The uses of adversity

Outside the theatre

A week ago, Jane and I drove to Stratford to see the RSC production of As You Like it, to celebrate our wedding anniversary. It was, you'll recall, one of the glorious clear sunny days we've been enjoying. We were very grateful for the air-conditioning in our car!

The production was great fun - once the men had got over mistaking shouting for emphasis and Jaques had stopped gabbling (I must be getting old and hard of hearing!). In my view, it shouldn't be necessary to have mugged up on a Shakespeare play to understand the meaning. Really good actors are able to bring Shakespearean English to life even for contemporary audiences. Fortunately the central characters achieved just that, most importantly Rosalind, the most major female role in Shakespeare (25% of lines), played by Pippa Nixon.

Rosalind and Orlando finally united (the "hippy" Duke just behind Orlando) - RSC photo

The plot involves an usurping duke and a selfish older brother driving various of their relatives into exile in the Forest of Arden (I assume where the paté comes from). In his first speech the ousted Duke, Senior, portrayed in this production presiding over something of a hippy-style commune and himself a bit like an aging rock star, says:
"Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The seasons' difference, as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
'This is no flattery: these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.'
Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life exempt from public haunt
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones and good in every thing.
I would not change it." 

I was struck by the expression, "Sweet are the uses of adversity". Our instinct is to run from adversity, to avoid pain. And yet there is something precious to be found in it. Exiled from all that is "civilised", what we might regard as the normal comforts of life, the Duke finds "good in every thing". This is poetry of course which can't be paraphrased - but, for example, the trees might speak of the beauty in each season of life and the miracle of rebirth, the brooks might be illustrating the infinite diversity and the wonderful interconnectedness of creation, and the stones teach that hardship is an integral part of existence; without it life would be bland.

Rosalind disguised as the young man, Ganymede - RSC photo

Pippa Nixon's performance was outstanding, with the ambiguities and tensions of the role, beginning and ending as the lively Rosalind and in between disguised as Ganymede, at once strong and vulnerable. It's a supremely demanding part. I suppose we were focused on her as she once came to a birthday barbecue in our garden here; so we were pleased to be able to congratulate her at the end. A great way to celebrate our marriage - thanks, Pippa and the RSC!

Walking in Holy Week

Well, it's been quite a week. I've been really impressed by Pope Francis and by Justin Welby, who seem to me to share a humility and a simplicity which are refreshing. It was a shame about all the establishment paraphernalia of the Inauguration of the Archbishop's Ministry (as he chose to call it rather than "enthronement" - as the media still insist on saying), but at the heart of it was a straightforward man, aware of his own limitations, talking straightforward language. The text of his sermon is not easy to track down, but it is here. His sermon touched on many things, but was based around the account of Peter getting out of the boat on the Sea of Galilee. He said, "The fear of the disciples was reasonable. People do not walk on water, but this person did. For us to trust and follow Christ is reasonable if He is what the disciples end up saying He is; 'truly you are the Son of God'. Each of us now needs to heed His voice calling to us, and to get out of the boat and go to Him. Because even when we fail, we find peace and hope and become more fully human than we can imagine: failure forgiven, courage liberated, hope persevering, love abounding."

Coincidentally on Friday night when Pete and Jane were round for a FOF (Fellowship of Failure - see this blog FOFOF a fortnight ago), Jane (not mine) brought something to encourage us, while Jane (mine) produced an amazing chicken and mushroom vol-au-vent. I say coincidentally because Jane hadn't heard the new Archbishop, but has been reading John Ortberg's book, If you want to walk on water, you've got to get out of the boat - not the most encouraging of titles for us mere mortals! However Jane read to us from the chapter called "Learning to wait", which talks about the often quoted verses from Isaiah 40:
Why do you say, O Jacob,
    and speak, O Israel,
“My way is hidden from the Lord,
    and my right is disregarded by my God”?
Have you not known? Have you not heard?
The Lord is the everlasting God,
    the Creator of the ends of the earth.
He does not faint or grow weary;
    his understanding is unsearchable.
He gives power to the faint,
    and to him who has no might he increases strength.
Even youths shall faint and be weary,
    and young men shall fall exhausted;
but they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength;
    they shall soar with wings like eagles;
they shall run and not be weary;
    they shall walk and not faint.

He wrote that "we must learn to live (the last three lines) - soaring, running, walking - one line at a time.

"Sometimes you will mount up and soar on wings of eagles. This is a beautiful picture. Ornithologists say birds have three methods of flight. The first is flapping - keeping their wings in constant motion to counteract gravity. Hummingbirds can flap up to seventy times per second. Flapping keeps you up in the air, but it is a lot of work...
"A second flight method is gliding. Here the bird builds up enough speed, then coasts downward a while. It is much more graceful than flapping, but unfortunately it does not get the bird very far. Reality in the form of gravity sets in quickly. Gliding is nice, but it does not last.
"Then there is the third way - soaring. Only a few birds, like eagles, are capable of this. Eagles' wings are so strong that they are capable of catching rising currents of warm air... and without moving a feather can soar up to great heights. eagles have been clocked up to 80 m.p.h. without flapping at all. They just soar on invisible columns of air.
"Isaiah says that for those who wait on the Lord, times will come when they soar. You catch a gust of the spirit - Jesus said, 'The wind blows wherever it pleases.... So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.'
"Sometimes in your life you will be in an era of spiritual soaring.... Be very grateful. Do all you can to stay in the Spirit's power....
"But there is another line in Isaiah's description. Sometimes we are not soaring, but we are able to run and not grow weary. If this is where you are, your life isn't feeling effortless. You do not see a lot of miracles. You have to do some flapping. But with persistence and determination you know you are running the race.... Do not try to manufacture spiritual ecstasy. Do not compare yourself with someone who is soaring right now. Your time will come. Just keep running.
"Then there is a third condition that Isaiah describes. Sometimes we will not be soaring, and we cannot run - because of doubt or pain or fatigue or failure. In those times all we can do is walk and not faint. This is not water-walking. It is just plain walking. All we can do is say, 'God, I'll hang on. I don't seem too fruitful or productive, and I don't feel very triumphant. But I won't let go. I will obey you. I'll just keep walking.'"

And as we noticed, according to Isaiah, the strength to soar, and to run, and to walk, all has the same source: God himself. As Justin Welby put it, "failure forgiven, courage liberated, hope persevering, love abounding." Holy Week is not about soaring or even running. It's about faithfully trudging the dusty road to the Cross with Jesus. It seems to me that we have to walk that way to get to the other end. 

Thank you, Beth

This morning we went to Beth's funeral. She's the 15-year old additionally disabled daughter of James and Lynn whom I mentioned last time. The church was packed. Among those who carried her basketwork coffin were her brother, father and, I guess, her grandfather. It was as emotional service as I can remember, but far from miserable. It included a most remarkable reflection on her life by her parents, which didn't gloss over the pains of having such a disabled child but did not deny either the joy and love she brought.

There were too some of my favourite songs such as "Great is your faithfulness" and "How great thou art". There was one written by Paul Oakley I'd not heard before, "There's a place", which contains this verse:
"No more, no more sadness,
No more suffering, no more tears,
No more sin, no more sickness,
No injustice, no more death." Which would be pretty good news if that was all there was. However the song goes on to the positives:
"There is joy everlasting,
There is gladness, there is peace.
There is wine, ever flowing,
There's a wedding, there's a feast." And it ends,
"We'll see you face to face
And we will dance together
In the city of our God, because of You." (If you don't know it, the best YouTube clip I've found is this -Because of You.) It's hardly a miserable dirge; in fact it's full of resurrection joy.

Yesterday I was simply going to post something that my venerable friend, Brian, had put on Facebook, but today's service made me want to write something more as a thank you to Beth Ross. But I'll still include Brian's lines because somehow they feel all of a piece with the journey of faith walked by James and Lynn and their family.
"I believe in the sun,
even when I cannot see it.
I believe in love,
even when I cannot feel it.
I believe in God,
even when he is silent."

Psalms of complaint

We've just had Pete and Jane round, and, as always, had a lovely evening. They became good friends from soon after we moved here to Grove. We enjoy eating together. Jane (of Pete and J) makes rather good cakes; so Jane (of Michael and J) makes the first course. Pete and I do our bit by showing appreciation. We usually end up reading the Bible together, discussing and praying for our shared concerns.

Today we were talking about psalms of complaint (or disorientation, as Walter Brueggemann called  them), like 74, 79 and 137, and thinking how little real honest pain we express together in our worship services. We're always so polite and afraid of offending God's sensibilities - as if he doesn't already know exactly what we're feeling! I mentioned the song by Graham Kendrick which we'd had in church last Sunday, "For the joys and for the sorrows" sung here in Coventry Cathedral on Pentecost 2007. Here are the words:

For the joys and for the sorrows
The best and worst of times
For this moment, for tomorrow
For all that lies behind
Fears that crowd around me
For the failure of my plans
For the dreams of all I hope to be
The truth of what I am

For this I have Jesus
For this I have Jesus
For this I have Jesus, I have Jesus
(Repeat)

For the tears that flow in secret
In the broken times
For the moments of elation
Or the troubled mind
For all the disappointments
Or the sting of old regrets
All my prayers and longings
That seem unanswered yet

For the weakness of my body
The burdens of each day
For the nights of doubt and worry
When sleep has fled away
Needing reassurance
And the will to start again
A steely-eyed endurance
The strength to fight and win

Graham Kendrick
Copyright © 1994 Make Way Music,
www.grahamkendrick.co.uk 

I have to confess this is a song which brings tears to my eyes when it's sung in church, where in fact so many are experiencing some or all of the song. But the refrain, "For this I have Jesus", is true in a profound way, because he also experienced the whole gamut of the song and more, and he knows and feels with us.

The Isenheim Good Friday

I've been aware of one of the great masterpieces of the Renaissance, the Isenheim Altarpiece for a long time. One of my regrets is that we didn't go and see it, when we went for a holiday with our young family in the Jura region of France - though they might have been too young to appreciate the expedition. My interest was rekindled by reading an essay by our friend, Margaret Williams, recently. She explained the background. It was commissioned in the early 1500s by Guy Guers, preceptor of the Isenheim monastery, near Colmar in Alsace.

Established around 1300, the Isenheim monastery belonged to Saint Anthony’s order, which had been founded in the Dauphiné region of France in the 11th century. The monks of the Antonite order ministered to victims of Saint Anthony’s fire, a horrible illness that was common in the Middle Ages. This calamity’s cause is now known to be poisoning from a fungus (ergot) that grows on rye grass, thus contaminating the rye flour used in making bread. Ergot contains a chemical that drives its victims mad and results in gangrene of the hands and feet due to constriction in blood flow to the extremities. To care for the sick, the Antonites served them good quality bread and had them drink a concoction called saint vinage, a holy fortified wine, in which the monks had first macerated a special blend of herbs and then soaked the relics of Saint Anthony. They also produced a salve from herbs possessing anti-inflammatory properties. (from Musée d'UnterLinden, Colmar, where the altarpiece is now)

The two-sided polyptych (as it's called, meaning painting on many panels) was placed in the hospital chapel. Margaret pointed out, as I recall, the artist, Mathis Gothart Nithart (Matthias Grünewald), had painted the agony of the crucified Christ with stark realism, previously not depicted, so that hands are contorted in pain, the body torturously twisted. And so, the victims would be reminded, as they meditated looking at it, that Jesus understood their pain. They weren't on their own. Not only that, when the side panels were opened, they would have seen the resurrection portrayed on the right-hand side - reminding them of the hope awaiting them beyond death. In a sense, the paintings depict the whole gospel for sufferers of a incurable and disfiguring disease: God entered this world of humanity. He suffered in our place and shared the experience of suffering with us. He died, but rose to life, drawing death's sting and giving us hope for future life with him.
It's not that Jesus' suffering makes ours easier. Far from it. But it does mean we can share it with him. As the writer to the Hebrews put it somewhere, "We don't have a High Priest (i.e. Jesus) who is unable to sympathise with our weaknesses, but one who in every respected has been tempted (or tested) as we are, yet without sin." As a modern song a friend of mine sent me yesterday puts it, "Jesus walked this lonesome valley". The temptations undoubtedly included self-pity and anxiety about dying. He understands. And he's done something radical about our case. 


We call it Easter. I hope you well and truly enjoy it - whatever your circumstances. He is risen indeed!

Praying through pain

A couple of weeks ago I was asked what prayers I'd suggest for someone enduring terminal illness. The prayers which I suggested were the final prayers from Compline, the ancient night-time service. For many of us, much of the experience is dark and like night, waiting for the dawning of the new day. In my old church we used to say Compline, with reading the Gospel accounts of Christ's passion, in Holy Week. The church would mainly be in darkness, with just enough light for the few of us to listen and pray together. The readings would always end with Jesus dying. We would wait for the dawn to come.

These are the prayers:

Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night; for the love of thy only Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ. Amen.

Be present, O merciful God, and protect us through the silent hours of this night, so that we, who are wearied by the changes and chances of this fleeting world, may repose upon thy eternal changelessness; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Look down, O Lord, from thy heavenly throne, illuminate the darkness of this night with thy celestial brightness, and from the children of light banish the deeds of darkness; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, who at this evening hour didst rest in the sepulchre, and didst thereby sanctify the grave to be a bed of hope to thy people: make us so to abound in sorrow for our sins, which were the cause of thy passion, that when our bodies lie in the dust, our souls may live with thee: who livest and reignest with the Father and the Holy Spirit, one God world without end. Amen.

Visit, we beseech thee, O Lord, this place, and drive far from it all the snares of the enemy; let thy holy angels dwell herein to preserve us in peace; and may thy blessing be upon us evermore; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Then comes a response which is from Psalm 4.8, which, when we were children, we used to hear every night when my mother tucked us in bed. 

We will lay us down in peace and take our rest;
For it is thou, Lord, only, that makest us dwell in safety.

This is a good week (as good as any can be!) to be ill, I think, because we're especially aware of how Jesus shared our human nature in all its weakness, and even in excruciating pain. He knows absolutely how dark the night can be - even more than us, because it was blacker for him. And his promise is, "I will never leave or abandon you." The best thing about the week, of course, is that its end turns into Easter Sunday. Pow! Morning comes. "Christ is risen. Hallelujah." "Hallelujah. He is risen indeed!"

Jane and I, last weekend, went down to see her parents in South Devon. On the way, we stopped to put flowers on my parents' and aunts' grave in Wiltshire. I'd forgotten the inscription at the foot of the stone: "Awaiting a joyful resurrection". The grave has become "a bed of hope to thy people" - because of Jesus. Thank you, God.

A hairy parable

I was sent this story yesterday, and although it doesn't do justice to the profound questions it raises - about suffering and pain - it does highlight one very important factor often omitted in attacks on the existence of a loving God, and that is the freedom we have in relation to him. He doesn't compel us to involve him in our lives. Some of the responsibility is on us.


A man went to a hairdresser's to have his hair cut and his beard trimmed. As the hairdresser began to work, they started to have a good conversation. They talked about a lot of things and various subjects.

When they eventually touched on the subject of God, the hairdresser said: 'I don't believe that God exists.'

'Why do you say that?' asked the customer, interested. 

'Well, you just have to go out in the street to realize that God doesn't exist. Tell me, if God exists, would there be so many sick people? Would there be abandoned children? If God existed, there would be neither suffering nor pain. I can't imagine a loving God who would allow all of these things.'

The customer thought for a moment, but didn't respond because he didn't want to start an argument. He wanted a good haircut.

The hairdresser finished his job and the customer left the salon.

Just after he left, he saw a man in the street with long, stringy, dirty hair and an untrimmed beard. He looked dirty and unkempt. The customer turned back and entered the salon again and he said to the hairdresser: 'You know what? Hairdressers do not exist.' 

'How can you say that?' asked the surprised hairdresser. 'I am here, and I am a hairdresser. And I just worked on you!'

'No!' the customer exclaimed. 'Hairdressers don't exist because if they did, there would be no people with dirty long hair and untrimmed beards, like that man outside.'

'Ah, but hairdressers DO exist! That's what happens when people do not come to me.'

'Exactly!' affirmed the customer. 'That's the point! God, too, DOES exist! That's what happens when people do not go to him and don't look to him for help. That's why there's so much pain and suffering in the world.'

I have to say that there's a great post on the Diary of a Wip blog called God's silent witnesses which gives a much better perspective than this has been able to.

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.

Band of brothers

When I hurt my back five weeks ago, Bryan brought home the dvd series, Band of Brothers, to keep me out of mischief. It's not exactly entertaining watching, but it's certainly gripping. It's the story of E "Easy" Company of the American 101st Airborne Division from their initial training in 1942 through being dropped over Normandy on D-Day to the end of the war in Europe. There are a lot of harrowing scenes. It's brilliantly filmed under the direction of Tom Hanks and Steven Spielberg. I think it should be watched by everyone in the UK, especially those of us with any anti-American tendencies. I'd put it alongside Andrea Levy's Small Island for giving the post-war generation some understanding of what our parents went through and what we owe to them.

There's one awful episode when the company comes across one of the many concentration camps across Germany. "Hey, Web," says one of them. "Can you believe this place?" "No...." replies his friend. True to life, there's a lot of suffering in the series - which includes the veterans who are portrayed reflecting on their memories - and yet....

It's far from unmitigated darkness. There's tragic waste of life. As Webster laconically comments, on hearing Hitler's shot himself in Berlin, "He should have shot himself three years ago. Saved us a lot of trouble." "Yeah, he should have. But he didn't," comes the reply. Yet there's a powerful comradeship which has been built up through the years of pain and fear and loss - hence, of course, the series' title Band of Brothers. In a brilliant piece of script writing the expression of this is given to a German officer addressing his troops after surrender and translated by the German-speaking American:  "Men, it's been a long war, it's been a tough war. You've fought bravely, proudly for your country. You're a special group. You've found in one another a bond, that exists only in combat, among brothers. You've shared foxholes, held each other in dire moments. You've seen death and suffered together. I'm proud to have served with each and every one of you. You all deserve long and happy lives in peace." 

'Our calling is to relieve suffering'

It seems to me that a universal truth is being expressed. Not that war is desirable ("All war is sinful," as I once heard a soldier say), not that suffering is good (Our calling is to relieve, not enjoy, suffering), but that there is a fellowship in suffering - and that is good, profoundly good, and possibly redemptive in a way that nothing else is. Perhaps that's why St Paul talks about wishing that "I may know him (Jesus) and the power of his resurrection, and may share his sufferings, becoming like him in his death" as a precursor to enjoying life with him after death (Philippians 3.10). I've always had trouble understanding that verse. But the bond forged in suffering is immensely strong.

Pain hurts

I know I might seem a sucker for every new song I hear, but really I'm not! True, I'm not a stickler for every worship song or hymn being a theologically coherent statement, as I reckon they're primarily poetry. I'm not one of the school which wants to censor "Hark the herald angels sing" because of the phrase "veiled in flesh" or to change the line about the wrath of God being satisfied in "In Christ alone". On the other hand, I'm not that keen on songs that seem to have been written from no experience of the reality of life - ones that are full of religious cliches or pious platitudes.

So when I heard the words "In thy service pain is pleasure" in the Walking by Faith cd which I got for my birthday, I must say I was not too impressed, especially as the performance seems to relish the words "pain" and "pleasure". It just isn't true. The psalmists never pretend that pain is anything but painful; Job made no bones about his suffering. I seem to remember he cursed the day he was born. Paul wanted to be rid of his "thorn in the flesh". Jesus himself didn't find his pain pleasurable. To the modern ear, that line is misleading nonsense. It isn't true that being a Christian makes pain a pleasure. It isn't true that faith turns one into a masochist. Pain hurts. Pain is still painful.

I did a bit of digging and discovered that the lyrics are not in fact modern. They were written in 1824 by Henry Francis Lyte - vicar of Brixham in Devon and author of "Praise, my soul" and "Abide with me" - who was quite a remarkable man. He had a far from easy life. Abandoned to boarding school by his soldier father, his mother and brother dying when he was young, his daughter dying in infancy, he must have known about emotional pain. In his late forties his health was declining and he underwent a range of Victorian "remedies". "Lyte complained of weakness and incessant coughing spasms, and he mentions medical treatments of blistering, bleeding, calomel, tartar emetic, and "large doses" of Prussic acid. (Yuk!) Yet his friends found him buoyant, cheerful..." (Wikipedia). 


Actually the poem isn't about how easy the Christian life is, by some sort of magic; quite the reverse, it's about the cost of "taking up your cross" and following Jesus. But all the cost is worth it, because of his love for us from beginning to the end. I get what Lyte is trying to say about counting suffering as "all joy", but that's not the same as pain being pleasure - well, not in the language I speak. I see that some versions leave out the verse with "pain is pleasure". That seems sensible to me, since its plain contemporary meaning is so jarring on people who know real pain. One doesn't analyse songs when singing them, but one does retain the memorable bits. And that's memorable for the wrong reason. Don't give me that.


Here instead is a prayer by Sheila Pritchard which I read in today's Closer to God, based on Ephesians 3.
Loving Father,
I pray that out of your glorious riches,
you will strengthen me, so that I may rooted and established in your love.
By your Spirit
let me know how wide and long and high and deep
your love is for me...
Show me what it means to be filled with all the fullness of God.
Thank you that you will do even more than I can ask or imagine.
Through Jesus your Son. Amen. 

Feel free to be real

"We've already seen the role of silence in prayer... But we still want to find words as well, because relationship works two ways... So for us, when our words strain and crack, we will find psalms to give expression to our inner thoughts" (I Choose Everything, chapter 10 'Praying truthfully'). I'm somewhat astonished and ashamed at my presumption in writing those words for publication, because, although I'm sure it's true, to be honest, the Psalms are by no means my prayer-book.

Which is one reason why I went to the seminar at New Wine given by David Rowe, the warden of Lee Abbey, on 'Praying the Psalms'. Again I was challenged and helped. (I don't know why I like being made uncomfortable by talks - maybe it's like the stimulation of a cold shower!) He quoted the American theologian, Walter Brueggemann, who categorises the psalms as psalms of orientation, disorientation, and new orientation. I've not yet got hold of his lectures, but this is the blurb: "Walter Brueggemann contends that the Psalms offer us words during the long seasons of our lives. They offer us words when our worlds are stable and ordered and well. They offer us words when our worlds are awful, filled with hopelessness and fear. They offer us words when our worlds have been miraculously transformed and all has become new. Each lecture explores a different season we live through and the language the Psalmists spoke to God when they were in that season also. Sometimes abrasive, sometimes euphoric, there is always a word offered that we may speak to God.

"Laments are of particular interest to Brueggemann. He comments how most laments have never been selected to be included in the lectionary. There are a couple which occur every three years, but an individual could attend church their whole life and never hear the majority of them. Brueggemann contends lament is important in our lives and in our conversations with the Almighty. He believes our speech before the throne doesn’t have to be nice, just honest. These prayers act as hope: things do not have to stay the way they are. God can make newness for us."

You can watch short clips on YouTube. How do we pray when we just feel desperate and miserable? What do we say when we've no praise in our hearts and actually have nothing nice to say to our heavenly Father? Do we just maintain a rude surly silence? Brueggemann talks about the "lament" Psalms . "Our speech before the throne doesn't have to be nice, just honest" - what a relief! How do we pray about the "riots"? How can the young rioters pray about their grievances? Brueggemann on Psalms of vengeance. Well, we and they are allowed to express our anger to God - which is why we should use all the Psalms in our worship. Otherwise we and they have two options: to act on our anger, or to deny it. Much better to bring it to the Divine Therapist and leave it to him. We can't shock him. He loves us too much.

As the Psalms repeat like a refrain, "His steadfast love endures for ever." Reality when we pray is OK. In fact it's essential. "These prayers act as hope: things do not have to stay the way they are. God can make newness for us." It's good news for the disabled, the ill, the housebound, who are tempted to self-pity, and for the grieving. But I guess it's as good for all God's family. The thing about being honest is you don't have to remember your previous lies!

Perspective

One of the temptations when you're in pain is to focus on it. Well, to be honest, it's a natural reaction. Our dog Jess, when she gets a stone or a thorn lodged in her foot, lies there licking it like mad. What's interesting about humans is that not only do we do that, but when things are all roses in the garden we're also tempted to become self-absorbed.

A good feature of New Wine this year were the opportunities to change our perspectives. Bishop Zac was particularly effective in achieving this. He identified four idols in 1st World faith: religion, security, sacralization (making sacred) of youth, and "me". He wasn't censorious about it; he was just describing ourselves from a 3rd World perspective. It certainly made me sit up! Then there was Baroness Cox talking about places like Burma and North Korea, Major General Porter talking about faith in the armed forces, Vincent Munyosi on church-planting in Uganda. One began to see the church in a world-wide perspective.

I love George Herbert's poetry. "The Elixir" from which there are quotations at the top of this blog is perhaps his best-known poem as it is often sung as a hymn (worship song). It is about practising the presence of God, seeing God in all things, even the most menial tasks and, I'd add, the most painful and restricted situations. The person who looks at a window ("looks on glass", which wasn't as clear as today), he says, has a choice, either to look at its surface ("on it may stay his eye") or to look through it and see the sky, or heaven ("the heaven espy"). We can choose to lick our wounds in our own confined safe world or to take the risk of looking up and seeing God's beauty. It's not that God isn't with us. He is. It's more an invitation to raise our eyes and recognise him there - and that means looking through the material to the real. Easier said than done, I know, and I guess Herbert did too as he prayed for a fresh pouring out of the Spirit in "Whitsunday":
Lord, though we change, thou art the same;
The same sweet God of love and light:
Restore this day, for thy great name,
Unto his ancient and miraculous right. 
Good call!