Hard question

I spent a large part of yesterday being interviewed by a trio of 2nd-year students from Gloucestershire University's Film Production course. They were doing a balanced documentary on assisted suicide. They'd interviewed two proponents of it, and wanted me as an opposing voice. They had four pages of questions for me.

One of the most interesting questions I was asked and didn't answer that well was: "Would you recommend faith to someone who's in terminal suffering as a way of easing what they're going through?"

My answer was something like, "I wouldn't recommend it for that reason. I'd recommend it because it's true and it works. I don't think that having faith lessens the frustration, or the pain, or the fear of what dying may bring. It doesn't make it easier being cared for, being changed and being 100% dependent." I wish I'd added a "however". However, it's true that God's presence, even when we walk through the darkest valley, does make a crucial difference. It helps that Jesus endured extreme suffering and death. And it helps to know that he rose from the dead - assuring us that there is something extraordinary to look forward to after death. But having faith, of course, raises difficulties for a disabled or terminally ill believer. For example, why does a loving God allow this sort of thing? Why doesn't he heal me? As I wrote in My Donkeybody:

"Don’t come talking to me about the consolations of religion. Not that my faith leaves me cold or without resource. Far from it, but it raises more painful questions than it provides answers. I would not advocate it as a panacea for pain. There may be some evidence that it aids the healing process, but it doesn’t reduce the hurting a jot. Instead the person with faith in a divine Creator is forced to ask a lot of ‘why’ questions, which need never bother an atheist. Why is suffering such a widespread phenomenon in the work of a good God? Why has it affected me (or a member of my family) particularly acutely? Is there intention behind pain, or is it mere accident? How do I square this with what I used to believe about a God who loves me? If God is all-powerful and if he’s all-loving, why does he not do something? Why do children, the innocent, suffer? These are hard questions which humans have been asking, I suspect, from the time they first began reflecting. So, ironically, there’s potential for a double downward spiral, of both physical weakness and undermined faith, in a chronic disease, which in normal circumstances you would be able to steer around. However, now, you cannot avoid wondering, and of course you have the time to dwell on your thoughts, as you sit in your chair waiting to be helped to eat or as you find yourself increasingly embarrassing."

As one of my perceptive Facebook friends commented, I was shattered at the end of their five hours here. Probably the documentary will be put on to YouTube in January next year.

Love is patient

I apologise if you're finding me unoriginal or devoid of new ideas. However originality is rather overrated, in my view. Besides as the wise man said, a long time ago, there's nothing new under the sun. I think my favourite Shakespeare play is Twelfth Night, and one of my favourite speeches is by the disguised Viola speaking to Count Orsino, with whom she's in love and who has asked her about her supposed sister's love (It's complicated, as they say!). Viola is talking about herself:

Parminder Singh as Viola

"... She never told her love...
And with a green and yellow melancholy
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?"
I understood this connection between love and patience better when I read one of the blogs I like best.

The post was called simply "Patience". This appeared today in the iBenedictine blog.

Patience is often described as the Benedictine’s fourth vow. It is a theme that occurs again and again in the Rule, where we are reminded that we ‘share by patience in the sufferings of Christ’. (RB Prol. 50) The newcomer to monastic life is to be ‘tested in all patience’.  (RB 58.11) Indeed, patiently bearing with delays and contradictions is one of the signs looked for as the mark of a genuine vocation. It all sounds rather wonderful until one has to practise it. For the plain truth is that patience is hard work. It means embracing suffering, not just stoically putting up with it, and doing so with a quiet heart. (RB 7. 35) Patience requires a great deal of trust and humility as well as self-control.

Patience, trust, humility: these are not qualities that our society cultivates or values very much. We prefer to be self-assertive, thrusting not trusting, testing everything by our own standards and rather despising those who are patient and humble, as thought they were milksops. In fact, it takes real strength of character to be patient, to accept adversity quietly, without anger or upset. Similarly, trust and humility are not for wimps but for those who are brave enough to look themselves in the face and know themselves for what they are.

Today each one of us will be given the opportunity to exercise a little patience, to show a little trust and be a little humble. Are we big enough to meet the challenge?


I thought that there are some really radical thoughts here, which challenge our normal values. "... it takes real strength of character to be patient, to accept adversity quietly, without anger or upset." I like too the perspective that humility is a sign of strength, not a wimpish quality. I was struck by that because I'd just read a message from a friend in New Zealand who says he's neither a Catholic, nor Christian nor a Muslim. He told me about a student of his, whom he encouraged into the priesthood: "This man was simply good. Everything about him in class or in my office radiated goodness. His whole method was submission to discipline. When his MA coursework was completed, he appeared in my office and said, ‘All I want is to have you train me, and I will write my thesis on whatever you tell me to do.’ There is a wonderful story that follows, but suffice it to say, he covered himself with scholarly honour. ... Now he teaches Chinese Catholic students in ..., where we met. His humility is his badge. I admire him without reservation."

Life and feeling

I've just finished reading a remarkable book which was sent to me by my former colleague, Elspeth Waidson. It's The Wooden Suitcase by Emmy Goldacker (which was translated by Elspeth's parents) and published last year. Emmy Goldacker's father was a German Jew who emigrated to Palestine; her two brothers died fighting in the war; she herself worked for the German government as a translator and then began teacher-training. In 1945 she was arrested in Berlin and condemned to 10 years hard labour in Siberia. This is her story, which is stranger than fiction. It reminds me in some ways of Solzhenitsyn's One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich.

Much of it is harrowing, revealing a woman's incredible fortitude and faith in life. It's a real insight into the Gulag Archipelago of Stalin's Soviet Union. Near the end of her sentence, after years of unimaginable hardship in concentration camps, she describes going on a work-party to harvest hay on the tundra. They have to cross the River Usa by ferry. They're north of the Arctic Circle:
"I stood at the rear of the ferry. The engine started and the jolt caused me to sway this way and that; however I regained my balance and looked around at the wide expanse of the landscape around us. I no longer heard the women's chatter, so entranced was I by the beauty of this mighty river whose slight ripples reflected the light of the midnight sun. This yellow-golden light, covering the violet-brown swamps to the right, this light that spread over the giant black pines on the left like a yellow-golden veil. What infinite peace!
   "I felt and comprehended the infinite quality of the northern landscape. I saw the beauty of the sky and the water, and was happy and thankful, in spite of the years that lay behind me, that I could still be receptive to this beauty. I was alive and still had feeling! I could have been dead or completely apathetic. I made another attempt at the 'Our Father' and I could say the prayer almost to the end. I realised it was a grace. How small and insignificant I seemed to myself. Who indeed was I? Today I was here, tomorrow someone else would be at this spot. How unimportant! All that was important was to see this beauty and to accept the grace with gratitude."


What a profound and simple piece of writing - after seemingly unending years of deprivation and suffering, Emmy is moved that she is alive and still has feeling! She realises it is a gift - a "grace" simply to be accepted with gratitude. Life and feeling are inalienable gifts.

PS Do read the whole book. emmy+goldacker/h-+morgan+waidson/jean+h-+waidson/the+wooden+suitcase/

You're not junk!

This is a post that appeared in today's iBenedictine Nuns' blog. I think it's so good I'm just going to paste it here. I love the sentence, "that, by and large, I stick with being me, trusting that God doesn't make junk and sees something wonderful in each one of us, even me." Amen, sister! 


That's such an important truth in a society which still rejects people with disabilities (even to the extent of aborting them before they see the light of day. I was moved to read Peter Saunders' piece about a mum's bitter regrets at being persuaded to have her Down's baby aborted). God doesn't make junk. We may feel over-the-hill and useless - and yet, think about it, if I were merely a car, I'd be a valuable veteran, getting on for vintage, by now. And visitors would be brought to the garage where I was kept and would say, admiringly, "I must say he looks well, considering." The fact I could only be taken out on a trailer wouldn't matter. Of how much more value are even the most decrepit human crocks! Surely our Heavenly Father cares for us!

On Being Oneself

by Digitalnun on November 12, 2011

A few weeks ago, when I posted some thoughts about online engagement, my friend Tim Hutchings very sensibly asked whether some of my suggestions didn’t cancel themselves out, making us less ‘ourselves’ online than we are offline. I think the specific question he raised was addressed in the comments, but there is a bigger question that concerns all of us, whether we go online or not. How can we be ourselves in a world that, by and large, is always pressuring us to be something other than we are? The world of advertising wants us to be thinner, richer, more ‘stylish’ than most of us could ever dream of being (i.e to buy what it is selling). The world of Church wants us to be . . . what exactly?

I often ask myself what the homilist thinks he is doing (in the Catholic Church, the sermon is always preached by a priest or deacon, who must be male). Do the admonitions to be more prayerful, more generous, more this or that really affect us? When I’m exhorted to act in a certain way ‘because you are a nun’, does it ever change me? I have to say that, by and large, I stick with being me, trusting that God doesn’t make junk and sees something incomparably wonderful in each one of us, even me. That isn’t a pretext for not trying to be more prayerful, generous, etc (see above), I think it is to recognize a fundamental truth: we go to heaven, if we go at all, as ourselves — smudged with sin, only half-understanding, full of contradictions, the person God created and redeemed. Being oneself is ultimately the only way in which to give God glory.

What's the point?

I've been kindly provided with a door intercom, which includes smart new phones. In theory, it means that if someone comes to the door I can talk to them and decide whether to invite them in or not! It's of course a great help.

It reminded me of the book I've just finished reading, by Basil Hume, called Basil in Blunderland. As long as you're not an intellectual snob, I recommend it as a book about the spiritual life. Anyway it's set in the context of a game of hide-and-seek, which  gives rise a series of meditations. The great thing about them is that they are thoroughly realistic and practical.

"I began to think of an aunt of mine - I call her Auntie B - who was very old and extremely deaf. She could not hear what I was saying. She disliked telephones anyway. She had very little to say. Why, then, did I telephone her? Simply because it was good to know that she was there, and to realise that she was pleased that I had taken the trouble to call her.
   "Many of us have this kind of experience when we pray. It is like telephoning someone who is deaf and apparently has nothing to say to us. But then God does not have ears like us. Nor does He have a voice like ours. So what is the point of phoning Him, that is praying to Him? Sometimes I say to myself that God is like Auntie B, bad on the telephone. Nonetheless when I begin to speak to Him in prayer I sense that He is pleased that I am doing so. He is pleased that I am paying attention to Him. When I pray I know that He is there listening to what I have to say. But does He answer when I make my requests? Has He heard me? I realised long ago that I have to have faith and patience that, in fact, God answers our prayers in His way and not in ours. Now He knows what is good for us and what is harmful. In fact, He has only one desire for us. It is that we should get closer to Him and eventually be given the gift of everlasting life with Him. Whatever helps that, we shall receive, whatever does not lead to that, we shall not. Nonetheless every prayer we say draws us closer to Him."

I think that experience of feeling God is deaf is a common one. It's certainly one that appears in the old psalms. But what I like is the fact that actually God is attentive and pleased when we try and pray. Basil Hume makes no claims at being "good" at praying - which is why he is so helpful. Here's one more bit about how hard it is to concentrate our flibberty-gibberty minds when we're praying.

"Distractions are part of the experience of praying.... 'So, Lord, I go on trying to fix my thoughts on You. I find that I cannot get out of my head an anxiety that has been bothering me these last few days. Lord, may I share it with You?' I just sit quietly, and the persons I am worried about appear one by one in my mind. As I see each one, I offer them to God to give them His care - and, I ask him to resolve my anxiety. And, I would like to be freed from distractions just for a little time - well, till the next one comes along.

Gauguin, Christ in the olive trees

    "There are times when we are in the grip of a great pain. We have lost one we loved much. There has been a disaster in the family or one that threatens. We have been cruelly treated by others, accused unjustly, ridiculed. Thoughts about God do not come. Words do not help. On these occasions just kneel or sit, and pray 'Not my will be done, Lord, but Yours'. Just remain agonising, knowing that the Gethsemane experience can lead - perhaps a long way ahead - to a Mount Tabor one. It was on Mount Tabor that Christ was transfigured. Peter said on that occasion: 'It is good, Lord, for us to be here.' It is always a privilege to join Christ in His agony in the Garden. But it does hurt."

Hanging on

© Paul Mitchell

On Songs of Praise on Sunday, the tenor, Alfie Boe, was featured. He was the youngest of nine children of a Catholic family and, yes, he said, faith had remained very important to him. The two great moments of his adult life were holding his dying father in his arms and being present at the birth of his daughter, Gracie. Nice chap and nice voice, I thought. 


He sang the first verse of "Guide me, O thou great Redeemer"and then a song I didn't know. Usually I get cross when a pop song (or in this case a Country and Western song) is inserted into Songs of Praise. It's hardly great poetry. However, as it was apparently Alfie's choice, I gave it the time of day - and, when I heard it, thought of the friend I mentioned last time. And so, M, this is dedicated to you and your lovely daughter - and to all families holding on even when they've had enough:


"In my daughter's eyes I am a hero
I am strong and wise and I know no fear.
But the truth is plain to see,
She was sent to rescue me.
I see who I wanna be
In my daughter's eyes.

In my daughter's eyes everyone is equal,
Darkness turns to light and the
world is at peace.
This miracle God gave to me gives me
strength when I am weak;
I find reason to believe
In my daughter's eyes.

And when she wraps her hand
around my finger,
Oh it puts a smile in my heart,
Everything becomes a little clearer,
I realize what life is all about:

It's hangin' on when your heart
has had enough,
It's giving more when you feel like giving up.
I've seen the light;
It's in my daughter's eyes.

In my daughter's eyes I can see the future,
A reflection of who I am and what will be
Though she'll grow and someday leave,
Maybe raise a family.
When I'm gone, I hope you see how happy
she made me,
For I'll be there
In my daughter's eyes." (James T Sinclair)


You can hear it sung by Martina McBride, the American artist who made it famous, here, or about 18 minutes into the iPlayer recording of Sunday's programme Songs of Praise, here. The heart of the song, of course, is the human expression of God's sort of love:
"I realize what life is all about:
It's hangin' on when your heart
has had enough,
It's giving more when you feel like giving up." It works both ways, and it happens because of love - which is what life is all about.