time and place

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A year or two ago, I had to attend a three day meeting led by a person I had known for many years, but never particularly liked. This person has notable skills, but unfortunately, I usually found myself having to engage with his weaknesses.

The person who summoned me to the meeting knew I was somewhat ambivalent about the session leader, and after two days said, ‘what do you think about X? Is it better than you’d hoped?’

In fact it had been, but not for the reasons my interlocutor was hoping. I said, ‘Yes. Sometimes familiarity matters more than liking’. — and heard the gasp of disbelief as my questioner recoiled from what he heard as rudeness.

The thing is, I meant it; and I wasn’t intending to be cruel. I don’t suppose I will ever really like the person in question, nor have the sort of respect for his abilities that some do. But I’ve known him half my life now, and it was good to see him.

Sometimes, though, those old animosities do fade away.

When I was doing my theology degree, I went to a church known for its breadth. It doesn’t take much imagination to realise that ‘breadth’ is a nice way of saying that some of us didn’t much like or understand each other, and tolerated each other only for the sake of the community.

One of the people I ‘put up with’ was a woman about my own age who worked with the youth group. She and I came from opposite ends of the church. We got off to a bad start when I offered to help with a youth event (having come from two years of school chaplaincy), and she decided that I could pour the tea. The kids I liked were scared of her. The kids who loved her scared me. So, we co-existed for several years. There was never any conflict, but neither was there friendship or understanding. We were like two wary cats, forced to share the same garden when both were used to having their own patch.

But there she was at the youth camp last week, and I was genuinely glad to see her. More to the point — I was impressed that she was there. The SEC is not always as broad as it pretends to be, and she is right at the edge of what the church can hold. One might have forgiven her for seeking a church where she wouldn’t have to work so hard at being valued.

Now, I suspect she and I would still disagree over lots of things. But for the first time, I noticed how similar some of our reactions were. We were able to laugh together and encourage each other. And even when we talked about the things that might divide us, there was a mutual agreement that we wanted to the church to be big enough for both of us.

But I wonder: if we had stayed in the community where we first met, continually circling each other like cats, would I have ever noticed that we might get on? … that she’s quite impressive, really… that both of us had changed?

Bartimaeus

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Last Wednesday, I went to Glenalmond to join the Provincial Youth Network for the day. The Glen is much praised in the church, as one of the things the SEC is most proud of. And now I know why.

The visitor’s day coincides with the ‘amble’ — a walk through the woods with various team building challenges along the way. This was a good and easy thing to join in with (especially on a warm sunny day), but as we encountered vampires and ghouls, spider webs to climb through, and mummies to rescue, there were times one might have been forgiven for wondering in what way the focus was on God. But as I wondered what they did on other days, and walked and talked with the kids, it became more and more clear that God was very much in evidence here.

I was with a young group of kids — most of whom were there for the first time; few of whom knew each other; a couple of whom were noticeably more mature and would have rather been with their friends in the other group. In many ways it was an ill matched, somewhat unfortunate grouping of kids. But that’s where the wonder of it was revealed. For all day, through any number of silly tasks, this disparate teenagers treated each other with unfailing kindness and tolerance. The loner was encouraged to take her turn. The girl who could so easy have cast her self in the role of princess did no such thing, and proved herself remarkably adept at defeating the ‘undead’ (she also joined me in the bat-protection league). The two who walked most clearly to the beat of their own drum were allowed to be — there was gentle laughter and wonder at them, but nothing unkind.

Then when all was said and done, they prepared worship for the evening, based on the story of Barimaeus.

Throughout the afternoon, one girl was more detached from the others. She joined in with the tasks, she occasionally broke silence to ask perceptive questions. But she spent most of the day walking alone, with her broken shoe flopping around her foot, ignoring everyone’s pleas that she do something about it (though she did occasionally respond by taking the shoe off and digging her socked-toes deeper into the mud). She walked alone and in front of us, apparently immune to pain or discomfort, with a remarkable ability to enjoy the muddy mess that would have left most of us sobbing.

And then during worship, there she was again on the roadside, cast as Bartimaes. She sat staring into middle distance, saying:

It used to be all right. I was happy, I had a normal life. But then I lost my sight; I went blind. Now I sit here, and no one will pay attention to me. No one will listen to me, or notice that I’m here. Lord, have mercy.

The words don’t really tell you a thing — and they are not quite right. The power was in her voice, in the fine balencing of loss and anticipation. She expressed perfectly the lonliness, the longing to be heard, the hope that Jesus would save. And she seemed more truly herself as Bartimaeus than she had all day.

One of the group (cast as Jesus) took her hand, and raised her up, and she skipped along in the middle of the pack for the rest of the service. Joy unbound. Salvation plain to see.

begin again

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This blog has rather lost its way of late. Plenty to blog about, but a distinct lack of time and energy to see it through. So, we begin again.

That has been a theme of the week, really. Last night we scrapped most of the vestry agenda to try to cut through the anxiety that has been mounting over property and to reconnect with God. The usual item on the agenda, ‘opening prayers’, took the form of a slow and meditative house communion, with cat and candles and grazing rabbits in sight.

I have always said that I do not reuse services or sermons. Each occasion is different and makes it’s own demands. And yet, last night, I echoed fairly directly a service that a friend and I put together for TISEC. It was the service that broke all the rules (though not the eucharistic ones) and the one I most enjoyed. I never for a moment thought I’d use it again. But for the past fortnight — ever since realising how anxious we had all become — this is the service that I knew I had to use. Not just a house communion, but this rather strange version of a communion that invited people to enter into their own weariness and to find God there.

Good old Elijah:

What are you doing here, Elijah?

I have been very zealous for the Lord, and everything I have tried has failed. I am tired and without hope. Just let me die now.

What are you doing here, Elijah?

Angels come, and Elijah is fed and forced on his way across the desert to Horeb.

What are you doing here, Elijah?

I have been very zealous for the Lord… and I am the only one left, and they are seeking my life.

Go, and stand on the mountain before God, for the Lord is about to pass by.

And Elijah has to face the fact that God is not in the crashing storm or the raging fire, or in all the disastrous things that demand his attention and threaten to overwhelm him. But when Elijah has survived those things and is left standing, he hears silence fall and knows he must cover his face to enter the presence of God. God asks him again:

What are you doing here, Elijah?

The answer remains the same. Elijah still feels overwhelmed; the path God asks Elijah to walk does not become any easier. But something has changed.

Elijah returns to the place he fled and begins to prepare for God’s future.

how we learn

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David asked, ‘Is there still anyone left of the house of Saul to whom I may show kindness for Jonathan’s sake?’ (2 Sam 9)

I thought I knew this story of David and Johnathon and Saul, but the (C of E) daily prayer lectionary has caught me off guard again. You know the broad brush strokes: At first we have Saul, loved by God, and chosen to be King. Then David comes along, and is loved by both Saul and Saul’s son’s Johnathon. But as David and Jonathon grow up and Saul grows old, Saul gets suspicious. God’s favour rests on David, and God (terribly) abandons Saul. Saul’s jealousy leads to madness, and he ends up waging war against young David whom he loved. But David and Johnathon’s love proves different: it binds them through war and betrayal, and ultimately beyond death. So, todays’ passage, ‘is there anyone left to whom I can show kindness for Jonathon’s sake?’ evokes both pain and love instantly.

But it’s what happens next that is interesting. There is one person left to whom David can show love: Jonathon’s son Mephibosheth, who is crippled. David takes the boy, who is lame in both feet, and restores all of Saul’s land and wealth to him. David takes on his servants, and tells them to till the land for Mephibosheth’s sake, so there will always be food for him — and for the servants. And then he makes Mephibosheth a part of his household so that Mephibosheth for ever eats at David’s table and is raised as his son. Because David loved Johnathon he learned to welcome his son.

So what? you say. David took on Jonathon’s son. I grant, it’s not earth shattering put like that. But remember: Mephibosheth was crippled; lame in both his feet. And just chapters before, we read this:

David… said on that day, ‘Whoever wishes to strike down the Jebusites, let him get up the water shaft to attack the lame and the blind, those whom David hates.’

So, David’s love for Johnathon leads him not only to take on Jonathon’s son, but to change his mind: the crippled boy becomes part of his family. One whom he loves. The lame and the blind sit down together to eat.

And no doubt some said it was an abomination: The crippled cannot be given land and status. They cannot be loved and treated as equals. You can see the sign of their sins in the flesh. Everyone knows they are sick and need to be cured. And unless they are cured, they are defective, defiled. Accursed.

Well, David had thought so too, till love taught him better.

You know where I’m going with this, don’t you?

There have been lots of conversations over the past few weeks about how Christians should understand homosexuality. Prejudices, assumptions and bible verses mix, for good and for ill. For salvation and destruction.

I do believe that we can take scripture seriously and affirm and bless committed, faithful relationships between people of the same gender. And we could sit down and read scripture together so that I could show you why I think that.

But I wonder if any of us really change our minds first by looking at scripture. Or does it always happen as it did for David, when we find that we love someone who shatters our expectations and opens our eyes to something new?