Blessings and curses

 

I am neurodiverse. I am diagnosed dyslexic, dyscalculic, and dyspraxic—this last meaning that I often am unable to locate information. You might be familiar with walking into a room and having to look around for where you put down your keys. I have this experience within my brain, misplacing names, for example, or the connection between a face and a name. I am also almost certainly, though without formal diagnosis, autistic.

Neurodiverse people sometimes describe their condition as a superpower. I think I understand why, the need to reframe a story of lack, but, at least in my experience, it isn't a superpower at all. I am not a superhuman, I am a (super) human (as are you). For me, my neurodiversities are both a blessing and a curse.

A blessing is the gift of God’s goodness. Blessings are the overflow of that goodness, a gift that keeps on being given, and is never retracted. Blessing is the invitation to live a particular life, that no other lifeform can live in your place. Blessings give permission, delegate authority, and say, “Go, take your place in the miracle of life.”

A curse is a limitation placed upon us, for our own good and for the good of others. Curses are always themselves limited in scope and duration, and always overcome by repentance, that is, a change of mind. Curses are the negative expression of blessing, the page to the ink. They save us from ourselves, from the misdirected desire to be independent of others, while at the same time keeping others dependent on us—from any messiah complex. They push us, willingly or unwillingly, towards interdependence—which we embrace through that repentance, or change of mind.

My neurodiversities are a blessing, to me and for others. I am super creative. I am capable of super focus—note why some people speak of super-powers—while also super-easily derailed. I see things from a different perspective, a perspective that other people value because it shines light on their neurotypical blind spots. (Though mine is not the only or only right perspective, something that immature neurodiverse people often fail to recognise.)

My neurodiversities are also a curse, to me and for others. There are ways in which I will never be independent, or dependable. To an extent there are skills I can learn and tools I should employ to manage this; but skills and tools can also be fashioned into a persona, a false projection of who I want you to see (and, often, who you want to see in me) masking those parts of me that I do not want to be seen, because I am too easily ashamed of them. That persona isn’t bad in itself, but it is false. The particular curses of my neurodiversities—the ways in which I routinely misunderstand others and am in turn misunderstood; the wifi signal inside my mind dropping out at the most unwanted moments; a host of others—the things I have so often tried to hide—are the very limits that should cause me to seek others whose blessings compliment my curses, just as my blessings compliment their curses. At 50, the persona of competence is simply too cracked to hold or hold on to.

The curse is a gift, as much as the blessing: the blessing sending me out from God further and further into the world, the curse calling me back deeper and deeper into God; my true self being found held in this creative tension.

One of the things I do is keep an eye on clergy posts being advertised. Not that I am looking for a new job, or change of role, but because I take an interest in clergy wellbeing. One of the things I notice is how many contexts are seeking, or offering opportunity for, ‘an exceptional priest.’ As a direction of travel, this causes me concern. It is, perhaps, a sometimes-necessary place to begin, but—ironically—has its own in-built limits. Being exceptional turns out to be curse, as much as blessing. If we recognise this, all well and good; there will be pain, but it will be creative, cooperative. If we fail to do so, there will be a lot of destructive pain along the way.

 

Trinity

 

This afternoon I have spent two hours with Y4 (children aged 8/9), one hour each back-to-back with two classes, helping them to learn about the Trinity, the Christian belief in One God who exists eternally as three persons. This is part of their wide-ranging RE curriculum. The classes were made up of pupils from a wide range of ir/religious families. I was bombarded by questions—I’ve never seen so many hands raised so quickly and persistently—and the quality of their questions and their own observations was of an exceptionally high standard, ranging over many related issues and exploring similarities/differences between Christianity and Islam with sensitivity and respect. I was seriously impressed by them, really enjoyed their welcome, engagement and company, and look forward to visiting them again in future. Right now, I am exhausted. Apparently some adults spend the whole day, every school day, with these furious balls of energy!?

We explored the Trinity: God, King of the Universe and Father of all; Jesus, the Word of God through whom all things were created, speaking itself into creation as a human, to be with us; and the Holy Spirit, the life-giving, life-sustaining power of God in the world.

I had woven a friendship bracelet of three differently coloured threads as a visual representation; we talked about what colours we might choose to represent Father, Son and Holy Spirit, and the children chose to work on their own friendship bracelets as they continue to explore this theme.

We recalled Jesus’ baptism—of which they had leant previously—and I brought the silver bowl and mother-of-pearl seashell I use to baptise people “in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” pouring water on their heads in three actions. We discussed what Christians do and don’t mean by the terms Father, Son, and Holy Spirit (e.g. Christians don’t believe that God was married to Mary, or is Jesus’ father in a biological sense; and while we believe that Jesus is the second person of the trinity from eternity, ‘Son’ of God was also a term used for the Davidic kings in Jerusalem; we talked about other names for God in the Bible—and Koran—and various ways of describing the Holy Spirit, such as breath, wind, flame, dove).

Thinking about how the Trinity is important to Christian practice, I explained that whenever we gather together for worship, I make the sign of the cross and say “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” and that as we depart, I make the sign of the cross and say “the blessing of almighty God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, be with you and remain with you always. Amen.”

And I showed them how Christians can make the sign of the cross, by pressing our thumb, index finger and middle finger together—representing the Trinity—and resting our ring finger and little finger on our palm—reminding us that Jesus is fully-God and fully-human—and then moving our hand from our forehead to our heart (sternum) to our left shoulder to our right shoulder (and then back to the middle of our chest) when we gather or receive Communion or depart with God’s blessing or when we pray.

But their questions! So many! And so deep! About God, yes, and especially about Jesus. Also, about life and death, and life beyond death, and angels, and the devil, and (non-human) animals, and inter-faith marriage and children, and friendship, and betrayal, and doing wrong because you are frightened of other people, and how all shall be well.

 

Matthew

 

Today (21 September) the Church remembers Matthew, the tax collector who became a follower of Jesus, and for whom the Gospel According to Matthew is named. The Gospel reading for Holy Communion is Matthew 9:9-13, in which Matthew himself enters the story:

‘As Jesus was walking along, he saw a man called Matthew sitting at the tax booth; and he said to him, ‘Follow me.’ And he got up and followed him. And as he sat at dinner in the house, many tax-collectors and sinners came and were sitting with him and his disciples. When the Pharisees saw this, they said to his disciples, ‘Why does your teacher eat with tax-collectors and sinners?’ But when he heard this, he said, ‘Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. Go and learn what this means, “I desire mercy, not sacrifice.” For I have come to call not the righteous but sinners.’

There are two treasures hidden in this account. The first concerns the tax collectors and the Pharisees; the second concerns Jesus.

A low-ranking tax collector such as Matthew was told how much revenue they had to secure, with any surplus being what they themselves lived off. Tax collectors were notoriously genius at making up taxes to increase their margin.

“Good morning, sir. I’m going to have to ask you to unload your cart, so we can inspect and weigh your goods and calculate the duty. While my colleague sees to that, I just need to go through some paperwork with you. You are travelling by road, so there’s road tax, obviously; those potholes don’t fill themselves. And this road passes over a bridge, so that’s bridge tax. Cart tax. Your cart today has four wheels, so that’s wheel tax, times four. And I couldn’t help but notice that your cart has two axles.”

“Well, yes. That’s how the wheels turn.”

“Very good, sir. I can see that you paid attention in school. Axle tax, times two.”

“But surely axles should be covered by the wheel tax?”

“Oh no, sir. A wheel is a sort of a disc, on a vertical axis, whereas an axle is a sort of a shaft or pole, on a horizontal axis. They’re two quite different things.”

It isn’t hard to imagine why tax collectors were unpopular. The Pharisees despised them, considered them beyond the pale. But Jesus says to the Pharisees, “You think that you are entirely different from the tax collectors, but you are exactly the same. Just as they crush people under their taxation rules, so you crush people under the rules you multiply for determining who is acceptable and who is not. You need to look again at what it is that God asks of us: compassion towards others, not death by a thousand cuts.”

So, the Pharisees and the tax collectors aren’t so different after all. But Jesus comes to both, to heal all who recognise their own sickness. He calls Matthew to follow him, and Matthew gets up. The word Matthew uses to describe how he responds is the same word Mark uses in his Gospel to describe Jesus risen from the dead. In this moment—that points to that moment—Matthew comes alive. And Jesus leads him to the table in the toll house to eat with other tax collectors. My English translation says that they were sitting, but that is not accurate: in their culture, they ate reclined, or lying down. Jesus is lying down and the tax collectors, and the disciples, are lying down. And it is the same word that Matthew uses when he recounts the angel addressing the disciples, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary, at the tomb on the morning Jesus rose from the dead: ‘He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay.’ (Matthew 28:6). In other words, Jesus’ action in Matthew 9 points to the end of the story, to the tomb, the house of death and resurrection. Jesus calls the tax collectors (and the Pharisees who are the same as them, though they do not recognise it) to die with him and rise with him. To lose the life they are trying to build over and against others and instead to discover the life God longs for them to know, a life characterised by compassion that embraces the outcast.

Today is the Feast of St Matthew. Today he invites us to join him with Jesus at the table. To recline, and get up, and to follow Jesus to invite others to recline and get up. Today may all that separates you from God and neighbour be put to death. May you know the reconciliation that is already yours, in Christ, and, through him, be empowered to extend that wealth to others.

 

Holy Cross

 

We do not like to be humbled. But being humble is the very character of God, of the god who chooses to be human, the human god Jesus who is revealed to the world on the cross, in public humiliation. Only those who are humble are able to participate in the life of God, a life that defies death. This is freedom.

The ancient Greeks saw the seemingly insatiable appetite of pride as hubris, a transgression against the gods, that brought upon mortals nemesis, the punishment of the gods. But to be humbled, delivered from our appetite for recognition, for being fêted by all, is not a punishment. It is the gift of God.

Jesus did not die on the cross to satisfy the wounded pride of God, but to (more than) satisfy the wounding pride of people, and of the satan, the prideful angel who is unable to embrace humility, who rebels against the humble God. And to all those who have been wounded by pride, their own or that of other people, the risen Jesus holds out life, healing, freedom, joy. Says, walk with me. Walk humbly with your God.

May your day, and mine, be unremarkable.

 

Take off your shoes

 

There is a story in the Bible about a man called Moses. You can read it in the book of Exodus. One day, this Moses is going about his life when he is intrigued to notice a bush that is burning, but not consumed by the flames.

Now, Moses is just going about his life, but it isn’t the life he ever imagined would be his. He has experienced childhood trauma and bereavement in adulthood; been rejected by his adoptive family and his family-of-origin. He has built a new life in a far off, out-of-the-way place. In some regards, we would say that his life has become smaller. From another perspective, we would say his life has grown, to accommodate the grief within it, to make space for living despite it. This is what surviving bereavement, of any form, does within us. We are changed, a change that cannot be undone; and yet, despite all, we are not consumed.

Moses stops and turns aside to take a closer look. And God, noticing that Moses has noticed, called out to him from within the bush, ‘Moses, Moses.’ And Moses replied, ‘Here I am.’

We note that God knows us by name, and that the place of encountering God is our life, right where we are, right here where we find ourselves, the life we have, if we are open to such an encounter. Not some other circumstance, the life we had imagined for ourselves, that we had either never found or perhaps had known but had subsequently lost. Some unreal life we grasp at that has no substance. No, but rather, Here I am.

The first thing God wants Moses to know—other than that he is known—is that he must take off his sandals, for he is standing on holy ground. What is this strange command, if not the revelation that God does not want anything to come between us and our standing on holy ground, not even shoe leather? And if Moses can learn how to stand on holy ground here, in this location, he can learn how to stand on holy ground anywhere. For everywhere is holy ground, created by God and giving rise to reverence whenever that is recognised.

Moses asks this God, what is your name? And God responds with what is often translated into English as I AM WHO I AM, but can also be rendered LET THERE BE, AND THERE WAS, as in, ‘And God said, “Let there be light.” And there was light.’ In other words, this God is the one in whom is both existence and purpose. The one who comes to liberate his people into life and into the purpose of love—which, though we resist the thought with every fibre of our being, is sufficient purpose to order the world rightly.

This morning when the church in our neighbourhood were gathered together out of our lives—which for many of us are not the lives we imagined, for some of us include the pain of watching marriages approach their slow parting by death, or some other trauma or bereavement—I invited people to take off their shoes and walk about on the lawn outside, right there in the middle of the service of Holy Communion (Eucharist, Mass). It was a joy to see several take up the invitation.

Photographs: two different depictions of the burning bush in stained glass created by Leonard Evetts for St Nicholas Church; and also, a photograph of my bare feet on the vicarage lawn, after the service.

Joy

 

TL:DR everybody needs a community they can’t bear not to meet up with.

The apostle Paul and his companions planted churches around the eastern Mediterranean. The first churches they planted in Europe were in Philippi (in the north of modern Greece). On coming to a new city, it was Paul’s usual practice to first seek out the Jewish diaspora community, those with whom he shared a common background. There was no recognised Jewish community in Philippi (not enough Jewish men to form a synagogue), so Paul sought out ‘God-fearers’—Greeks who were drawn to worship the Jewish god at prayer by the river, and from there the first European church was established in the household of a businesswoman called Lydia. But Paul’s activity caused civil unrest, resulting in his being beaten and imprisoned—which led to the establishment of a second house-church led by the officer responsible for the city jailhouse. When it came to light that Paul was a Roman citizen—and as such should not have been beaten or imprisoned without trial—he was asked to leave quietly…

They moved along the coast to Thessalonica. There, there was a Jewish community, but they were not very receptive to Paul’s message. The local Greeks were much more receptive, and a church planted; but the Jewish community were unhappy, and provoked civil unrest, forcing Paul to move on yet again, after little more than three weeks there. They headed on to Berea, and there the local Jewish community were much more receptive. Yet another church was established; but when news reached the synagogue back in Thessalonica, they sent a delegation to incite trouble for Paul in Berea. Yet again he and his companions moved on, this time travelling south, as far as Athens.

At this point, Paul becomes increasingly concerned for his new friends in Thessalonica, from whom he was parted so quickly. So, he sends his friend and co-worker Timothy back north to them. On returning to Athens, Timothy discovers that Paul has himself moved on again, this time to Corinth, where Timothy catches him up, and is able to deliver good news. The church in Thessalonica is doing well, they long to see Paul again as much as he longs to see them. For Paul, for whom being apart from these new friends and fellow-believers was death, this news fills him with joy, makes him feel alive again.

We read an extract from the letter he wrote them (1 Thessalonians 3:7-13) at our mid-week Communion today. And it really was a joy to me to have, among the congregation, two friends visiting from our neighbouring church Sunderland Minster, and an elderly member of the St Nicholas’ congregation who had not made it out to be with us for a long time following a fall and loss of confidence.

I wonder whether this is how we think of church. Whether the days between when we gather together feel like death. Whether we long to see those people, and whether seeing them is a joy. Or whether we who are able to meet regularly come to take one another for granted. Whether we have forgotten how good it was to be able to meet together after the deprivation of lockdowns, and whether we hold in mind those who can no longer join us due to infirmity.

Everyone needs a community that causes us to feel like Paul did in relation to the church at Thessalonica. Who knows, it could even be a church.

 

Rubbish

 

In one of the Bible readings set for Holy Communion today, 1Corinthians 4.9-15, Paul writes of church planters like himself, ‘We have become like the rubbish of the world, the dregs of all things, to this very day.’ (v 13b).

There is a man-made hill in Rome, called Monte Testaccio or the Hill of Shards, carefully constructed from an estimated 53 million pottery amphorae that had contained 6 billion litres of olive oil. It is hard to know when the project began—if it already existed in Paul’s day it would have been small in scale, but it grew to be the largest rubbish dump in the ancient world by the second century CE. Amphorae were used to transport oil, wine, fruit sauce and fish sauce around the Empire, with many supplying the capital, Rome. Those containing other products could be reused, or recycled, broken down to be an ingredient in cement which the Romans used in building. But the amphorae containing olive oil—imported into Rome in huge volumes, mostly from Spain—couldn’t be recycled. The oil left a scummy residue that couldn’t be scraped off the insides of the jar and spoilt subsequent batches. The amphorae didn’t break into small enough pieces, and the oil reacted with lime to form a soap that compromised the concrete (soap not being a successful building material). So, the jars were partially broken and laid down as a rubbish dump, that grew and grew over time.

Today, the Monte Testaccio has a cross on its summit. To prevent erosion, it is not a public pace, but it is possible to visit by arrangement, should you find yourself in Rome and looking to get away from the other tourists. It is said that the hill sings to you as you climb it, the noise of pottery shifting and being ground under your feet.

That seems to me to be a perfect illustration of Paul’s reflection on church planting. The churches he planted were small and periodically faced persecution, but by around the time when Rome stopped adding to the Monte Testaccio, the Church had grown large and displaced the old gods.

Sometimes the church still looks like rubbish. But she still sings when trodden under foot.

 

On rocky ground

 

Some thoughts on how Jesus builds his church, and how apparent failure is not necessarily failure at all:

One time, Jesus asked his disciples who people said that he was (you can read about it in Matthew 16.13-20). That is, he enquired, of those closest to him, how closely they were paying attention to the wider crowds who followed them around. What conversations had they overheard? And they were able to report back a range of rumours circulating about him. Basically, the popular consensus view seemed to be some hero or other back from the realm of the dead.

That, in itself, is an interesting exercise, that invites us to listen beyond our own echo chambers. Who do those around us say that Jesus is?

Jesus continued, ‘But who do you say that I am?’ That is, perhaps, both ‘What conclusion [however provisional] have you drawn?’ and ‘When you hear these rumours, these competing ideas, how do you respond?’ How are you engaging in the conversation?

Simon Peter jumps in with a typically emphatic response: ‘You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God!’

Jesus both affirms Peter’s response, and sternly orders his disciples not to go round repeating such things to anyone else. And in between these two statements, Jesus says something very interesting about Peter, and the Church.

To pick up on it, first we need to know that the name ‘Simon Peter’ is composed of ‘Simon’ from the Hebrew for ‘to hear’ and ‘Peter’ from the Greek for ‘rocky’.

In his account of the Jesus story, Matthew has already told us about the time when Jesus told a parable of the Sower, which he had then discussed further with his disciples in private:

‘Other seeds fell on rocky ground, where they did not have much soil, and they sprang up quickly, since they had no depth of soil. But when the sun rose, they were scorched; and since they had no root, they withered away [xérainó—or ripened].’ (Matthew 13.5, 6)

‘As for what was sown on rocky [Peter] ground, this is the one who hears [Simon] the word and immediately receives it with joy; yet such a person has no root, but endures only for a while, and when trouble or persecution arises on account of the word, that person immediately falls away.’ (Matthew 13.20, 21)

Simon Peter is rocky ground, the one who hears and responds immediately and with enthusiasm—impulsively, even—but who will deny knowing Jesus three times on the night of his arrest and trial, the events that culminate in Jesus’ execution (Matthew 26.33-35, 69-75).

And Jesus says to him, ‘And I tell you, you are Peter,’—that is to say, Jesus is underlying the point that Simon Peter is rocky ground—‘and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it.’

Jesus chooses to build his church on rocky ground.

Jesus—who, before he was an itinerant teacher and miracle-worker, was, for most of his adult life, a house builder—chooses rocky ground as the site to build a house for his people’s assembly (ekklesia); chooses a site where you don’t have to excavate much to reach a good foundation.

And the stream of people exiting through the gate of the realm of the dead—those passing from shadowy half-existence to a qualitive experience of coming alive—won’t overwhelm the house built on such a foundation.

Of course, this makes sense when it comes to building a literal building, but the church—as Peter himself will testify, 1 Peter 2.4-10—is a spiritual house, built on a rejected stone. Why, then, build the church on rocky ground? Let’s dig deeper.

The person who is rocky ground (Matthew 13.21) is not rooted (rhiza, root—or offspring) and lasts only for a fleeting, time-limited season (proskairos). When his or her options are shut down (thlipsis), they ‘fall away’ or cause stumbling or offence (skandalizó).

This is fascinating. Jesus will build his church on those who respond to him with gladness and, experiencing rejection, move on. Indeed, we see this very principle at play throughout the Acts of the Apostles, where persecution drives the establishing of new churches, from place to place. The harvest the Sower hopes for in and through such church planters ripens quickly and then they move away. We see this principle at play today, in the very large numbers of people coming alive in Jesus in Iran and among the Persian diaspora; in China and among the Chinese diaspora; and in the remarkable growth of the church among the regularly persecuted Gypsy, Roma and Traveller communities in the UK.

Church, in its outward form, is intended to be short-term—not an edifice, not a set tradition of ‘how we do things here’—and in this very way diverse people are called out of darkness into God’s marvellous light radiating from Jesus (1 Peter 2.9).

This is very hard for those who are invested in the church as an outward form to accept. Moulded to form, they will oppose the very idea. What is required is nothing less than repentance, a renewing of the mind. As the apostle Paul—himself rocky ground—wrote to the church in Rome, ‘Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.’ (Romans 12.2).

For those longing to see a church renewed, we pray.

For those whose joyful yes to Jesus is met with disheartening resistance, we pray.

For those whose options are closing in on them, we pray.

For those through whom many will come alive in Jesus, we pray.

For those coming alive in Jesus, we pray.

Lord, build your church.

 

 

On prayer as holding space

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Of gods and men

 

TL:DR God consistently delivers us from evil

Today the Lectionary (a reading scheme that helps us to read through the Bible) presents us with the challenging account in which God appears to instruct Abraham to sacrifice his son, Isaac (Genesis 22:1-19). What kind of God demands such an evil thing, or plays such cruel psychological games? How we approach this text matters, because there are many people today who look at the state of the world and say, ‘Your God is either impotent or a monster.’

It needs to be noted that the Bible does not speak with one voice but offers a record of diverse communities encountering God. There is a (dominating) thread that emphases God’s greatness, to the point of making God the lone actor. This leads some to claim that God’s will is behind everything that happens, however monstrous it seems, and it seems monstrous because we do not fully understand the good God is bringing about through evil. There is another (subversive, counter) thread that sees gods (created beings also known as angels, demons) and humans as having been given agency, and needing to learn good from evil, where good is demonstrated and defined by God’s actions.

We should also note that ‘God’ is referred to by different names. The Lord God has a personal name, Yahweh. But there is also a generic term for God, or god, Elohim. Elohim is a plural word. Those who emphasise God’s greatness view that as a superlative term, akin to ‘the royal “We”’ (some see it as pointing towards a trinitarian view of God). But a plural ‘gods’ also makes sense as a collective description of the lesser—small g—gods.

So, tracing the different words for God, we read that Yahweh is grieved at the breakdown of human relationships; that in response the Elohim cause a devastating flood; and that Yahweh, rejecting this course of action, rescues Noah, his family, and life on earth. Likewise, we read that the Elohim demand that Abraham sacrifices his son, and Yahweh comes to his rescue. This is what Yahweh does, again and again. As the stories unfold, we will see stand offs between Yahweh and the gods of Egypt, of Canaan, of Babylon, of Greece, who are among many Elohim who are named or otherwise identified in the Bible. Dealing with evil matters, deeply, but Yahweh deals with it not by destruction but by rescue, by restorative justice—by love, in practical and at times costly action—and by patient instruction in wisdom, in a better way.

There is a recurring phrase in Genesis 22:1-19 that has to do with being seen. Abraham’s recurring response when addressed by the Elohim, by his son Isaac, and by the angel sent by Yahweh is ‘Behold me!’ When the angel sent by Yahweh intervenes to save Isaac, Abraham beholds a ram caught in a thicket, and sacrifices it to Yahweh instead of Isaac to the Elohim. Abraham proclaims that Yawheh is the God who beholds him (this is the root of the word ‘to provide,’ which is why translators tend to go with ‘Yahweh provides’ or ‘Yahweh, my Provider’).

There are ‘powers and principalities,’ set against the Lord God and determined to destroy God’s good creation, and most of all humanity, the crown of that good creation. They do not prevail, do not have the final say, do not determine the enduring reality. Nonetheless, their actions do cause real harm. We see this all around us. The gods of Money, of Nationalism, of Partisan Politics, the many gods who provoke us to destroy one another, including those we love. And again and again, the Lord God moves to rescue, most fully demonstrating intent and power in raising Jesus, put to death by the gods of Religiosity and Empire, from death to life, and peaceably toppling the might of Rome (wisdom later forsaken and regularly needing to be relearnt).

So, where do you experience the influence of the gods—which might be outright hostility, or simply rash lack of wisdom? Are you provoked by the god of Money, to sacrifice your family in pursuit of security for that family? Are you provoked by the god of Racism to sacrifice already deeply traumatised men, women, and children, for fear that you will lose whatever it is that you possess (or possesses you)? There is a God who sees you, who sees your fears, who sees the ‘you’ you simultaneously hide and long to be seen—and who, seeing you, moves to rescue you. To provide. The record testifies that this God is neither impotent nor a monster, but the Love you long for.

 

Sowing seed

 

St Nicholas’ Church houses an amazing collection of stained glass, almost all by Leonard Evetts, interpreting Christian faith in our context. One of my favourites is ‘Christ the sower of knowledge’ (1967) ‘surrounded by symbols of learning, the radar screen, a rocket, the torch of education, the snake of Asclepius for medicine, and plants at his feet for botany, biology and the environment.’

The kind of knowledge that saves us is relational: to know and be known, to offer ourselves for our neighbour and to be received by them—and in that welcome, born of mutual vulnerability, God is welcomed among us. As I come to be licenced as Priest in Charge, my prayer is that I might sow seeds, given by Jesus, that will equip us to be ready for the future that is breaking into our present (radar), empower us to go beyond the familiar (rocket), engage us in lifelong learning (torch), sustain us with healing for body and soul (snake), and inspire our care for God’s creation.

That’s a big prayer, and it will probably do for now.

 

Moving, not moving

 

It was announced this morning that I have been appointed Priest in Charge of Bishopwearmouth St Nicholas.

This is the church to whom half of my time has been seconded since 2019, so we aren’t moving anywhere (we already live in the vicarage). But it does mean a new season of ministry.

I am thankful for all that God has done, and all that I have learnt, at Sunderland Minster since 2013. But I am also looking forward to all that is to come, and to being able to focus on blessing the community where I live.

This change takes place with immediate effect. The Bishop of Durham will licence me to my new role at a service to be held on 16th July (further details to follow).

 

Spin cycle

 

One of the key ways I self-regulate in the face of the disorienting and emotionally exhausting combination of too much and too little information neurodiverse persons live with (for example, I have a fair degree of face blindness, which means I cannot tell apart most of the average-height white men I run with, which is really awkward as I muddle their names and the personal or family histories they have shared with me in previous conversations; see also the older women in my congregation; or the couple I met with this week to plan a baptism, whom I didn’t recognise as having done a funeral for) is to do laundry.

This means that my washing machine gets worked hard, and this in turn means that it needs repairing frequently.

On Monday gone, it died, yet again. This time was one time too many. We decided to replace it. We decided to replace it with a machine made by a small-scale, local (County Durham) manufacturer that Jo had come across, that had good eco- and quality-of-construction credentials. But this also meant a waiting time. Our new machine should be delivered on Tuesday coming.

This means that I am living for more than a week without a washing machine. With bedding and towels and everyday clothes (how many underpants do I need?) and running wear mounting up, and our daughter returning from university later today with more bedding.

This is not a so-called First World Problem, but a genuine neurodiversity challenge.

Of course, we have good, local friends who have offered use of their machines in the meantime, but I cannot bear the thought of using someone else’s machine. This is not pride or self-reliance, but, again, a neurodiversity issue.

My neurotypical wife, who does not do empathy (it is okay: I know that she loves me) asks for your thoughts and prayers for Andrew.

 

Divine approval

 

Two verses from the readings set for Holy Communion today:

‘Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.’

2 Corinthians 3:17

‘For I tell you, unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.’

Jesus, Matthew 5:20

‘Righteousness’ is a word that means divine approval. Jesus is speaking about God’s approval of you, and that unless you know that approval you cannot enter the experience of God’s goodness in the world. He continues, unless you know God’s approval, you will find yourself bound up in a competitive disapproval of others, that will leave you in a prison, a burning hellfire, of your own making.

But where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. Freedom from all that.

We are all shaped by our childhood experiences. By whether we felt the approval or disapproval of our parents. And this, in turn, affects how we view God.

If a child habitually experiences parental disapproval, she conforms herself to whatever rules and behaviours are rewarded with the approval of their parent and minimise the loss of that precarious approval. Eventually this becomes a burden too great to bear. They believe themselves to be deserving of disapproval and are likely to project disapproval onto others. Even worse for the child who never knows how their parent will react. The parent who is loving and kind when sober, and a volatile monster when drunk.

One will say, ‘Of course God approves of me; I’m a good person.’ But this is conditional, and underneath is the fear that if we ever mess up, we’ll lose the approval we have worked so hard to keep.

Or another would say, ‘If God really knew me, there’s no way he could approve of me.’ This is also conditional—and also misunderstands God.

As the early Church came to recognise, in and with and through Jesus, God’s approval of you, and me, is always and irrevocably Yes.

God approves of you.

Not because of what you have or have not done, but simply as the relational flow of God’s eternal nature, as revealed and fulfilled in the human Jesus of Nazareth, who was put to death by human beings who were set on holding onto a divine approval they couldn’t lose—but could refuse to benefit from—but raised to life again because God remains true to who God is. The God who approves, who approves of you.

As we come to know this, more and more deeply, we are transformed. We no longer need to disapprove of ourselves or others. Knowing we are loved, we are empowered to love ourselves, and, loving ourselves, to love our neighbour as ourselves.

That isn’t to say we don’t call out bad behaviour. Both Jesus and Paul do that! But right behaviour does not flow from keeping the rules, but from being set free from competitive disapproval.

Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And that is glorious, a glory that we see in increasing degrees reflected in one another’s faces. Which is to recognise that we might not start out free of the things that have held us captive, but that there is hope: we are not condemned to be imprisoned by the failings of our parents to receive the freedom God longed for them. Neither will the damage we inflict on our children determine their lives for ever.

God approves of you. In and with and through the person of Jesus, you have—and can know—divine approval.

And that is good news.

 

Brave

 

Today I have done something that I have secretly wanted to do for a long time but never before been brave enough to do, largely because of my dyspraxia.

There is a bowling club (lawn, not ten-pin) in the park five minutes’ walk from the vicarage. I often take a walk, or even go for a run, in the park, and so I knew that the bowling club is open every afternoon in the summer, for anyone to have a go (first time for free, thereafter £2/time) because there is a banner on the railings.

Today I went to the park and stood at the railings watching a younger woman having a 1-2-1 lesson and a group of retired men playing a practice game. One of the club members called out, inviting me to come inside the gate and have a seat in the shade rather than stand out in the sun. I politely declined. Then one of the group of men invited me to join in and have a go. Again, I initially declined. But after I had stood watching a little longer, I went through the gate, and started to chat with them.

I explained that I have dyspraxia (a spatial awareness and cognitive processing disability) and didn’t think I would be able to do it. They replied that the only way to know is to give it a go. So, I did. We played for plenty long enough for such a warm day—I lost track of time—and also had a mug of tea and shared a tin of biscuits.

Turns out, it isn’t as scary as I thought. Yes, my dyspraxia has a real impact. As you release the wood, or bowl, you are supposed to shift your weight from your back foot to your front leg, and I can’t process front and back or left and right or up and down. But, bowling four woods each end, I was, on average, sending two down very close to the jack, and two wide of the mark—which isn’t a bad average for a first go.

And at £2/time, I shall definitely wander along again, and get to know folk there.

 

How long?

 

This afternoon, I’ve been reading Mary Beard’s SPQR: a History of Ancient Rome. Beard jumps in with Cicero’s denouncement of Catiline before the senate in 63BCE. In passing, she notes that “the modern word ‘candidate’ derives from the Latin candidatus, which means ‘whitened’ and refers to the specially whitened togas that Romans wore during election campaigns, to impress the voters.” (p. 32)

Beard writes,

“It did not take long for the opening words of Cicero’s speech given on 8 November (the First Catilinarian) to become one of the best known and instantly recognisable quotes of the Roman world: ‘Quo usque tandem abutere, Catilina, patientia nostra?’ (‘How long, Catiline, will you go on abusing our patience?’) (p. 41)

In the short-term, Cicero has his finest hour, but it is not without backlash.

I am struck by the account of Jesus’ transfiguration (Matthew 17, Mark 9, Luke 9) where Jesus’ clothes become dazzling white (Mark goes so far as to claim whiter than any human process could make them) and which is immediately followed by Jesus declaring, “You faithless and perverse generation, how much longer must I be with you? How much longer must I put up with you?”—the Latin translation of Matthew’s and Luke’s version uses the form ‘quousque’—before exorcising a demon, a hostile and foreign element.

These Gospels were written circulating within the Roman empire (even if Matthew is traditionally considered to be primarily addressed to an audience of Jewish background). I think it likely that Jesus is here intentionally playing on Cicero’s famous phrase (among other references). I am also intrigued by how the early Christian community in Rome, and those who may have been interested in finding out more about this sect, may have been struck by these passages. In contrast to Cicero, who has the alleged conspirators put to death without trial, is Jesus a Catiline figure—the Roman writer Sallust had already put a version of Cicero’s words into Catiline’s mouth, ‘Quae quo usque tandem patiemini, o fortissimi viri?’ ‘How long will you go on putting up with this, my braves?’—and hence revolutionary?

 

Segovia

 

Walking in and around Segovia, Spain, early March 2023.