Bothering enough

On Sunday I was justly rebuked for an uncompassionate knee-jerk comment I made in reaction to a news story. It is painful but healthy when someone bothers enough to upbraid you - and they're right!

Today is St Barnabas' Day, and I've just read this from the iBenedictines blog. 

Encouragement

by Digitalnun on June 11, 2013

St Barnabas, the Son of Encouragement, gets something of a raw deal from the Church. His feast is kept as a memoria rather than a festum, and his (presumed) mortal remains are kept in a basilica in northern Cyprus* (looked after by a Muslim caretaker) rather than in some grand church in Rome. No doubt it is my quirky sense of humour, but that strikes me as being very fitting for someone who gives encouragement. To encourage another, we have to have a very just (= modest) opinion of ourselves and a very generous (= hopeful) opinion of the other. The liturgical reticence of today’s commemoration reminds us that what attracts society’s notice may not be what attracts God’s, that our human values are not always the same as his. Barnabas was to be eclipsed by his disciple, Paul; and the Church remembers the dispute between them chiefly because Paul won his point; but I have a suspicion that in the court of heaven, Barnabas occupies a very high place from which he continues to encourage us still.

* The basilica in Cyprus is very beautiful, with hundreds of magnificent icons. It is certainly not a ‘second-best’ resting-place; my point is that in Rome St Barnabas is hardly mentioned, unlike the other figures of Apostolic times.

I think if I could have chosen a patron saint, it might well be Barnabas. Sadly I was born exactly two months after his memoria!

A good Sunday

Maybe someone's been praying especially hard for me. Maybe I'm on a post-holiday high. But yesterday was a particularly good day. As I wrote yesterday, I appreciated the service from Greenbelt on the radio. Then it was good meeting friends again at the real church service here. There was a large baptism party there; I always enjoy it when people, by hook or by crook, are welcomed into the church. Jane was on crèche duty, looking after the youngest children. One dad came in who'd lived his whole life in Grove and had never entered the church before. I hope he was pleasantly surprised by how friendly and normal Christians can be - like Jane!

It was a pleasant sunny day, which always helps, and as Jane hadn't had a service in the morning we took ourselves off to St Aldate's church in Oxford, after I'd set the record button on Songs of Praise and Countryfile on TV. We'd hoped for some up-lifting worship, but when we got there and had a chair removed for my wheelchair, the church seemed a quarter full (it did get fuller!), there was no sign of the band, and eventually the curate stood up and told us to be ready for anything. We looked at each other, thinking, "Bank Holiday weekend - maybe everyone, including the musicians, is having a night off - leaving one chap to wing it!" So it was a great relief when he invited the band up, and the worship songs started. It was a good relaxed service. Best, for me, was the sermon given by Laura Gallacher, the young student pastor, on "The Spirit who satisfies". The Bible passage was John 7.37-39, where Jesus stands up in the Temple at the climax of the Festival of Tabernacles and cries out, "If anyone thirsts, let them come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, 'Out of their heart will flow rivers of living water.'" St John comments that Jesus was talking about the Holy Spirit who had not yet been poured out. (Listen to "The Spirit who satisfies" here.)

Because of the way the sermon was structured I can still recall its main points. The message was that thirst is a universal human condition, spiritually as well as physically, and that Jesus satisfies the thirst of all: the parched (who've never tasted His Spirit's refreshing), the quenched (who have tasted it in the past, but have run dry), the waiting (those who feel He won't return), and the wanting (those who have taken to substitutes to satisfy their thirst). There was more of course to the sermon than that. Two more points come back to me. The Bible's story of God's dealing with humanity begins and finishes with flowing water, with the rivers in Eden and the river flowing from the throne for the healing of the nations in Revelation. But there's also meant to be this river in the middle of the story, flowing from those who believe in Jesus - which is why it's so vital that we take up Jesus' loud invitation, "Let them come to me," because that's the source of spiritual refreshing for a parched society. The other point was that the opening of the floodgates for the Spirit began when Jesus shared the universal human condition on the cross, "I thirst," as St John also records. (I remember the great Bible teacher, John McKay, commenting that the sour wine He then drank inaugurated the Kingdom.) It was a challenging but realistic sermon. We were glad we'd driven in. On the way home there was a spectacular sunset to our right.

Then, before going to bed, I thought I'd see what Songs of Praise had been like. It was advertised as "The Great Outdoors" with Eamonn Holmes - not very promising, I thought; probably one of these cobbled-together holiday-type programmes frequent in the summer. I had to eat my thoughts! The hymns were mainly traditional, but they tied in with the interviews. A bit slow, but interesting light accompaniments. However, the three interviews were cracking, especially the first with a champion surfer, called Andy Hill. "A former atheist, Andy says a period of illness 11 years ago put big life questions back on the table. He researched a lot of religions looking for answers and Christianity was the only one that made sense. Now, his faith is everything and he’s an enthusiastic member of his local church. While he still loves surfing – and still competes – he’s just as passionate about sharing his faith with others." He was an example, it seemed to me, of someone who'd found his thirst satisfied by Jesus and who was a conduit to others. The same was true of the other two interviewees: with a couple of Ulster's rugby team and with a hard-core mountain-biker. As a bonus, there was an item from the excellent band, Rend Collective Experiment, "Build Your Kingdom here", and the different but equally good, Keith and Kristyn Getty. Altogether a rich programme, to end a refreshing day.

The vulnerable mind

Last Friday, the Evangelical Alliance published an article of mine in their Friday night theology series. The aim is to write about 500 words on something topical. I've written for them a number of times, but I think in the end I have been most pleased with this article. You can read it here: Friday Night Theology: The Vulnerable Mind.

It's very tempting for Christians to pretend life is a bed of roses for them. I think that has a number of causes. One is the habit that preachers used to have of saying something like, "Come to Jesus and all your problems will be sorted." As Anne said at Stanford's Festival Songs of Praise last Sunday, that certainly wasn't the message that Saul, later St Paul, was given at his conversion, as God tells the reluctant evangelist, Ananias, “Go, for he is a chosen instrument of mine to carry my name before the Gentiles and kings and the children of Israel. For I will show him how much he must suffer for the sake of my name.” Not a great sales pitch! 


Another is the culture of "strength" fostered among the clergy. It's not done to admit weakness, either mistakes or mental fragility. I was very fortunate when I was an apprentice pastor to have an understanding boss - as within my first year I was plagued by panic attacks. Early intervention and counselling restored my equilibrium. Later on, I actually believe that my MND, which is such an obvious weakness, helped some in our church to feel free to admit to their vulnerabilities. It made us all more real with each other and with God. 


Depression is of course not at all obvious. It may creep up insidiously as MND does, but it's easier to conceal and has a public stigma which encourages concealment. However, to my mind, it's worse than any physical ailment, as is true for all mental unwellness. The truth is that people of faith have never been insulated from mental struggles. Look through the Old Testament and try to find heroes of faith who sailed untroubled through life.... Of course the example who is most often cited is Elijah, whose treatment begins with food and rest, but you can uncover questionings, doubts and tears all over the place. The psalms contain their fair share of complaints and honest misery. If you've suffered depression, you'll recognise the feeling of Psalm 55: 

“Oh, that I had wings like a dove!
    I would fly away and be at rest;
⁷ yes, I would wander far away;
    I would lodge in the wilderness;
⁸ I would hurry to find a shelter
    from the raging wind and tempest."

Jesus himself was not immune from doubts (in the temptations) or from the sense of God having abandoned him. When he said, "My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?" I can't believe he was pretending, or merely reciting poetry. I believe he was using the closest words he could find to describe his experience. "This is what I'm going through - and it hurts even more than the nails." The sheer cliffs of the mind are dreadful places to hang.

My article was inspired, oddly enough, by the transparent honesty of four MPs in a recent debate. When, I wondered, did I last hear a prominent church leader talking about his struggle with mental health? Would someone who admitted the vulnerability even be considered for ministry in the church? And if not, what sort of message does that send to other Christians? The wrong sort. The Church is not the domain of the strong and satisfied; it's the haven for the hurting and the hungry. It's not the resort of the successful, but of the lost and limping. It has good news not for the righteous, but for washed-up sinners. It's meant to be a ragbag of mixed-up, messed-up men and women, not there in the first place because they need mending, but there because they need loving - and they are loved. And because Christ loves every member of his motley Church and gave himself for them, so they in turn are meant to accept and love each other in the same way, without conditions and without reservations.

Blubbing in church

Today I cried in church. It's not a normal occurrence, despite the emotional "lability" symptom of PLS. It was awkward because I was at the front with Jane, and the church was going to pray for us. We've been with them for three years and they've been like an oasis to our weary selves. Coincidentally or not the church is called Elim (Numbers 33.^{9: "}And they set out from Marah and came to Elim; at Elim there were twelve springs of water and seventy palm trees, and they camped there.") Now we believe it's time to be journeying on.


The trouble was, I looked up at the people who had welcomed us and received into their family, and who'd become deeper than friends to us. And it cracked me up. It was a bit embarrassing all round. Jane told me afterwards she hadn't seen it coming! But everyone waited patiently for me to pull myself together. Actually I have a feeling quite a number were praying. And I tried to remember to take deep breaths. Eventually I was able, by dint of keeping my eye on the ground, to articulate some of what I wanted to say, which included "Thank you" and "You haven't seen the last of us". We are, after all, still remaining here in Grove, and do feel free to worship with them whenever. As someone said, God's Church is in reality one Church; our divisions are man-made and artificial. 


However, I reflected, as I sat there and as I'd sat in another church over three years ago, how real and deep is the love that God creates within his family. "Faith, hope and love abide, but the greatest of these is love." 


Incidentally, to be honest, I can think of no better place to cry, even to howl with pain, than in the presence of God. Sometimes we think we must present a smiling face to him, as if "I'm fine" deceives him for a nanosecond. One of the lovely things this morning was our friends' willingness to share in our pain, if it was pain. Perhaps it was a confusion of emotions. But share it they did; deny it they did not. Bless them.

Disaster and disappointment

To disappointed friends
People often talk about remembering exactly where they were when 'historic' events happened such as Kennedy's assassination or Princess Diana's death. I never do, with one exception, and that was what's become known as 9/11 - exactly 10 years ago today. I was in the Vicarage in Stanford, and Bryan gave a shout. He was watching TV upstairs. I sat down and we watched with disbelief the WTC towers collapsing in smoke and dust, and the unfolding story - which of course is continuing in Afghanistan and Iraq, and in our own intelligence services, even today.

I've been thinking a lot today about personal disasters and disappointments. In New York unsurprisingly they decided not to rebuild the Trade Centre, but to build a memorial instead. The write-up says: "The 9/11 Memorial features two enormous waterfalls and reflecting pools, each about an acre in size, set within the footprints of the original twin towers. The Memorial Plaza is one of the most eco-friendly plazas ever constructed. More than 400 trees are planned for the plaza, surrounding the Memorial's two massive reflecting pools. Its design conveys a spirit of hope and renewal, and creates a contemplative space separate from the usual sights and sounds of a bustling metropolis." 
Where, I wondered, is the hope and renewal when we ourselves are faced with the two "Ds"? When our hopes are shattered? When our trust is betrayed? When what we spent our lives working for seems destroyed at a stroke? When our friends are grievously let down? When they, or we, face deep bereavement? 


When Jesus announced his ministry manifesto in Nazareth, he read from the start of Isaiah 61, "The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me... to proclaim the year of the Lord's favour..." Isaiah continues: "to comfort all who mourn;
to grant to those who mourn in Zion—
    to give them a beautiful headdress instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning,
   the garment of praise instead of a faint spirit;
that they may be called oaks of righteousness,
   the planting of the LORD, that he may be glorified.
They shall build up the ancient ruins;
   they shall raise up the former devastations;
they shall repair the ruined cities,
   the devastations of many generations." There's a progression about his mission. He's come to comfort and restore those who are shattered by life, and the restored will be restoring people in their turn. 

This morning I was reminded of the couple walking on the road to Emmaus talking to the unrecognised Jesus about his death: "But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel." How wistful, and how familiar is that! And yet of course their journey hasn't ended. He reveals himself as the one who even turns death around, in the breaking of bread. There's nowhere that he's unable to transform. Having plodded away with a faint spirit, they run back to their friends in Jerusalem to gee them up with the news (Luke 24). 

There's a great prophecy to the dispirited Jews who've returned from exile in Iraq, with high hopes of seeing their temple again. The oldies remember its former glory, but now it's in ruins and they can't imagine how it will ever be the same again. Haggai's message to them tells them not to be discouraged because "I am with you... My Spirit is in your midst." That hasn't changed, because God has made his covenant - and he always keeps his promise. And he's in the restoration business, big-time. "The silver is mine, and the gold is mine, declares the LORD of hosts. The latter glory of this house shall be greater than the former, says the LORD of hosts. And in this place I will give peace, declares the LORD of hosts" (Haggai 2.8,9).

Friends of mine have had three major bereavements in quick succession. I can understand why things might look grey and bleak. On 14 November 1940 Coventry Cathedral was hit in a bombing raid. In the morning it looked like this. 

The story of the charred beams made into a cross is well-known. Today the Cathedral looks quite different. I never saw the old one (!) but the new one is not only an architectural masterpiece; it's a centre of reconciliation, mission and vibrant worship. I have a feeling too that the Holy Spirit is present to transform and restore lives, and that, of course, is the purpose of the Church, to be a community where the Spirit is welcomed and produces his fruit of "love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control"

The sculpture on the wall of the new cathedral, by Jacob Epstein, is of the archangel Michael defeating the dragon (Satan) in the last book of the Bible (Revelation 12). Here, at last, the all pervading root of evil is to be dealt with, for good. In Mean Talking Blues Woody Guthrie portrayed the character of evil: 

"I hate to love and I love to hate...

And I hate God!
Well, if I can get the fat to hatin' the lean
That'd tickle me more than anything I've seen,
Then get the colors to fightin' one another,
And friend against friend, and brother... and sister against brother,
That'll be just it...." 

There's bad news for the mean-talking devil, which is that his days were numbered from the weekend when Jesus died and rose again from death. Which means there's good news for those of us facing personal disappointment and disaster. God's in charge - not the other lot - and he's the Great Restorer. He restores my soul, he leads me in green pastures.

                                                                                                                                                       

Help, I need somebody's help

Last week I had a dream which left me thinking about death - not in a morbid way, more about our relationship with those who have died. I wrote to my friend Elizabeth to ask what she thought. Part of her reply was: "And as for the Community of Saints; well....I suppose it is a notion to which I have increasingly warmed, in that it involves our sharing across time and space with those striving for holiness and the life of the spirit, past, present and future....  It provides a sense of solidarity of prayer, purpose and companionship with those who are preparing the way by going before us on the journey of life and death."

© Jane Wenham 2012

I must say I don't see the logic in asking living saints to pray for us and our concerns, and not those who are no longer with us but "with the Lord". That's not the same as being an intermediary between us and God, of whom there's only one (1 Timothy 2.5). But sometimes, it's true, it helps when others support us in prayer; sometimes we run out of words, or energy, or the will to keep on praying. We need others to stand alongside us. That, I guess, is one reason why Jesus invented the Church, which in one old prayer is described as "the Church militant here in earth" as well as triumphant in heaven. I wonder whether some of us limit our vision in a way the Bible doesn't; whether we're just too earthbound. Is the boundary between here and hereafter as impenetrable as all that? And that's what the writer to the Hebrews implies when he talks about us being "surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses", isn't it?


When I was writing about dying and heaven for I Choose Everything, I searched high and low for a story I'd heard which I thought came from Henri Nouwen, the Dutch priest and writer. It was to do with the process of dying. I never found it. Until recently I heard it referred to again - and tracked it down. It's a conversation between twins in the womb. Here it is:

The sister said to the brother, "I believe there is life after birth." 

Her brother protested vehemently, "No, no, this is all there is. This is a dark and cozy place, and we have nothing else to do but to cling to the cord that feeds us." 

The little girl insisted, "There must be something more than this dark place. There must be something else, a place with light where there is freedom to move." Still, she could not convince her twin brother.

After some silence, the sister said hesitantly, "I have something else to say, and I'm afraid you won't believe that, either, but I think there is a mother." 

Her brother became furious. "A mother!" he shouted. "What are you talking about? I have never seen a mother, and neither have you. Who put that idea in your head? As I told you, this place is all we have. Why do you always want more? This is not such a bad place, after all. We have all we need, so let's be content."

The sister was quite overwhelmed by her brother's response and for a while didn't dare say anything more. But she couldn't let go of her thoughts, and since she had only her twin brother to speak to, she finally said, "Don't you feel these squeezes every once in a while? They're quite unpleasant and sometimes even painful." 

"Yes," he answered. "What's special about that?" 

"Well," the sister said, "I think that these squeezes are there to get us ready for another place, much more beautiful than this, where we will see our mother face-to-face. Don't you think that's exciting?"

The brother didn't answer. He was fed up with the foolish talk of his sister and felt that the best thing would be simply to ignore her and hope that she would leave him alone.

Henri Nouwen, Our Greatest Gift: A Meditation on Dying and Caring (Harper: SanFrancisco, 1994), pp. 19-20.

There's a lot I love about the analogy: the simple parallel between being born and dying, the recognition of the painfulness of dying, the womb-like limitation of our perspective, and the excitement of "another place, much more beautiful than this, where we will see our mother (the one who's carried us and cared for us) face-to-face".