The art of shutting up

Yesterday morning was our community's monthly ‘house family breakfast’. We meet, eat, talk about communal practicalities, I or someone else will usually share a thought or two on community life, we pray or worship...

But yesterday was different. For the first half of our breakfast, by prior arrangement, we were in complete silence, not a word spoken.

The seed for this novel arrangement came from a conversation I’d had earlier in the week with Penelope Wilcock, author of a series of novels set in a Medieval monastery called ‘The Hawk and the Dove’. (Read her account of our meeting here.) I asked her what she felt we could learn from an ancient community rule such as the Rule of Benedict.

Her answer, perhaps surprisingly, was that the Rule of Benedict can teach us common sense. We might think of the founding document of Benedictine monasticism as a lofty, spiritual masterpiece – as indeed it is. Yet, as Penelope pointed out, many of its injunctions have a ring of good plain sense about them.

An example Penelope gave was ‘the great silence’ – the rule Benedict laid down that after evening prayers the whole community observes silence throughout the night until after the morning service the next day.

‘What a brilliant rule for fostering harmonious community,’ Penelope enthused. None of those too-late-at-night conversations when things can get fractious and irritable (and things can be said which are regretted the following morning). Likewise, no demand for communication while still waking up (one of my favourite biblical proverbs springs to mind: ‘If anyone loudly blesses their neighbour early in the morning, it will be taken as a curse.’)

Common sense, yes, which fosters the health and harmony of a community. It got me thinking because as a leader in a residential Christian community, I give quite a lot of thought (not to mention what goes on in my subconscious) to the issue of how to foster healthy, fruitful community. And this issue – silence – is part of that. (I’ve mused about it before here and here.)

We’re a very active community. Activist, one might even say (and one recent blog called Power Activism has already featured us three times!) That’s good and it’s what God has called us to. And yet. Without silence our minds and spirits become noisy and overcrowded.

There is stillness and silence in our community life, but it mainly happens on our own, out on the fringes of community life – a personal prayer hour, a walk in the park... a bath! And sometimes we will have a pause for silence before a meal or during corporate worship.

I think we should integrate shared silence into our life more, for the sake of health and harmony.

It was silent in the temple’s holiest place. And the New Testament speaks of the ‘unfading beauty of a quiet spirit’ (our spirits, God’s dwelling like the temple, ought to be silent, still, poised). We want our community house to be a place people find the presence and peace of God. Silence must play its part.

So we passed the first half hour of our breakfast in silence. It wasn’t a 'religious silence' – we weren’t praying or meditating, just eating breakfast together. There was quite a bit of signalling (a wave meaning ‘pass me the honey?’ A thumbs up meaning ‘thanks!’), some winks and smiles. Most of us found it refreshing; some rather hard work.

I’m convinced it’s something we’ll explore. Ideas anyone? What can a busy, bustling community do to foster shared silence, shared stillness in the midst of it all?

Watch this space (space! ah!) – I’m sure this is a theme I’ll return to again in this blog.

Ancient prophet, young Messiah

Sometimes I read something in the Bible that makes my heart beat faster. It happened this morning when I was reading the prophet Isaiah.

I was reading chapter 49, which contains the second of Isaiah’s ‘servant songs’. (For the other three, go here.)

In amongst these prophecies about Jesus, I read this:

“The Lord called me from the womb,
from the body of my mother he named my name.
He made my mouth like a sharp sword;
in the shadow of his hand he hid me;
he made me a polished arrow;
in his quiver he hid me away.
And he said to me, “You are my servant,
Israel, in whom I will be glorified.” (Isaiah 49:1-3)

We aren’t told much about Jesus’ infancy and childhood in the New Testament. Apart from Luke’s fascinating glimpse of Jesus in the Temple, telling his bewildered parents that he’s been “about his father’s business”, there’s almost nothing.

Yet here, in this prophecy from centuries before Jesus’ birth, we get another glimpse. Jesus is “named” in the womb as the servant, the saviour. (A divine christening that works itself into history as the angelic instruction that his name should be Jesus, “Saviour”.)

And then we get a glimpse of Jesus in his childhood and youth, being prepared by God, sharpened in wisdom, protected, readied for what was to come. It’s wonderfully poetic, too: “in the shadow of his hand he hid me; he made me a polished arrow; in his quiver he hid me away”.

Jesus was hidden in the quiver for about 30 years before God took him out and fired him, like an arrow in the heart of his enemies. And in those years, Jesus heard his father’s call. He discovered who he was. Who he was called to be. Israel-in-person. Messiah. Servant. Saviour of the world.

To get the best effect, say these words aloud, but as a whisper – like they would have been whispered in Jesus’ mind and heart over those years of preparation: And he said to me, “You are my servant, Israel, in whom I will be glorified.”

It is a mystery quite how Jesus became aware of his calling and identity. I’ve long since been dissatisfied with explanations that leap too quickly to Jesus’ deity (babe-in-manger thinking through quantum physics et cetera); they don’t seem to me to do justice to Jesus’ full and true humanity.

But I love the glimpse Isaiah gives us. This young prophet, but more than a prophet, this servant, but more than a servant, this son. He hears his father’s voice. The call grows. Certainty grows. He reads Isaiah and knows.

And then the day of confirmation: “This is my beloved Son in whom I am well pleased.”

That call was tested immediately with the demonic “if” – and afterwards? Isaiah himself prophesies an agony of uncertainty, especially in the face of rejection from his own people: I said, “I have laboured in vain; I have spent my strength for nothing and vanity; yet surely my right is with the Lord, and my recompense with my God” (verse 4).

But Jesus saw it through; through the tears, the sweat, the blood. The result was salvation.

What a salvation. And what a saviour.

That was the heartbeat moment of inspiration. Thought I’d share.

...

For those who want a bit more exegetical background on ‘the servant’, this mysterious yet compelling figure who crops up several times in the latter chapters of Isaiah, here’s some theological small print:

The ‘servant’ is called ‘Israel’ – yet the prophecies about him find their fulfilment in Jesus. (The first servant song is quoted by Matthew to that effect; verse 8 of the chapter I read this morning is similarly cited by Paul; Acts-writer, Dr Luke, has Philip the evangelist explain to an Ethiopian eunuch (got all that?) that Jesus is the servant… And so on.)

How can the servant be both Israel and Jesus? Answer: because, as Israel’s Messiah, Jesus represents Israel as a whole. This idea of representation is found throughout the Bible. A chosen individual can stand for a whole people: a patriarch can represent his whole family; a king can embody his whole nation.

Jesus takes on Israel’s ancient calling to be light to the world, a blessing to all nations. Jesus, the Messiah, the servant, a ‘one-man-Israel’, embodies both Israel’s faithfulness to God and God’s faithfulness to Israel. He is the fulfilment of God’s purposes through Israel and the answer to all God’s promises. He says to the prisoners, ‘Come out’, to those who are in darkness, ‘Appear’.

In Isaiah 49, the prophet announces the servant to the whole world (v.1) as: called by God from conception (v.1), prepared in his youth (v.2) and commissioned to be God’s servant (v.3); knowing pain as his mission seems to fail, yet trusting God nonetheless (v.4); tasked with calling Israel back to God (v.5) – and not only Israel but the whole world (v.6); despised and rejected, yet eventually commanding the allegiance even of monarchs (v.7); embodying God’s saving covenant with His people (v.7) – and not just with Israel, but with people from all over the world (v.9-13).

Thank you God for your servant, Jesus.

The Fix

'The Fix' is another poem from my friend Wilf. As so often with his wordsmithying, worth sharing.

I'm not myself today,
Not that I'm anybody else, you understand
But what I am doesn't seem so good or complete
In this strange bright light.

I feel dangerous and afraid
That if the wrong thing touches me
I would explode, or spit poison
And the "wrong thing" would be
Someone I love,someone like you.
So I'm in a bit of a fix, the fix being that I need fixing
And God who does that kind of stuff
Seems distant
Though it is always He who orchestrates these things.

The happy ending is slow in coming
But he knows it will
He will be himself again
But not again
For it will be the self
He has never quite been before
Some steps closer to perfection

Miracle!

I just had an animated phone call from my wife.

A young woman who we’ve been praying for had just phoned her. This young woman is pregnant and there have been serious complications with the pregnancy. The medics said there was some sort of ‘band’ around the child which meant she was very likely to be born seriously deformed and therefore disabled.

We’ve been praying for this woman and her baby, and her partner. We met them some months ago; they’ve been coming round to our community, becoming our friends, finding faith bit by bit. Life is chaotic for them (as for so many families we meet, where the norm is anything but stable family life).

The other day, this young woman tried praying for the first time. She prayed for her mum who desperately needed a new place to live and was excited when, just hours later, her relieved mum rang to tell her she’d found a suitable place.

The other day she said to my wife, “Praying works!”

Then, today, she went to the hospital to find... no ‘band’ around the baby. Prognosis: normal birth. No reasonable medical explanation. They were both, understandably, awed.

They know we’ve been praying.

It does seem that God moves in simple miracle answers towards those who are just finding faith, just being reborn. (Conversely, when we’ve been believers for longer, things are often less ‘open and shut’ – partly I think because God gets to work on our character, teaching us patience and trust...)

God is loving and good. He’s a faithful Father to all his children – and especially to his newborns.

Love that lasts

My friend, a committed, lifelong celibate, blogged on Valentine’s Day. He made the point that those who have chosen to remain single out of love for God and for humanity (rather like Jesus did) can be just as romantic – more! – than any human couple.

I agree. And I’ve seen it in him and in many other passionate celibates of both sexes. In this post I’m going to explore the corresponding truth – that couples cannot just rely on romance; there has to be gritty, lifelong commitment (such as, in fact, I have also seen modeled in my celibate friends).

Fortunately for me, this post will be easy to write because this week I read two excellent pieces on precisely that topic: lasting love. One from a C of E Archbishop and another from a retired C of E bishop. (Since I’m staying with my in-laws, good Anglicans both, whilst writing this, it seems an opportune moment to say that I think the Church of England has some impressive leaders.)

The Archbishop of York, John Sentamu, is a master publicist with the common touch, a great communicator (and makes a good duo with his boss, the altogether erudite Rowan Williams). Two days ago, on Valentine’s Day, Sentamu wrote an article about what makes love last the test of time. Church Times? Theology Today? No – it was in The Sun. (Read it here.)

Sentamu made the point that when couple marry, contrary to popular belief, they don’t say “I do”, they say “I will”. It’s not just a declaration of “how I feel today”, it’s a declaration of “what I will commit myself to tomorrow”.

Great point, well made. True love, in the end, must be willed, not just felt; must be for the long haul, not just for now.

Then, last night, I was reading a book by Tom Wright, until recently Bishop of Durham (and in my view one of the greatest Christian writers and teachers of our time). As it happened, the passage I was reading was on the same topic, that of lasting love.

Wright writes:

…the excitement of romance is like the excitement of striking a match. It’s sudden, sparky, dramatic – and it doesn’t last long. The question is, What are you going to do with the match once you’ve struck it?

The answer…is that you will use the match to light a candle. A candle isn’t as exciting as a match, at least not to being with; but it can be far more beautiful, far more evocative, and far more long lasting. Human couples need to learn that lesson, to prevent them supposing that, when the match has gone out, something has gone dramatically wrong and they must look for another match to strike as soon as possible. To learn this, indeed, is part of the road to the virtue of chastity.

(from Virtue Reborn)

Love is the aim, the goal, the end. Love is the word that sums up not only mature humanity, but also God himself. But it takes work, effort, grit.

It may even take gasping out prayers and sweating blood in a garden, like it did for Jesus.

Thank you, God, for passionate celibates. And for steely-eyed, determined, married couples. May we all have not just a happy Valentine’s Day, but a happy forever after – in love.

Miracles

After my last post on a healing that we in the Jesus Army have found really exciting, I thought I'd post up a study I wrote recently. It was based in 2 Kings 4; I was considering the miracles of Elisha, and Elijah before him - and Jesus after him.

Elisha's miracles show he carries the same power as Elijah before him (1Ki.2:9): Elisha's multiplication (2Ki.4:1-7, 42-44) and purification (2Ki.4:38-41) of food are reminiscent of Elijah's provision for the widow of Zarephath (1Ki.17:7-16); Elisha raising a child from death (2Ki.4:8-37) is similar to Elijah raising the widow's son (1Ki.17:19-23).

Their miracles demonstrate that each is an anointed prophet, a man of God (2Ki.4:7, 9, 16, 1Ki.17:24 etc.)

And they point towards the miracles of Jesus, the ultimate anointed prophet, the man who is God - food multiplication (Jn.6:1-14), raising a child (Mk.5:35-42) and so on.

Miracles restore nature; they don't change it altogether. God is the Creator and all that He created is good (Gen.1:31): He made a world with plenty of food; He gave life to man; He made breath, sight, strength (see 2Ki.4:34).

Miracles restore creation's goodness. This is why the miracles of Elijah, Elisha - and Jesus - have common themes: provision, healing, commanding nature, reversing death.

Yet - and this is fascinating in itself - the man of God has imaginative freedom to perform miracles differently... Borrow some jars? Send a staff with your servant? Lie on a corpse? Throw flour in the pot? Use a boy's lunch? Smear mud on blind eyes? God works with and through His man to right wrongs and restore creation.

It made me ask what 'imaginative methods' for miracles I have experienced, why such inspired originality might be important, and how we can grow our faith.

Answers on a postcard.

A remarkable healing

Our church is one big hallelujah at the moment.

Tom, a young man who lives in one of our communities went blind six months ago, due to a rare, genetically-inherited condition called Lebers Hereditary Optic Neuropathy. It was very hard for his friends to see him suffering - and, of course, desperately difficult for Tom himself.

On Sunday night, Tom reached a breakthrough moment and re-committed himself to Jesus. This, in itself, was cause for joy as Tom found he was able to reach beyond the pain and literal darkness of the past six months and place his trust in Jesus again. But who would have predicted what followed?

Waking very early in the morning, Tom found to his astonishment - and excitement - that he could see! It wasn't long before the whole house was awake. It was true! Tom can see! Celebrations erupted. Yesterday the news was spreading round our churches.

This was the account given by Ian Clifford, the pastor of Tom's community:

"Tom came to faith in Jesus beginning of last year. Soon after he lost his sight in one eye and then a couple of weeks after lost sight in the other. The doctors diagnosed it as Lebers Hereditary Optic Neuropathy. He could see literally a few inches in front of him but that was very blurred and could only recognise some slight colour. His eyes couldn't cope with any form of light and had to keep his eyes covered with sunglasses.

"The doctors said he'd be permanently like this. Many people have been praying ever since.

"In the midst of all this he continued to live for Jesus although at times his faith was shaken. Last night he re-dedicated his life to Jesus afresh and then woke up at 5:15 to go to the toilet. Suddenly realised he could see and woke the whole house, we've been celebrating ever since."

I had the privilege of seeing Tom later that day, just briefly, through the window of my workplace. But - get this! - Tom saw me! He waved at me. My eyes welled with tears, I don't mind saying.

Should we be surprised? After all, we believe in miracles. We're supposed to expect them. We sing about them. We pray for them. But, flog the dogs, when a blind man sees - a blind man we know and love and have prayed for many times - that's cause for celebration.

Read the accounts of Tom's close friends: Aidan's is here (with some fascinating details from Tom's journey to healing as well); Jane's is here. Nathan's is here.

Good

One of the reasons I love our church is that we know how to make sharing the gospel fun. Check out this video of a recent Jesus flash mob in Northampton:



On the theme of the gospel, check out this interesting blog post from Kurt Willems' Pangea Blog in which he makes the intriguing point that the important thing about the good news is that it is good - and that how we frame the content is secondary. (I'm not sure I fully agree, but he got me thinking before 10 o'clock in the morning, for which - hat off!)

Love, key to joy

Tonight we sang 'This is my commandment that you love one another, that your joy may be full.' It struck me that Jesus didn't say 'that your stress may be full' or 'that your misery may be full' (of course; but stay with me...)

True love moves from the place I want to be to the place my brother or my sister needs me to be. And if it's truly love that moves me the result will be joy. Not resentment. Not strain. Joy.

Feeling stressed, miserable, down in the mouth? Love somebody.

Seasons in community

My friends made this (I think rather wonderful) little video about seasons in Christian community:

One in a taxi, one in a car

Forget greetings card images of three oriental kings offering gifts to a baby in a stable; the Epiphany story found in Matthew's Gospel is politically explosive – and politically incorrect!

We lose its impact because of storybook images that have grown up around it (Matthew doesn’t mention a stable; Mary and Joseph were simply living in a house in Bethlehem by then; the visitors were not kings, but astrologers; there were not three of them, just three gifts).

Why politically explosive? Because these men stride straight into the court of mafioso-style King Herod asking "Where is he who has been born king of the Jews?" – and they didn’t mean Herod! Result: Jesus’ family flee as asylum-seekers, the stargazers slip Herod's noose, while the megalomaniac massacres every infant in Bethlehem.

From the very beginning Matthew’s Gospel is subversive – right to its end with Jesus dying on Caesar's Roman cross, but rising with "all authority on...earth". Jesus is a fundamental challenge to the political powers of the world, a danger to the powerful status quo.

For make no mistake: the true "king of the Jews", the Messiah, is also the true king of the whole world ( just read Psalm 2 and you'll get the idea).

And this leads us to why Matthew’s account would have been politically incorrect. Because these wise men are not Jewish scribes – they're foreigners (Persians) and followers of another religion (Zoroastrians)! Many of Matthew’s Jewish readers wanted a Messiah – but they wanted him for themselves. He was going to be king of the Jews for the Jews – and all those scummy pagans better watch their assess 'cos they were about to get whipped.

Matthew explodes all that – this king has come for all people, all races, all religions.

I have to ask (if I'm to avoid the cultural and religious complacency Matthew seems so determined to upset in his readers): what challenges might this explosive story bring to me? Is Jesus just for the Jesus Army? (Well, no, of course not.) Just for evangelicals? (Well, no. Sure?... Yeah, I'm sure.) Just for Christians? (Well, er...) Just for – people like me?

Maybe, Jesus is less for people like me, and more for, well – people like Him: asylum-seekers, abused children, displaced foreigners, people of 'the wrong' religion?

If Epiphany demolishes some of my small-minded assumptions and makes me uncomfortable, maybe it's because that's what Matthew intended.

Prophetic change

The prophetic word engenders change.

At our New Year celebration on December 31st, our main Jesus Army leader told us that the coming year would be a year of 'courageous faith and action'. He proceeded to unpack this with reference to courageous biblical heroes like Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, thrown into a furnace for refusing to bow to a mad king's statue, or Eleazar, who fought on when all his fellows fled. As we trust God and act on that trust, we will advance as a church.

Yes, 'courageous faith and action' could be a mere slogan. Yet I do believe it's prophetic for us - mainly because I trust the integrity of the man who brought it to us. (We're blessed with a main leader who is both spiritual and humble - good qualifications for being a conduit of God's 'now' word.)

Another leader, a mentor of mine, commented that 'Courageous faith and action' is certainly better than 'Action and hope for the best', which he confessed has sometimes been his approach.

The fact is that genuine prophetic words bring real change. Last night, at our little local Agape meal, I spoke a little about what 'courageous faith and action' may mean for us - in particular, being true to our radical call. So we explored Acts 2 again, and what it means to be 'devoted' - to word, fellowship, sacrament and worship (Acts 2:42). It produced some truly hearty discussion and a sense of change in the air for the coming year.

I think if I'd just chosen my own topic it wouldn't have been quite the same. As a pastor I've learnt that something's released when I support and unpack the word of the prophets.

So I'm looking forward to 2012. God, grant us courageous faith - and the courage to put it into action.

Truly human

Writing a study on Philippians 2 today, and found it arresting. Here's what I wrote:

Paul the apostle was not afraid to be vulnerable or to humble himself before his converts and churches. In this passage, he exhorts his readers to be humble, but also shows them how.

Epaphroditus, Paul’s friend and co-worker, "was ill, near to death", writes Paul; "But God had mercy on him, and not only on him but on me also, lest I should have sorrow upon sorrow" (v.27). Paul loved his fellow-workers in Christ; the thought of losing one through death was genuinely distressing to him and he wasn’t afraid to show it.

This perfectly matches what he writes earlier in the chapter about how, if you’re truly humble, you will "count others more significant" (v.3) and look "not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others" (v.4). Timothy is another example of such wonderfully human humility and love (v.20-21).

But the ultimate example of such humility is Jesus. In his hymn to Jesus (v.5-11), Paul shows that His humility makes Jesus the most human of all – indeed, Jesus embodies what a human should be.

Startlingly, Paul also says that Jesus’ humility is also the sign of His being truly God: Jesus did not humble Himself despite being God; it was because He is God that He humbled Himself.

The nature of God – and therefore of human beings who bear His image – is generous, self-giving, humble love.

Now to live the life...

Lark or owl?

One of the many, many adjustments to other human beings that come with living in community is how you use time. I’m not, here, talking about scheduled time – meetings and the like (plenty of them in community, but that’s not what I mean). With them it’s pretty clear: be there or think of a really groovy excuse (‘Sorry! I was leading someone to the Lord...’).

No, I’m talking about the in-between times, the non-specified times.

For example, take mornings and evenings, those un-allotted hours before (or after) the timetable whizzes in (or out) of play. Put simply, some people are morning larks; others are night owls.

Me, I’m no lark. When it comes to mornings, I’m right with the biblical proverb that says ‘Whoever blesses his neighbour with a loud voice, rising early in the morning, will be counted as cursing.’

Too right. Don’t talk to me in the mornings. Please – don’t be jolly. Leave me alone.

For me, the challenge of the morning is how to get up at the precise, timed-to-the-millisecond, moment which will allow me to roll into the bus that takes me to work on time. I’m far too intent on this delicately-timed operation (and on the fact that I can’t remember my name until 9 o’clock) to talk to anyone – let alone in a loud voice.

I’ve tried to change this. I know the holy people in our community rise early and work their way through the more important spiritual disciplines before breakfast. They are the larks, and their morning faces shine like the sun. But I can’t. I promise you, I’ve tried. I’m just simply not a morning person. Getting up at 7 o’clock for work is a minor miracle for me, I assure you.

Mind you, others are even more owlish than I am (I’m a tired middle-aged-parent-with-small-kids type who tends to burn the candle at neither end these days). But some are huge night hour adventurers. We have a young woman living in our community house at the moment who comes alive at 10 o’clock at night. That’s when she wants to go off to the park for madcap swinging fun. Or walk to the sea. Or make up a play. Or play an epic game of the Lord of the Rings board game (with extensions).

Unfortunately for her, at that point, all the larks are off to bed (as are the tired middle-aged-parent-with-small-kids types). So she’s on her own for a few hours, wondering what happened to living in community.

The secret, as with several squillion things in community, is give and take. Sometimes people have to get up a wee bit earlier – miss their Saturday lie in of epic proportions perhaps – to join more with community life. Others may stay up later than they prefer in order to join that late night heart-sharing in the kitchen.

In community, love comes down to the little things like this.

Then there’s the issue of time together versus time alone. But I think I’ll leave that post for now – till I’ve got time to write it...

Wesley's words

To say the Christians did this only till the destruction of Jerusalem, is not true; for many did it long after. Not that there was any positive command for so doing: it needed not; for love constrained them. It was a natural fruit of that love wherewith each member of the community loved every other as his own soul. And if the whole Christian Church had continued in this spirit, this usage must have continued through all ages. To affirm therefore that Christ did not design it should continue, is neither more nor less than to affirm, that Christ did not design this measure of love should continue. I see no proof of this.

- John Wesley, commenting on Acts 2:45 ("And parted them to all as any one had need")

Too busy to blog

I confess, of late I've been a wee bit too busy to blog.

But, until I blog again, here's a few posts and things I've come across recently which I liked and thought I'd share:

Relevant magazine on why membership matters.

My housemate Tschaka musing about community - and while you're on that theme, another housemate Stu wrote some amusing (and searching) questions about community to a young aspirant recently and blogged them at my request.

Some fascinating early church perspectives on friendship from doctor Trevor (more to follow I think).

Only Peter Rollins could deny the resurrection and be so inspiring at the same time.

And on a lighter note: this vid of children and marshmallows has done the rounds, but since we watched it at both our Sunday night café at Coventry Jesus Centre and our staff meeting at work, I thought I'd share here.

Hope to blog soon.

True lies

I’m re-reading The Lord of the Rings after many years.

It’s prequel, The Silmarillion, is a great favourite of mine, one of the most beautiful books I’ve ever read outside of Scripture and Shakespeare. And I’m reading The Hobbit to my 8- and 6-year-olds – so I thought it was time to revisit LOTR.

Tolkein expressed distaste for allegory, and the way that genre seeks to hound the reader into truth. He preferred the truths that come sideways through myth. Nevertheless, last night I read something which opened up a truth I’ll jot here, for those interested. (If mythic/fantasy literature doesn’t do it for you, feel free to stop here. See you next post if I haven’t put you off for good.)

So: The Lord of the Rings. I’ve arrived at that part in the story in which we meet Denathor, steward of Gondor. For those not familiar with Tolkein’s epic, Denathor has long ruled over that embattled country and its besieged capital, Minas Tirith. He rules in the absence of a king, just barely holding off the might and horror of neighbouring Mordor, the land of shadow.

Denathor is a man in despair – a despair that, a few chapters after we meet him, descends into madness. Convinced that all is lost and hope is gone, he tries to burn himself alive, together with his wounded son and heir.

The source of his despair, it transpires has come from having seen into a palantír (non-Tolkein readers, think crystal ball; Tolkein readers, forgive the comparison) in which he has wrestled with the will of the evil Lord of the Rings, Sauron. Through what he has permitted Denathor to see in the palantír, Sauron has deceived the steward into the crushing hopelessness which defeats him.

But it is what Sauron permits Denathor to see that struck me: he lets him see the truth.

Nothing that Denathor sees (or is permitted to see) in the palantír is untrue. He sees enemy armies amassing in great might and power, he sees the sparseness of his own and his allies’ strength. They cannot win. All hope is lost.

Yet Denethor is deceived by the truth. (In the end, it is two highly improbable heroes, two little half-size hobbits, that will bring triumph against Sauron’s might. But these Denathor did not see – nor did Sauron.)

When Satan, ‘the father of lies’, wishes to deceive, to wear out the saints, to sow discouragement and despair, he does not always lie outright. His most compelling lies can be those that are true. Lies that show truth – but not the whole truth.

“You’re not growing.” “That didn’t work.” “And you – you’re a sinner.” “Masses of people in the UK couldn’t care less about God.” “Sometimes, you couldn’t care less either.” “No-one’s listening.” “You make so little difference.”

And then, the whispered suggestion comes, so quiet, it seems to come from your own thought: “Why not just give up?”

But it’s a deceit. God delights to perform his greatest acts through the little people. He works in the small, the hidden, the ordinary, the overlooked. Watch out for mangers – they’ve been know to hold Messiahs. Watch out for executed criminals – they’ve been known to save the world. Watch out for that ragtag, disregarded, often odd, usually confused, rather-behind-the-times bunch called the Christian Church: they’re the firstfruits of God’s glorious new creation.

Let me learn the lesson of Denathor. I want to avoid listening to lies – especially when they’re true.

The kingdom is coming. Come, O Lord!

Mark and Helen

We're grieving the deaths of two friends we hadn't seen for a while, Mark and Helen. We first met them through the Coventry Jesus Centre (see yesterday's post and others), but they became part of our family for a little while, often visiting us at White Stone House, our community home. They even spent a few days away in Kent with us all last February.

Mark was an active, intelligent man, always stimulating to talk to. His devotion to Helen was obvious. Helen was quiet and sweet, with a wonderful impish sense of humour that could take us by surprise at times.

We lost touch in the early summer. They had been beset with difficulties, and found it hard to come all the way to Coventry (they lived in the next town). Also, I got the impression that Mark found the way his heart was being opened up by the love of a big family rather scary: when hurts run deep, it's not easy to open up.

We remained on very warm terms, I exchanged friendly emails with Mark from time to time, and they popped into Coventry Jesus Centre sometimes, too.

So imagine our shock and grief when we heard, the other day, from Mark's mother, that Mark and Helen had been found dead in their house.

In all the pain, in the fond memories now tinted with sorrow, in the regret, the inevitable stabs of guilt ('could we have done something more?'), in the anger ('why were they failed by the system?') and the helplessness, I cling to this: they tasted love - for each other, certainly, and also, for a time, among us; they knew Jesus; they received his love; they're in heaven.

Another friend of mine wrote a poem just recently after the death of his mother. But as I read it, I was thinking of Mark and Helen.

It was a long time
But she could see now.
All those tears that had poured from her eyes
And those inside
Blurring her vision and drowning her heart
Were all wiped away
She could see.

She came from a long line of broken hearts
Just an ordinary woman longing for righteousness
But she shone brighter than any celestial body
When she landed here upon this New Earth.
She used to be my mother,
But she is taken up with bigger things now.

It’s been a long time,
Something like and not like a thousand years
All spent gazing at this daisy
But as she will tell you
Its fascination is endless
(Like everything else here)
And there’s no rush,
For if time is here at all
It is a river without end
If not, then time has poured into a shoreless ocean
Either way there is no rush.

Mark and Helen - you will be sorely missed. Until we meet again, rest well - and enjoy those daisies.

Naked ladies and raised eyebrows

So, there's this Christian chap touring 66 cities around the UK, speaking on all 66 books of the Bible as he goes (one in each). While he was in Coventry, he dropped by our Jesus Centre and interviewed the manager, Piers.

He was very enthusiastic and affirming about what we seek to do and to be. So encouraging, I thought I'd share his blog post (which includes the interview vid) here. Enjoy.

A funny postscript: the blog post is entitled '"Bombs and naked ladies" - a good way to pick up attention from Googlers, even if their not the kind of Googlers likely to be interested in a preaching tour. As I was looking at it earlier an old friend dropped by. As we were chatting, I noticed him raise his eyebrows as he glanced at my PC monitor. Only after I left did I realise he may not have realised the blog was about two icons of Coventry's past (the blitz and Lady Godiva) rather than anything unsavoury.

I think he may be praying for me right now. Hey ho. I can always use people praying for me.

Naturally speaking

I’ve been thinking about natural strengths recently, partly prompted by writing a study on two pretty impressively able characters, one from the Old Testament – Elisha – and one from the New – Paul. On the one hand, God clearly chooses, calls, and uses people of capacity and character to further his purposes. On the other, he chooses what is “foolish in the world to shame the wise and what is weak in the world to shame the strong”. And he calls us to “die to” much that may be naturally good, for the sake of something spiritually better. (Or so Hinds Feet on High Places says, so it must be true, eh?)

So I posed the question on Twitter: “What is the right biblical attitude to natural talent? Die to it? Use it? Both? Half & half? Or what? Answers on a posttweet please.”

Most of the answers were basically positive towards natural strengths and talents, with the caveat sometimes added that we should “give glory to God” for them (Not always quite sure what this means in practice beyond putting pious expressions like “Praise the Lord” on our lips, which I can never quite get into despite being a passionate Christian. Post for another day?)

Anyway – Elisha and Paul. Some thoughts taken from the studies I wrote:

Elisha has many qualities: his determination (ploughing parched ground with twelve yoke of oxen); his full-blooded commitment (burning the tools of his old occupation when called to follow Elijah); his loyalty and resolve to follow his mentor closely once he sensed the time for Elijah’s departure was near, his heart-devotion glimpsed in his quiet grief at the thought of this departure. His boldness and faith are evident in his request for a "double portion" of Elijah's spirit.

Israel had many kings, but they were rarely her real leaders. True leaders were anointed not just with oil, but with the Spirit. In the era of 2Kings, the monarchy was so unspiritual that true godly authority in Israel had reverted to prophets. The issue of Elijah’s successor was vital because he would represent God’s authority in Israel. The Bible narrative hints at Elijah’s likeness to Israel’s founding prophet: his parting the water by striking it with his cloak is reminiscent of Moses’ parting the Red Sea with his staff. When Elisha is able to do this, too, he is shown to be the true successor of Elijah, just as Joshua was successor to Moses. Elisha now carries God’s authority.

Reading and pondering all this, I find myself asking: which of Elisha’s qualities can I aim to grow in? But also – how can we, in our church, ensure those with anointing (rather than just natural ability or a “leadership” label) carry true authority among us?

In Paul’s world there were three key groups: Jews, Greeks and Romans. Paul was the ideal man to represent the gospel across his world: a pure-bred Jew who studied under a leading rabbi; a Greek-speaker with good knowledge of philosophy; a Roman citizen by birth. He is at pains to stress his Jewish pedigree to an audience of zealous Jews; he makes use of his Roman citizenship on more than one occasion; in Athens and Corinth, he quotes Greek poetry and philosophy.

Sometimes these advantages led to gospel opportunities: impressed with Paul’s excellent Greek, a tribune allows him to speak to the Jews, whom Paul addresses in Hebrew. Sometimes they led to Paul escaping imprisonment or punishment, as in Jerusalem and previously in Philippi. And sometimes they did him no good at all: the Jewish crowd still turn on him in Jerusalem; the Athenians dismiss him as a "babbler"; tradition says Paul was beheaded in Rome!

Paul saw his natural advantages as rubbish compared to the “surpassing worth of knowing Christ” and having God’s power working in him. But he certainly wasn’t against using natural strengths when the situation called for them!

We’ve landed slap bang in the middle of another paradox, I feel. I must ask myself: what are my natural strengths? Am I able to “consider them as rubbish”? Conversely, can I freely offer them to God to use them for his plans and purpses, for the gospel?