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.

Dust and friendship

 

‘Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Turn away from sin and remain faithful to Christ.’

Picture in your mind’s eye a room, with closed curtains or louvered blinds, a shaft of light breaking through, motes of dust suspended in the air, revealed to be dancing.

Dust is largely made up of tiny flakes of shed skin. Recently I bought a new pair of boots. They will be comfortable, but they take a little breaking-in, especially around the top of the boot where the leather chaffs against my leg, scrubbing, sloughing off skin that falls down onto the side of my boot. Bending to tie the laces, I notice this light dust on the darker leather.

Jesus would send his disciples ahead of him, to every village he intended to go to, to seek out lodgings on the way. He told them what to do if they found a welcome. And what to do if they did not: shake the dust off their feet as a testimony (witness, evidence, proof) against the people of that village.

Except that in both Mark’s account and Luke’s, the ‘against’ is supplied by context. Mark writes eis (to, into, about, against, among) martyrion autois (Mark 6:11). Luke writes eis martyrion ep’ (on, upon) autous (Luke 9:5) and kai ton koniorton ton kollēthenta hemin ek tēs poleōs hymōn eis tous podas apomassometha hymin: even the dust that has cleaved-us-together us from-within your city to the feet we wipe off you (Luke 10:11).

Given the context, it is entirely right to translate this wiping off the dust as a response to the absence of welcome. But because the negative must be supplied by context; because the words can be translated positively in a different context; and because Jesus hints at dust as a sign of cleaving together in friendship—the same thought behind ‘therefore a man leaves his father and his mother and clings to his wife and they become one flesh, Genesis 2:24—we can surely imagine this action symbolising all partings. That an action that is a sign of judgement in one context might be a sign of blessing in another.

When we spend time in fellowship together, sharing our lives with one another, breaking bread, we inevitably build up forensic evidence that witnesses to our relationship: my dust cleaves to you, and your dust to me. And when the time comes to move on, from one place of welcome to the next, we might do so wiping against one another (in my own culture, that might be a handshake, or a hug, unlikely the rubbing of feet against each other) and blessing one another: though we are apart, may my dust that still clings to you and your dust that still clings to me bear witness; though we are apart, for a while, we are not forgotten to each other: may God bless you and keep you, until we meet again.

As I prepare to go off on a three-month sabbatical, I am thinking about the dust that clings.

 

Suffering

 

There is so much suffering to be found in the readings set for Evening Prayer this Sunday before Lent, 2 Kings 2:1-12 and Matthew 17:9-23. In the first, Elisha is weighed down by the knowledge that his master, Elijah, will be taken from him this day. Elisha had walked away from his family inheritance to become the great prophet’s apprentice, to be with him and learn from him, and now the Lord God was about to take Elijah from the face of the earth. As they make one last visit to the prophetic communities Elijah has mentored, those present take Elisha aside and enquire as to whether he is aware of what is about to take place. This must surely add to his burden: do the prophets see him only as Elijah’s servant, and not a prophet like them? His parting request to Elijah is that he be recognised as his heir, his successor. Yet, the company of prophets is also suffering, not only the loss of their mentor too, but also wanting to make everything better for Elisha, and knowing that they cannot, that there is nothing they can do to prevent this parting from happening.

In the Gospel passage, Jesus is approached by a father who is in distress over his son. The father describes him as a lunatic, who falls into fire or water with abandon. He had asked Jesus’ disciples to cure him, but they had not been able to do so. Jesus is distressed by the situation. The boy is not a lunatic, but afflicted by a demon (my English translation has the father claim he has epilepsy, with the unfortunate result that some see epilepsy as demonic). There is, to my knowledge, no cure for lunacy, but there is deliverance from oppression. This boy has suffered torment at the malicious hands of a demon, an angel who has rebelled against God and wars against the children God delights in. His suffering is multiplied by misunderstanding; and under this misunderstanding the father and the disciples also suffer their inability to take hold of the situation, to relieve everyone’s distress. Jesus, alone, stands on the promise of God through the prophet Isaiah, ‘When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.’ (Isaiah 43:2). He calls this mountain, this encounter with the living God, into his present valley of the shadow of death.

But in this same passage, Jesus speaks both of John the Baptist, who had been executed on a whim, and of his own impending torturous execution, and hope of being raised to life three days later. God does not shield us from all suffering (though I suspect that we are, indeed, shielded from some) but takes our suffering to himself in Jesus, that, ultimately, it may be transformed. That, ultimately, all that hurts or harms us will be utterly consumed in the fire of Love, until all that remains is a perfectly safe vulnerability, where we are seen, known, and loved, and see, know and love in return.

 

Transfiguration

 

One of my favourite Gospel passages for preaching from is Matthew 17.1-9,

‘Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with him. Then Peter said to Jesus, ‘Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.’ While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, ‘This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!’ When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear. But Jesus came and touched them, saying, ‘Get up and do not be afraid.’ And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone.

‘As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus ordered them, ‘Tell no one about the vision until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.’’

Note what Jesus does, the action words: he took…he led…he touched.

The Greek word translated ‘took’ is paralambanó, to take or receive from. Jesus receives Peter, James and John.

The Greek word translated ‘led’ is anapheró, to offer up as a sacrifice. Jesus carries his friends and presents them to his heavenly Father.

The Greek word translated ‘touched’ is haptomai, to lay hold of and, by touching, to change or modify. This is the power of touch: think of a fearful animal calmed by a vet, or a distressed child held by a loving adult.

The pattern we see here in this passage is the pattern we rehearse Sunday by Sunday in the eucharist.

On a table near the door, sits the ciborium containing the wafers for Communion. There is, approximately, one for everyone. This is part of the gifts of the people, a symbolic representation of our offering ourselves to Jesus and being received by him. At a certain point, the mid-point of the service, the ciborium is carried up the nave to the altar, along with the flagon of wine, and the (financial) collection plate. We then pray over these, the person who presides taking the bread in their hands and asking the Holy Spirit to do something transformative, that this bread may be for us the body of Jesus. That we might encounter Jesus here. Neither the bread nor the one who consumes it are changed in their substance; yet both are transfigured, such that the true body of Christ in the Father’s glory is revealed. When the one administering Communion places a wafer on the outstretched palm of the communicant, saying, ‘the body of Christ,’ they speak to a mystery that encompasses unleavened bread and recognises Christ in one another, the giver who is now receiving back and the receiver who is now giving away. This is Mystery, not to be laid bare by the understanding of the mind, but entered ever more fully into, heart and soul and mind and bodily strength.

Peter wants to prolong the moment, the ecstatic experience. But Jesus intends to receive and lead them back down the mountain, and give them for the healing of the world. For its transfiguration, the revealing of God’s glory in the human. Ultimately, he is heading to Jerusalem, and to torturous death, and resurrection. Immediately, he is going to bring peace to an anxious father and his troubled son. But his friends have been overcome by fear at hearing the voice of the living God address them from the luminous cloud, and so pre-eminently Jesus declares, Do not be afraid. Only then does he send them out.

Christ is our peace, the one who reconciles us to God. The one who receives us, lifts us up, transforms our lives by his touch, and sends us out into the world to love and serve him.

 

In the beginning

 

This coming Sunday we return to Genesis chapter 1, the opening and foundational chapter of the whole library we call the Bible. If this were merely a pre-scientific explanation for how the world came into being, then we would be right to consign it to history. But in fact, it is an inspired account of how the world is, and what it is to be a human within it, and it has much more in common with neuroscience than with nineteenth-century scientific enquiry.

The human brain has evolved, under God’s hand, to only be able to consciously focus on one or two things at the same time. The unconscious brain is doing many things, to keep you alive; but the conscious brain can focus on only one, or two, things at once. Add a third, or fourth, fifth, sixth thing, and it can’t handle it. You can, in the short-term, though at cost; and in the long-term, those costs have long-lasting impact on our capacity to retain and integrate information, to nurture wisdom. Some will laugh, and say, that may be true for a male brain, and a wealthy, white male brain at that; women can’t afford to focus on only two things at once; women multitask. But in fact, the human brain can only consciously focus on one or two things at the same time. (This is why the best way to dominate people is to push them into trying to consciously focus on multiple things at the same time, for an extended period.)

Genesis 1 invites us to focus on one, or two, things only. There is so much going on, and not being overwhelmed by detail demanding our attention, we can let our imagination roam, can make connections we might never have noticed before. The story tells us something simple, something of essence, that God did, in successive aeons of time; and, from time to time, that it was good.

The story asks us to take our time, reflecting on this. To consider, and to enter, the dance of light and dark, day and night. The way in which light ebbs and flows like a tide, with its seasonal high- and low- water mark. To welcome the gift of this, and how it affects our bodies, and not ride roughshod over ourselves. Did you know that as it starts to grow dark, our brains release a burst of alertness? This was useful when we were hunter-gatherers, a cue to return home to safety before nightfall. It is still useful, if you live in a warzone, or in one of the many refugee camps for displaced persons around the world. But if you live in the relative safety of your own home, in a modern city, sitting all evening in front of your television and turning it off to go to bed, the drop in light will prompt your brain to release a burst of vigilance just as you need to relax into sleep…

In careful succession, the story asks us to attend to what it means to be human in the world. We do this best in community, and at a slow pace.

 

Unlearn, repent

 

Spurred by experience, both first-hand personal, and as parent, and as a priest and a pastor, I have an interest in neurodiversity and in trauma. I note that in these circles of shared lived experience, people speak of the attitudes, behaviours, and expectations they are unlearning. Here’s just one example, shared on social media by @ReachOutRecovery:

 

Things I’m Unlearning:

Societal standards of beauty and diet culture

Seeking external validation over self-assurance

Distracting from hard feelings instead of processing them

Making myself smaller to fit into social situations

Pretending like I’m fine instead of asking for support

Ignoring my own boundaries to please other people

Believing my self-worth depends on my productivity

Sacrificing my voice/beliefs to avoid conflict

Not celebrating my accomplishments because “others have better ones”

 

The biblical word for unlearning is repentance. And it would seem that repentance is an idea that is experiencing a renaissance, is understood—by another name—as of vital importance. The Church has much to offer her, not least grace—room, and power, to unlearn, that is from within but is external in its source, a gift to us, from others and ultimately from God—and forgiveness—the freedom to begin over again each time we return to the old patterns we long to unlearn. But the Church must offer our lived experience not as experts who Know Better but as those who also know what it is to be held captive by society and who long for deliverance and for a new society.

As a straight, white male, with a post-graduate education, painfully aware that I have privilege within a culture lacking in justice and mercy; and as a follower of Jesus, attentive to the call to deny myself, take up my cross, and follow him; and aware of the call upon Christians to prefer each other over ourselves; I have learnt patterns of behaviour that have conformed myself to the expectations of others, in unhealthy ways. That go beyond preferring others to not voicing my own beliefs. Rather than laying my life down for others (the greatest expression of love), withholding my life (and, thus, my ability to love others authentically). Trying—and inevitably failing—to be what other people want me to be, instead of who God has made me to be, including through the redeeming of trauma.

Things I need to unlearn, or repent of, include:

Saying ‘yes,’ or ‘that’s fine,’ to people when I should say e.g. ‘I can’t do that, for these reasons; I can offer you this instead.’

Keeping quiet instead of naming my truth, not as the Definitive word that carries more weight than yours, but as a piece of the jigsaw that is missing until I share it, a part of the body denied to the body, disabling you as well as me.

Using anger as a weapon to wound people with words, rather than a prompt to identify and address injustice.

Being both too undisciplined (I eat too much white bread, and sugar) and too harsh (exercising without pleasure, rather than resting so the pleasure might return) with my body.

Finishing other people’s sentences, rather than listening to the end, and then some before responding. (An introvert attempting to process extrovertly among extraverts.)

There are, I am sure, other things I need to unlearn, or repent of. And these are not because I am a bad person; they are because I am a person, and unlearning and learning are life skills, for life.

What are you unlearning? What has helped you?

 

Church

 

The Church is the family of those who recognise Jesus as the one sent by God to save his people, wherever two or three are gathered in Jesus’ name. The Church, then, was not born at Pentecost, but when John the Baptist leapt in recognition when he and his cousin Jesus were still carried in their mothers’ wombs. In the meeting of Mary and Elizabeth, the God-bearer (theotokos) and the Church-bearer (matriarch of the Church). With two expectant women, and a moment most would consider inconceivable. This is where the Church begins. It is still how local churches often begin.

 

The salt of the earth

 

‘You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot.’

Matthew 5:13

Why is salt salty? Salt is salty because it is the nature of salt to be salty. Moreover, as Christians, we would say that it is the nature of salt to be salty because God made it so, because God willed it so.

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. And when all was ready, God scooped a handful of earth; shaped it between inquisitive, purposeful fingers; breathed Life into it: and so, humankind was born. In the fullness of time, God chose to become one of us, in Jesus: the air of the heavens making itself at home in the earth of the earth.

And Jesus said, to those who followed him, ‘You are the salt of the earth.’ Now, there are two kinds of salt: there is sea salt, produced by evaporation; and there is rock salt, produced by mining. And you, Jesus said, are salt of the earth, rock salt. Salt found hidden in the ground.

‘You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored?’

For my young-adult children’s generation, ‘salty’ means getting upset with someone for no good reason. Salty, not in the sense of adding seasoning that brings out flavour, but in the sense of overwhelming other flavours. Too much salt, rather than too little. Of late, I am aware of becoming ‘salty’ rather than salt-like. It is a good indication that I need to take some time out, to come away with Jesus from the many, insatiable demands on my time.

When very young children find themselves overwhelmed, we say that they are beside themselves. That is, there is a gap between who they are and where they are. They need time out, not sent away on their own as a punishment, but simply waiting in the near presence of a loving parent, until they come back to themselves. As adults, we learn other ‘coping mechanisms,’ some of which can be quite unhealthy, but we still find ourselves, at times, overwhelmed.

In conversation with my bishop and my archdeacon, I have very graciously been given the opportunity to bring a sabbatical, planned for 2024, forward a year. I will now be taking a sabbatical, for three months, from the start of March. Other people will come alongside to carry my responsibilities, so that I might have an extended opportunity to return to myself, to my true self, which is hidden in Christ Jesus. To journey into the unseen places, to mine salt from the wounds of Christ, that my salty-ness might be laid to rest in the ground, and my saltiness might be resurrected.

And though not everyone gets a sabbatical, and not everyone needs one at this present time, we all need to make time to return to ourselves by returning to our true source.

 

Repent

 

One of Jesus’ habitual practices is to send his friends ahead of him, to wherever he is going. We see this on the last day before he is killed, when he sends two of his friends ahead to prepare the Passover meal he will share with his disciples. We see it earlier in the Gospels, when he sends first the Twelve and then a much larger group of his followers to go before him to all the places he was heading to, to prepare the community for his arrival. In Mark 6:7-13 we read, ‘So they went out and proclaimed that all should repent.’

To repent means to turn around. It can refer to turning away from something, or turning towards something. Specifically, to turning from sin—the habitual patterns and practices of our words, thoughts and actions that are poisonous to us, and others—and turning to Christ. What I love about Jesus’ friends going ahead of him to a place and proclaiming that the people they find there should repent, is the image of them saying, ‘Look, back down the road we have arrived on: see, Jesus is coming!’

Sometimes, the repentance we need is to turn back to ourselves. We are surely all familiar with the image of a small child having a tantrum. They do so, not because they are being naughty, but because they are overwhelmed. We say, they are beside themselves. That’s an odd, but incredibly perceptive, phrase. And it doesn’t only apply to toddlers. Whenever we are overwhelmed, by anxiety, or grief, we may find ourselves beside ourselves, at a lesser or greater distance, needing to turn back to ourselves. To our true self, a beloved child of God.

And the image that comes to mind is of Jesus coming to meet us, to sit with us, to say, ‘My child. That is A Lot. I’m so very sorry.’ Not offering us platitudes, as so many do when they are beside themselves with worry about what to say, or be. No ‘Cheer up. It might never happen!’—so often, the thing that has overwhelmed us has already happened, and cannot be undone. No attempt to fix our problem for us. Simply his effective Prescence, as Comforter and Healer.

Sometimes, we need someone, one of Jesus’ friends, who will put their arm around our shoulder, gently help us turn around, and say, ‘Look! Here He comes!’

And sometimes, secure in the knowledge of that love, we get to be the friends who, in joyful expectation, get to proclaim, Repent!