We are all beggars

Thoughts on All Saints’ Day:

Jo and I are recently back from four nights spent in Prague.

One of the most striking features of this faded-but-hauntingly-beautiful city is the number and, even more so, posture of its beggars.

They kneel, their faces pressed against the ground, hands stretched out in front of them in an imploring prayer for mercy to passing tourists and pilgrims. To the sheep and the goats. The hands and the feet of Christ.

The beggars around the Charles Bridge remind me that we are all beggars before God.

And if that statement makes you bristle –

whether

‘I am not a beggar; I am a daughter of the King!’

or

‘Why should I care one iota for a god that treats me like a beggar?!’ –

then perhaps that reveals most how we view beggars.

Are not beggars also someone’s daughter, someone’s son?

Are not beggars made in God’s image?

Do they not find themselves in circumstances beyond their ability to control?

Yet, do they not still possess agency, the ability to do something, for others as well as themselves?

And are we not dependent on God for our every breath?

The beggars who sleep on the streets are not the only beggars in Prague, not the only beggars on the Charles Bridge at night. There are other beggars, in the guise of tourists, stood in front of a statue of a saint – or before the many prayer-stations that encircle the naves of the many churches. Praying for a miracle, for themselves or for a loved-one in circumstances beyond our ability to control.

For certain, there will be those who rub a statue shiny-bright in hope of good luck. But for many, there is something far deeper than luck being invoked. There is a recognition of the communion of saints – that in Christ heaven and earth, time and eternity, are held together. A reaching out to the great cloud of witnesses who cheer us on; asking that they not be so mesmerised by the glory of the throne of heaven that they neglect to join with the Son in interceding for us before the Father.* No different from asking a friend to pray for you, or a tourist to share their money – their experience of change – except that certain saints (living, and dead) have a track record for standing with others in their time of need.

In the interests of full disclosure, I should confess that I did not give money to any of the beggars. I confess – confession, not self-justification – that I was overwhelmed by them. That I still am.

Their need is real.

And so is mine.

We are all beggars.

And if we can embrace this truth, it might make all the difference in the world.

*This is understood by Orthodox and Catholic Christians, but ranges from problematic to unacceptable for Protestant Christians, for whom the idea that Jesus is not the sole intercessor who might be invoked in heaven compromises the doctrinal belief that Jesus is the sole mediator between God and humanity. I have no difficulty with making such a distinction; but if you do, please [1] try to understand the significant practices of other traditions, and resist the temptation we all experience to dismiss what we don’t appreciate, and [2] try to identify the practices in your own tradition that reveal your need for something beyond yourself.

On not joining in

I am not answering the door to the trick-or-treaters moving down the street, pressing on the bell and knocking so aggressively.

Some Christians object to Halloween on faith grounds, seeing it as a celebration of evil. I am not one of them.

Other Christians see Halloween as a gift of an opportunity to love their neighbours, by sharing in this cultural event in creative ways that allow light to shine in the darkness. I have greater affinity with this position; but I am not one of them, either.

I am one of the many people, including some (not all) elderly people and some (not all) children on the multi-faceted Autism Spectrum, who simply find the trappings and practices of Halloween anxiety-inducing.

Anxiety is something I live with, and manage to a greater or lesser extent. It is also something that those who don’t experience anxiety find hard to appreciate. Most of the time it does not quite overwhelm me; but some days and some situations are harder than others, require more coping strategies. Noisy groups of costumed trick-or-treaters are up there, for me, with such things as parties, crowds, heights (including crossing bridges and climbing towers), and having to speak to anyone on the telephone. (The list is longer, but does not need to be fully disclosed.)

Of course, this is bigger than me and bigger than Halloween. There are those who find Bonfire Night difficult, especially as the noise of fireworks upsets many pets and some people. There are those who might find themselves needing to opt-out of all the celebrations of Christmas, especially the first Christmas after a bereavement.

It is as unreasonable as it is impractical to take a bah-humbug approach to celebrations and events in the cultural calendar. But it is important that people are free, and enabled, to choose not to join in (my concern is perhaps best described as pastoral).

And that is particularly hard at Halloween when not only do those who run every space that is open to the public seem to feel the need to deck it out in cobwebs, skeletons and witches’ hats, but you are not even safe retreating behind your own front door.

(It would be kind if we might agree on a convention by which Halloween lights/decorations indicated that trick-or-treaters were welcome, and the lack of such was understood as wanting to be passed by.)

So here is the thing.

It is okay to join in with Halloween.

(Or Bonfire Night, or Christmas, or insert here).

And if you do, I genuinely hope you have a lot of fun.

And it is okay to opt out.

(Dare I say it is okay to opt out of the increasingly-sprawling Remembrance Day?)

It doesn’t make you a kill-joy.

It isn’t okay to pass judgment without love on those who join in.

And it isn’t okay to pass judgment without love on those who opt out.

(I do not get to opt-out of the command to love my neighbour, but I need to manage my capacity to show them love; indeed, God’s command is that we love our neighbour as ourselves, and advocating for the recognition of safe spaces may be a generous and thoughtful way of so loving.)

Palm-reading

I am a palm-reader, and I can read people’s fortunes in their palm.

I get to see a lot of hands. To touch them, gently, and examine them, closely. Sunday by Sunday, people come forward and hold out their hands in front of me. Some are regulars, some here for the first time; but these are my people, the people God has asked me to care for, asked me to feed. This in itself is a holy mystery: they are not mine in a possessive sense, but the One who is their Lord and mine has called me to partner with him in feeding them: we do it, together. As I press a communion wafer onto their palm, making the intangible tangible, I am deeply moved by the privilege.

I am a palm-reader, and I can read people’s fortunes in their palm.

I get to see a lot of hands. To touch them, gently, and examine them, closely, and as I do, I read their fortunes. Not ‘their fortunes’ in the sense of foretelling their future, but in the sense of seeing into their lives.

I notice the rings, that speak of covenant relationships: the wedding band on the widow’s hand; the ring she inherited from her mother; the ring his father gave him; a few bands worn so thin that they are more held-together by the integrity of love than by the integrity of gold.

I notice the fingers gnarled by age, overlapping its neighbour, or thrown out crooked by injury or arthritis: this, too, tells me something about their fortunes, not in a predictive sense but in a holy moment where animated clay recognises bones of its own bone, recognises our oneness and is glad. Their fortunes and mine are intertwined, and the richer for it.

Then there are the hands held down, clasped together, hands indicating that the person has come forward not to receive bread and wine but a blessing. These hands are mostly Iranian. Every few months, we baptise another twelve or so disciples; and only after baptism do they take bread and wine. This is a precious thing approached with reverence, many weeks of study and preparation. For our Iranians, sharing in the Eucharist – Holy Communion – is so precious in part because it transcends language, unites English- and Farsi-speakers. And as they approach baptism, they come forward week by week for a blessing.

I bless them: ‘the Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you; the Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace.’ Whether the words are fully understood or not, what they evoke comes to be known, the weight of glory settling on their lives. I bless all-comers, Christian, Muslim, each made in the image of God, each made to experience God’s blessing.

I wish that those who have never met our Iranians, who have to pass judgement on their asylum tribunals, deciding whether their faith is living or not, would come and stand alongside them week by week over the course of, say, a month. I wish they would look not only into their scared eyes, but on their hands.

And in hands held out to receive Jesus – the Body of Christ that is the Church touching Christ’s body that is the bread – and the hands waiting with anticipation to receive Jesus, I can read that their greatest fortune is laid-up not on earth, subject to corrosion and decay and theft, but in heaven.

I am a palm-reader, and I can read people’s fortunes in their palm.

Church Growth

With others, I have shared oversight for a growing church.

We are growing older, as – reflecting our national population – many of us are living into old age, and our youth go off to university or employment in other parts of the country. Aging is deeply challenging to everyone, and for society as a whole; yet it is an opportunity to keep journeying with Jesus and to discover grace in the struggle.

We are growing more ethnically mixed, as to the white English demographic and a sprinkling of Nigerian and Asian postgrads, we now include Iranian asylum-seekers. In a big shift over the past year, now roughly a quarter of our congregation are Farsi speakers, with limited English language. They are a wonderful gift to us, but also a real challenge as we wrestle with the language- and culture-barriers, a fear-mongering media, the lack of compassion in the way those who seek asylum have their claim processed, and always a high turnover. Again, these challenges are an opportunity to encounter Jesus and be transformed – all of us.

We are growing weaker. Pensioners, and those who have fled their homes, are not resource-rich; at least, not in material resources, or in influence. But in the upsidedown Kingdom of heaven, God’s strength is made perfect in our weakness. So we are learning to trust in him and not in our own abilities.

I share oversight of a growing church. It is deeply uncomfortable. By definition it involves death and resurrection, again and again. Not everything that has grown in our midst has been healthy, and often such growth cannot be addressed in haste, lest good things that are emerging alongside be uprooted. But in this, too, Jesus is faithful.

I share oversight of a growing church.

International Day Of The Girl Child

October 11 is International Day of the Girl Child.

The lectionary reading at Morning Prayer was from 1 Timothy chapter 2. In it, Paul, who like Jesus is unashamedly pro-women, makes several points:

men are to ditch macho posturing, and instead come before God in praying for the world;

women are not to be seen, or see themselves, primarily in terms of their looks (that is, objectified) but their character (that is, having agency);

women are to be permitted and encouraged to learn, neither excluded nor excluding themselves, for if they will submit themselves to diligent engagement this will benefit the community;

women are to exercise authority and oversight of the community, including men, but in so doing they must not abuse that position to put men down – this is for the good of all;

women and men are equally vulnerable to deception and self-deception, and should view themselves with honest humility;

yet women have played, and continue to play, a crucial role in God’s plan to redeem humanity (which includes childbirth, and childbirth as an illustration of labour, but is not restricted to bearing children).

That this passage has been translated and interpreted in ways that carry the very opposite spirit, that subjugate women, casting them as second-rate citizens – not least in their own minds – is a tragedy.

I will continue to preach the good news of the gospel of Jesus Christ, as spread by Paul; good news for women and men, of every background.

Mike Frost linked to research by Save the Children into where it is hardest to be a girl today, based on five key predictors of the ability of girls to thrive:

rates of early marriage (child marriage triggers a cycle of disadvantage across every part of a girl’s life);

adolescent fertility (teen pregnancy impedes a girl’s ability to thrive);

maternal mortality (complications during pregnancy or childbirth is the second leading cause of death for adolescent girls);

women in government (indicating a girl’s freedom to speak out and influence decisions);

lower secondary school completion (a limited education also limits employment options).

1 Timothy 2 speaks out on education, representational leadership, and, in recognising the perilous and God-honoured reality of childbirth, maternal mortality. In re-framing women as equal to men, not objects for men, these verses also speak to rates of early marriage and adolescent fertility. That is to say, this scripture is timely.

And because this passage has been so widely mis-used to put women down, in a world where male public figures can speak so contemptuously of girls and the women they grow up to be, we must refute and contest such abuse of power, rather than exorcise the life-releasing gospel.

In the dark

God does God’s best work in the dark.

In darkness, God called out light.

But darkness, not light, is the birthplace of all creation. The story continues, “And it was evening, and it was morning; the first/second/third/etc. day.” In other words, the six ‘days’ of creative activity are, in fact, nights, ushered in by evening as the light fades and drawn to a close by morning as the light returns.

It is in that same darkness that God draws out femaleness and maleness from within humanness.

It is in the dark that God enters into a covenant with Abra(ha)m, having led him out to count the stars (long before light pollution), if that were possible, for so many would Abram’s descendants be.

Elsewhere, it is in the dark – physical and metaphorical and psychological – that God reveals to Job the extent to which the ongoing activity of creation still depends on the darkness within and from which it first responded to God.

It is in the dark that God reveals to Abraham’s run-away grandson Jacob the very gate between earth and heaven, busy with angels passing in both directions; and in the dark that God wrestles with Jacob all night, when he returned again to face his brother, his fears, his self.

It is in the dark that God speaks to Abraham’s great-grandson Joseph, in dreams beneath a starry sky, and the interpretation of dreams in a prison-house.

It is in the dark that God comes to lead his captive people out of slavery in Egypt; in the dark that they cross over the Sea of Reeds; in thick darkness on Mount Sinai that God meets with Moses and gives the Law, the shape of loving God and loving your neighbour in the same way as yourself.

It is in the dark that God teaches David to sing, Solomon to love, Elijah to hear the awesome sound of silence, Jonah to hope, Jeremiah to lament, Ezekiel and Daniel to foresee, Nehemiah to see.

It is in the dark that Jesus is born; and in darkness that shepherds and magi are led to worship him.

It is in the dark that Jesus goes to meet alone with his Father God.

It is in the dark that Jesus faces arrest and trial, strengthened by whatever it is that God is doing regardless of what people are doing in the darkness; and it is in darkness so thick that Jesus feels forsaken that God receives his spirit as he breathes his last.

It is in the dark that Jesus is brought back from death, in resurrection life.

In the dark, we learn to walk by faith and not by sight.

If you find yourself in the dark right now, take heart. You are in good company.

A tale of two goats

Leviticus 16 tells the tale of two goats, who play a crucial role in a ritual of national healing and reconciliation.

The two goats are, together, taken for a sin offering. ‘Sin’ refers to all that divides us from one another; a ‘sin offering’ refers to a symbolic act of reconciliation.

The first goat is slaughtered, and its blood sprinkled in the tent that symbolised God living with his people. The reason you slaughter a goat is to extend hospitality, to serve up a meal for someone who has come to you, someone who by definition is ‘other’ in relation to you. This act is not done to appease God, but to honour God. It is done as a reminder of God’s mercy in choosing to remain with this people, even though they are totally undeserving, even though their habitual actions would give reasonable grounds to leave.

The second goat gets to live. This is the goat known as the scapegoat. The priest is instructed to lay both hands on the head of the goat and to confess over it the sins of the people, all of the ways in which they have offended against one another. Then the goat is led out into the wilderness and set free.

This is the exact opposite to how scapegoat is used today. Today we look for a ‘scapegoat,’ for someone other than ourselves, who is in no way to blame for our woes, and blame them. But that is not what a scapegoat is. The goat was not blamed for the sins of the people. The scapegoat was a symbolic mechanism by which the people owned their own sin, their own falling-short in their dealings with one another, and then let it go. Letting it go is not saying that it does not matter (if it did not matter, there would be no need for this ritual), but symbolically freeing one another from the relational debts we have incurred.

This morning I wake up in a nation that is bitterly divided. We desperately need the goat of hospitality extended to those who live in the same community but are distinctly ‘other’ to us, allowing hospitality to cross the divide. And we desperately need a scapegoat: a public acknowledgement of the ways in which we have hurt one another; and a public commitment to forgive those who have sinned against us, even as we ask them to forgive us for the ways we have sinned against them.

Wax

There is wax spilt on the floor of the chapel. I will need to get down on my knees and scrape it up. Or leave it for someone else to get down on their knees and deal with. I can only speculate over who spilt it, but I can do so one way, or another. Perhaps they were oblivious, careless in their action. It is of no matter to them that someone else will have to come along behind them and deal with the mess. Or were they aware, but in a hurry - unable to wait until the wax hardened and could be dealt with? Or were acutely embarrassed but, to their perceived shame, did not know where to lay hands on the necessary tools to do the needful task? I can allow myself to be irritated by this unknown person; or I can hold them before God today, as my brother or my sister, one as oblivious, as careless, as hurried, as spoilt by shame at their own lack as I am in turns?

Let the wax be my teacher. May it bring me to my knees before my God, there to look into the eyes of another. And may even our shortfallings leave a trace of our devotion, of the light we choose rather than cursing the darkness.

Blessed be you, o wax, for you have pointed me to Christ who reigns in heaven. And blessed be you, o Christ, for you have melted my heart.

Leave

Take the full amount of paid annual leave you are entitled to. The full amount. It is there in recognition that while work matters, the worker matters too. It is there in recognition that while work matters, other things matter too. If you think that the effort you need to put in at work before you go and after you come back means that taking holiday is not worth it, revise your view of work. If you feel that your going on holiday inconveniences your colleagues - and that their going on holiday inconveniences you - revise your view of what it means to be colleagues. Take your leave. Go away, or stay at home. Do that thing you always meant to do, but never had the time. Give yourself to your community. Do nothing at all. Push through the dis-ease of not contributing to the economy at this precise moment in time, in order to participate in life.

Honour

Try to honour everyone. Regardless of what they have done with their life. Regardless of whether you like or dislike them, agree or profoundly disagree with them. Look them in the eye, see another human being, another you. Recognise their inherent dignity, even if they don’t. Treat them as you would want them to treat you, regardless of how they actually treat others.

Respect, on the other hand, is something that must be earned. Never respect someone because of their position, or what they have done; but for how they inhabit their position, and the way in which they have done what they have done. Never respect anyone who demands that you show them respect; and never demand of anyone that they show you respect, either. But live in a way that you yourself would respect others for.

Quiet Day : part 3

‘Yahweh & the Seraphim’ Quiet Day: Session Three

The ‘Yahweh & the Seraphim’ Quiet Day at Sunderland Minster took the form of three sessions. Each began with listening to a reflection on a passage from the Bible. This was followed in the first and third session with space to respond individually: in reading the passage and the reflection, praying, journaling, drawing; or looking at the sculpture from different angles, or through coloured lenses, or binoculars. In the second session we took the different approach of group discussion.

The sessions build one on another; depend on simplicity and space; and come with the health warning that they might bring to the surface any manner of things between you and God, including deep things. So the space is to be held as holy ground, and with the possibility to discuss anything with me – as the facilitator – in confidence. As several people expressed an interest but could not attend, now that it has taken place I am posting the reflections, with a link to the Scripture stories they relate to.

Reflection on Isaiah 6

The God who reveals himself at the foot of the mountain. The same God, who conceals himself on the mountain. And now, at last, the Seraphs.

By this time, God has descended the mountain that lies beyond the wilderness, journeyed with his people on their long wanderings in that in-between place, and eventually ascended another mountain – Mount Zion, the ridge above Jerusalem. Here, God allowed Solomon to build him a temple, an anchor-point between earth and heaven. And here, Isaiah finds himself with his feet on earth but his eyes opened to the heavenly realm.

The scale is so vast that the hem of God’s robe fills the earthly temple. All else is beyond sight, beyond imagination. Six-winged Seraphs stand in attendance before him, calling out to one another, ‘Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory.’

The whole earth. Egypt. The wilderness. The Promised Land. The far-off places of future exile.

And Isaiah is undone. He is lost. Before this global glory, he cannot position himself anywhere. He is lost; and so are his people. God’s people.

It is one of the seraphs who approaches him first, just as it was an angel who initially caught Moses’ eye. An intermediary between God and humans. And just as the bush beyond the wilderness blazed with fire without being burned, so the utterly lost Isaiah is touched with fire and not defaced, not erased. Instead, he too is set-apart for a holy purpose.

And like Moses, after the angel, then and only then the voice of God. But this time, God does not address Isaiah directly; instead, Isaiah overhears a conversation God is having with his heavenly council. ‘Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?’ Moses said, ‘Here I am.’ Isaiah says ‘Here am I’ – ‘Here am I; send me!’

Here I am, present before you, God, if somewhat unconvinced. Here am I, available to you, quite convinced if lacking understanding of what will be involved.

Here I am. Here am I. The movement from walking by sight to walking by faith. From revelation into mystery.

God instructs Isaiah what he is to say: declaring, ‘Keep listening, but do not comprehend; keep looking, but do not understand.’ Indeed, Isaiah is to facilitate the people’s persistent lack of understanding by means of eyes and ears and minds.

Which begins with Isaiah himself, who cannot comprehend and asks, ‘How long, O Lord?’ How long? Until nothing that stands remains standing.

What is this strange word? Perhaps it is this: not that God does not want to heal his people, but that the way of understanding is not the way by which he has chosen for us to arrive there.

God could have led the Israelites from Egypt to the Promised Land in two weeks, but chose to take them on a forty-year detour. To whom ought God give account for his reasons?

We have moved from revelation to mystery, and now to the two held in paradox: keep listening, keep looking, for revelation – but don’t mistake it for knowing God. Instead, let it draw you further into the mystery of Love that is God – especially when you are tempted to give in. For no-one was ever healed by what they knew about God, but rather by experiencing God, whose hem alone we might just get to see.