changes are long overdue, some feel like an opportunity missed. But one part of today’s transition has been the closing of the elegant hard-bound, olive-green, gold-lettered Church of England Register[s] Of Marriages. Today, I have drawn 344 diagonal lines, in archive quality ink, through 172 record entries (in duplicate registers) that will never be used. It felt like the end of an era that it is, but also an unexpectedly therapeutic activity.

[In recent years, as the number of church weddings has fallen, these registers became slimmer; but there have never been many weddings at St Nicholas’ and so these were the older 250-entry registers, in which 78 weddings are recorded, between 1993-2017. The registers at the Minster are more recent, and therefore contain fewer entries, and will require fewer lines drawn through them—though this will be done by one of my colleagues.]

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Five crosses

That piece of church furniture we call the altar—the table at which we make our memorial of Jesus’ offering up of himself once for all, and, in response, offer up our own sacrifice of thanks and praise—is marked by five crosses, one in each of the four corners and one at the centre-point, recalling the five wounds of Christ on the cross: the nail-piercing of his wrists and ankles, and the spear thrust up through his ribs to burst open his heart.

For most of the year, these crosses are covered by a fine linen cloth, but on Maundy Thursday we strip the altars bare, exposing them until the altar is made ready again to celebrate on Easter Sunday.

This photo is of the stripped altar in the Lady Chapel at St Nicholas’. I love its elegant, elongated form.

These crosses, beautifully tactile, usually hidden from view, are just about my favourite piece of symbolism in the symbol-rich Christ-shaped imagination of the Church. Our hands, our feet, our heart, none of which escape wounding, are to be conformed to his likeness. What we do, where we go, and what motivates us, not for our glory but, for the most part hidden, one with him. Our mandate, to love one another, as he has loved.

 

Drops of blood

 

I’m always interested in cultural-creative references to the Bible—my PhD focused on such uses in popular music from the 1960s-90s—and this is no exception. An artistic adaption of Nike trainers emblazoned with the reference Luke 10:18, ‘He [that is, Jesus] said to them [his disciples], “I watched Satan fall from heaven like a flash of lightning…”’

The trainers also contain a drop of human blood, and I want to juxtapose that against the Gospel reading for Morning Prayer today, Luke 22:24-53. This passage includes the account of Jesus praying immediately prior to his arrest, wrestling with what he knows is to come and pouring out his heart to the Father. It includes verses 43 & 44, which read, [[Then an angel from heaven appeared to him and gave him strength. In his anguish he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat became like great drops of blood falling down on the ground.]]

The double editorial brackets [[ ]] indicate that these are disputed verses. They are present in some of the ‘ancient authorities’ (earliest surviving copies of the text, and commentaries on the texts) but not in others. They have either been added, adorning the text; or censored, an attempted removal from circulation. Drops of human blood are controversial.

The linked article also notes the ‘Christian nationalism’ backlash, of which Nike is an innocent victim. The call to fight, hard, for the very soul of the youth of the nation is as predictable as it is disappointing. The way of Jesus is that blood voluntarily shed, without resistance, (somehow, ultimately) brings about reconciliation. Indeed, at his arrest, one of his disciples attacks with a sword, cutting off the ear of one of the crowd sent to take Jesus into custody; but Jesus categorically rejects this course of action, touches the severed ear and heals the wounded slave.

Nike have every right to seek to protect their reputation, against a powerful political lobby. But the idea that these shoes are a threat to souls, rather than the opening up of a conversation about the kingdom of God breaking in—to the kingdoms of the USA, or free-market economics, or culture wars, or insert your own—is reactionary, defensive, and misses out on grace. Rather than praying, “Father, if you are willing, remove these shoes from us…” we might better pray, “…yet, not my will but yours be done.”

 

Acquainted

 

“Blessed are you, Lord God of our salvation,

to you be praise and glory for ever.

As a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief

your only Son was lifted up

that he might draw the whole world to himself.

May we walk this day in the way of the cross

and always be ready to share its weight,

declaring your love for all the world.

Blessed be God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Blessed be God for ever.”

 

This is a prayer that is said at the start of the time of Morning Prayer in Holy Week, the days leading up to Easter. It is a blessing directed to God—that is, a recognition of the ‘fit-ness’ or fit-for-purpose of God’s nature—that invites us to notice that God is not indifferent to human sorrows and grief, but that it is in God’s very coming alongside us in the experience of suffering that we may be drawn into that place of reconciliation, of wholeness, that is found in Jesus Christ.

And walking in this way, we may discover that an acquaintance with sorrow is our blessing also, that only the person who identifies with sorrow and grief is truly a person at all, one who is formed by and for compassion.

We expend so much energy trying to shield ourselves, and those whom we love, from the sorrows and grief of life—I weep every time I hear a parent say, “I just want my children to be happy”—and our efforts contribute to the pushing-apart of the whole world, to its destruction. We have never needed Holy Week more than we do now. Lord, have mercy.

 

Précédemment d’Engrenages

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

On throwing stones

 

The Gospel reading set for Morning Prayer today is John 7:53-8:11. A consortium of powerful men are seeking to bring down Jesus, to put him in his place, to end his career. They set a trap, and show that they are entirely prepared to destroy an ‘expendable’ woman for their purposes, to the point of literal death if needs be. They bring before Jesus a woman whom they claim has been caught in the very act of committing adultery, to see if Jesus will defy the Jewish law, which they argued called for a death penalty in such circumstances, or defy the Roman law, which did not permit the occupied Jewish people to exercise the death penalty: will Jesus be a traitor to his heritage, or an insurrectionist threat? Of course, despite the fact that it is not possible to commit adultery on your own—this woman is not accused of masturbating—no man is brought to this trial-by-mob.

Jesus takes his time, refusing to respond, allowing the full weight of the injustice to settle on the scene, before standing up to them, looking them in the eye, and saying, ‘Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.’ This is not a general observation. There are clear sins being embraced here, including the intent to bring false testimony against Jesus, the act of bearing false witness against the woman, the intent to kill. One by one, the accusers are shamed into backing down.

What disturbs me is how often, these days, I hear people take Jesus’ words—let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at [insert name here]—to silence any voice that exposes the hypocrisy and power-games of those in positions of power, usually men. “We’re all sinners, who are you to judge another?” And this is bullshit, the absolute anti-Christ position. Jesus’ response in this episode is a devastating critique, one that ultimately contributes to his own extra-judicial trial and execution. We all live with the consequences of an unwelcome gap that exists between us and others, coming between even our closest relationships—we are all sinners, whose lives are as much shaped by sin as by love and goodness—but we do not all seek to manipulate others for their destruction and our gain in some zero-sum gain. Jesus throws his stones, not at the woman—whom he refuses to condemn, and releases into a new life—but with the precision of David flooring the giant Goliath.

There is no neutral position.

 

The sun and the mist

 

The sun rose this morning; but then the sea mist rolled in, turning the disc of the sun from gold to silver before obscuring it completely, scattering and diffusing its light.

I am reminded of Ecclesiastes, one of my favourite books of the Bible, which speaks of life in terms of what is enduring, and ephemeral. The sun rises and sets; winter gives way to spring, gives way to summer, gives way to autumn, gives way to winter again; rain feeds rivers, which run to the sea, from where clouds rise, to fall as rain; we are born, live, and die, giving birth to and burying others along the way, and so life goes on. We live in, and as part of, a fundamentally dependable, ordered creation; and everything is beautiful in its time, wearisome when we try to hold it back or hold on to it—for we can no more do so than grasp the mist in our closed fist. Life endures; life is fleeting. Receive the moment, for what it is, and the next, for what it will be.