True me or not true me?

'This above all: to thine own self be true' says Polonius, in the first Act of Hamlet. So: is Polonius right?

Thus I tweeted moments ago.

The other night, a dear friend listened to some of my stored-up disappointments, frustrations and questions, and gently asked afterwards: are you happy with who you are?

It was the right question. Behind some of my fuming was the sense that I wasn’t quite sure.

We can put up with a lot, said my wise friend, if we know we’re being true to ourselves. If we don’t know that, it doesn’t take much to get us down.

 It switched a light on for me, this did.

I know that Polonius’s famous dictum tweeted above can be a clichéd excuse for self-congratulation and pomposity (indeed, this was probably true of Polonius, and that was Shakespeare’s irony). But that doesn’t stop it being true.

I’m grateful to have such wise friends. And I’m even more grateful that this particular friend is my wife.

Learning from Margaret

Margaret, an elderly member of our church passed away just recently. She was an unforgettable real character, and much loved. If you want a snapshot of her, it might suffice to tell you that one of the main hobbies of this nearly blind yet intrepid soul was - archery. Yes, archery. She attended a class called 'Archery for the blind'. It gives you a flavour.

A thanksgiving service for her life was held last week, in which moving testimonies were shared about how much Margaret had meant to many.

For me Margaret was a fascinating friend: on car journeys to and from her house on the edge of the city, she would regale me with tales of the War, and of her experience as a nurse. Yet in recent years, since Margaret has been quite frail and ill, she ministered to me in a new, unexpected, way. Visiting her in the nursing home she was living in, she brought me peace and taught me Sabbath.

By this time her conversation was less scintillating (though not without its fascinating flashes). Memory was failing, sight had almost gone. But Margaret had a quality of 'being'. Her life had deepened as it slowed down. Once I went to see her a little desperate because of a series of discouraging events. I spent a quiet hour with Margaret, during which she listened. I remember she said 'Sometimes things go well. And then they stop. And then they go well again.' You may not think this is all that profound, but I tell you it's what I needed to hear.

Margaret's 'being-ness' brought me back to peace.

Reading something Walter Brueggemann wrote reminded me of my times with Margaret. Speaking of the commandment to honour one’s aging parents, he writes:

"[This commandment] is closely related to the Sabbath. It, too, insists that human worth cannot be assessed in terms of economic productivity. Parents who may be belittled because they are no longer productive are indeed special candidates for Sabbath, endlessly at rest, Sabbath-enacting members of the community"

We need "Sabbath-enacting members" of our community. They keep us sane.

For this, and for much much else besides, I give thanks for Margaret.

Here is a video, made by Margaret's son, Jon, to mark her passing and celebrate her life:

Oh Andy, we just...

My friend Andy commented on an old post of mine, 'Stop praying to the Lord!'

I enjoyed his comment so much - especially his mock prayer in the penultimate paragraph - that on rereading it today, I thought I'd elevate it to a post of its own:

Perhaps in this age of absentee fathers it is no longer appropriate to pray to "Father"? I'm quite sure that Jesus' audience had a very different mental image when he told them to pray to "Our Father".

Likewise, the term "Majesty" today conjurs images of pomp and circumstance rather than ultimate authority. Perhaps praying to "King Jesus" is outdated too.

On the other hand, I do think that a bit of judicious self-censoring is in order when addressing the All Compassionate Almighty Creator and Sustainer of all things. After all, if someone at work came to me with a request like this:

"Oh Andy I just want to bring to you my computer Andy. It's so slow Helpdesk man and Andy it just needs the touch of your hand. So Mighty Computer Wizard, please would you reach out and heal my computer? Yes Andy, I ask this in the name of our employer with whom you have a contract that states that you *must* fix my computer when it breaks because it's in your nature Andy and you can't help but fix a broken computer Andy because you love computers Andy. Yes Andy. Thank you Andy. In the employer's name Andy, Amen.

I think I'd probably laugh in their face! A simple, "Andy, my computer's got problems, can you help?" would probably achieve a much better result.

Fear of fire

This year, for the Jesus Army, has been dubbed the year of ‘hearts on fire’. Led by Mick Haines, our main leader, we’ve become aware again of our great need of God. At a recent leaders’ conference, Mick read this passage from early Methodist pioneer Samuel Chadwick:

The church is powerless without the fire of the Holy Ghost. Destitute of fire, nothing else counts; possessing fire nothing else really matters.

A confession: talk of the fire scares me a little. I know as a charismatic-Christian-type it should set my heart beating and my blood racing. But at the leaders’ conference I found myself feeling a reticence I couldn’t immediately explain. Was it reluctance to get into hype? That would be a safely smug conclusion – but it wasn’t, not really.

It’s God I’m afraid of. God tends to get me into trouble.

‘The fire’ led me into Christian community. It hasn’t always been easy. The fire demands I forgive those who hurt me. Those who think that is easy have never really been hurt. The fire led me to give up a job I loved. The fire demands I share all my money and most of my time. The fire led me to put hope in some who subsequently let me down. The fire insists I continue to (in Churchill’s famous phrase) move from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.

Some may think of the fire of God as warming, like a homely hearth. I’ve come to think of it as scary and liable to scorch.

So it was comforting to me when a friend quoted Malachi chapter 3. ‘Who can endure the day of his coming?’ asks the prophet, and I know what he means. ‘He is like a refiner’s fire’.

But Malachi adds another metaphor to fire: ‘like fullers’ soap’. The fire – burning, blazing, roaring, consuming, purging – is also soap – gentle, cleansing, soaking, renewing.

When God comes close – and we know he must if we’re to be renewed as a movement – he comes as fire and it’s right to fear him.

But the presence of God is also like a warm bath filled with cleansing soapy, bubbly, lather. Get in, get cleansed, get healed.

(As Malachi puts it, no longer say ‘It is vain to serve God. What is the profit of our keeping his charge or of walking as in mourning before the LORD of hosts?’) Let cynicism and disappointment be washed away. Be renewed. Be refreshed.

I’ll have some of that.

Conception, conversion, consummation

Three linked poems by my friend Wilf.

Conception

The flame came down encountering the lily

And both were held in awe

Innocence marvelling at purity;

The bearer of the news,

The bearer of the word

Trembling on the edge of the moment

When the seed of God would tip into our world

In the heart of a pure girl’s womb.

Conversion

When the ‘brave’ braced back bends braver

And the knee knows now to kneel.

The conquered king is caught from his castle

Hauled, galled, called to the hallowed gallows

Head held high. Clawing, gnawing, mauling;

Part lamb, beast and man;

And tears turn fears to trembling trust.

In this chaos of contrition

The seed slips silently in

And all heaven exults.

Consummation

Still, still, still the newborn earth

And heaven here is hushed

No faintest breath disturbs the air

Through which the nubile figures move.

If divinity can look with awe

Then this, this, this is the moment

For the groom has locked his gaze

Upon his bride.

She whom he has drawn from the beginning

Draws close and ever closer

The first touch,

Time and eternity meet as so many times before

Parts of the one, eternal moment

The first kiss, and then...

The fat and the fire

"Lovely evening tonight" I tweeted. "Friendship, candlelit dinner, baked spiced apples, glowing fire, chocolates, laughs. Oh and I was called fat."

It's true, one of our dear young disciples made this heinous (and sadly increasingly accurate) accusation. And it was funny, though not as funny as the time my then 3-year-old declared: "When I grow up I want to be like Daddy - " (pause for pathos and effect, then - ) "fat!" In fact, though I may be a little more rounded than I was ten years ago, I don't think I yet quite fit the epithet.

Nevertheless, there is something about those long, fire- and candle-lit evenings in winter, in community, that really does feel like living off the fat of the land. Friends and family gathered with nothing much to do except to be. To be friends, to be family, to be...

It seemed a fitting follow-up to my last, rather theoretical, post about Sabbath rest.

C S Lewis, as ever, put it rather well: "Is any pleasure on earth as great as a circle of Christian friends by a good fire?"
 

To rest is holy

Last Sunday I spoke about the fourth of the Ten Commandments:  ‘Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.’ Here’s a summary.

What do we make of the command to rest, to take time out – in this case one day in seven – to stop working?

Some find obedience to this command easier than others. Garfield for instance.

The fact that God has to command rest indicates we can become work-addicted. More on this later. First to explore a couple of ‘whys’ behind the command.

‘Why’ number one. The Exodus version of the commandment says the reason for Sabbath is: For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them, and rested on the seventh day. Therefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and made it holy.

So why did God rest? Was he tired out? (Theologically problematic given omnipotence.) Had he got ahead of schedule? (Ditto omniscience.) Pop back to heaven? (Ditto omnipresence.) In fact, the reason God ‘rested’ is hinted at in these word: And God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good.

God rested to celebrate, to enjoy creation because it was very good. It was not only of value for what it could do or produce (utility), nor was it meaningless (futility). It was fruitful and abundant, but its meaning was not limited to this. Ultimately it was a work of beauty that both glorified its maker and brought joy to its maker.

Sabbath reminded Israel: creation was made for more than utility (what it can do) and futility (having no meaning).

‘Why’ number 2. The Deuteronomy version of the commandment says: You shall remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and that the Lord your God brought you out from there with a mighty outstretched hand and an outstretched arm. Therefore the Lord your God commanded you to keep the Sabbath day.

Sabbath reminded Israel they were no longer slaves. Not only was creation not made for utility or futility, but nor were they. They had been delivered from Pharaoh’s back-breaking brick-making and soul-destroying quotas.

And we should note a further revolutionary fact: the commandment was not only for adult Israelites but for ‘your son or your daughter or your male servant or your female servant, or your ox or your donkey or any of your livestock, or the sojourner who is within your gates, that your male servant and your female servant may rest as well as you’. Sabbath was egalitarian: for all creation – even animals.

Sabbath points back to creation’s original purpose – joy, celebration and glory – and forward to the day when creation would cast of its slavery to utility and futility.

For, as Paul puts it, creation has been ‘subjected to futility’. As Genesis has it:
Cursed is the ground because of you;
in pain you shall eat of it all the days of your life;
thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for you;
and you shall eat the plants of the field.
By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread,
till you return to the ground,
for out of it you were taken;
for you are dust,
and to dust you shall return.

Sin has made work hard, unyielding, relentless. Utility. It has made the human destiny ‘dust’. Futility.

Work, work, work, work, work. Die.

It is a Christian commonplace (though no less glorious for that) that Jesus’ death and resurrection have undone the effects of sin and overcome the fall. He brought old creation to its end – he literally bore the thorns of Genesis on his head as he died, the ‘last Adam’ – and took it to the grave. On the Sabbath he rested.

And ‘on the first day of the week’ (as it carefully points out in all four gospels) creation began again. That is Jesus was raised imperishable. If old creation began with the heaven and the earth and finished with a ruling man, new creation began with a ruling man and will finish with a new heaven and earth.

And in the meantime? After all, looking around the world today there’s plenty of evidence of utility and futility – but what of new creation?

In the meantime, there’s work to be done. ‘God and make disciples’ says Jesus, echoing the ‘Be fruitful and multiply’ of Genesis. And he doesn’t just mean converts. He means spread new life. Baptise people into new creation. Make new people (including yourself). And live like he commanded.

Which includes Sabbath.

The New Testament is ambivalent about actually having a one-day-a-week Sabbath. Paul ranges from tolerance to trenchant prohibition.

The latter almost certainly had its roots in Jesus’ own strong condemnation of a Jewish Sabbath-keeping which had become so divorced from its raison d’être that it enslaved people rather than freeing them. (To love God is to love people. Put another way: obedience to God will always emerge as love for people – otherwise we haven’t understood what God is commanding us.)

Sabbath for new creation people is not a day off a week (though if it works for you, feel free).

Sabbath is a way of life. As the letter to the Hebrews says: There remains a Sabbath rest for the people of God... Let us therefore strive to enter that rest.

Sabbath is an end to futile labour. Our work in the Lord is not in vain. It’s an end to seeing people as worth only what they produce. All are valued. It’s an end to stressy striving. It’s an end to manic measuring.

It means hard work, but it also means valuing play. It means tears, but joy follows after. It means human beings, not human doings. It means saying no to drivenness, but yes to servanthood. It means sprinkling some Calvinism in our Arminianism. It means work is good, but rest is ‘holy’.

It means, for some, and in order to obey the Lord of the Sabbath – being a little more like Garfield.

Have yourself a very little Christmas

A few years ago I wrote a little rant about consumerism at Christmas. To my great amusement the first comment on the post was spam advertising Christmas hampers. The irony. Added grist to my mill, needless to say.

Right, so let's get this straight: I love friendship, being together, family, fun and games, warmth and generosity. If that's how you celebrate the season, I'm with you (and I venture to say that God - not the killjoy we sometimes present him as - would agree).

But this poem - written some years ago, but updated today - is to say again that as a follower of Jesus, I can't, I simply can't, commerorate his birth by abandoning everything he stood for, everything he said.

So the poem, a plea to abandon consumerism precisely because it's Christmas, is called 'Have yourself a very little Christmas' It's an anti-advert. Works best read out loud - but you may just have to imagine that.

Have yourself a very little Christmas: an anti-advert

You’ll all have seen that jolly chap
dressed all in red and furry white
with pressies stuffed into his sack
and reindeer trained for turbo flight
– but did you know that Santa’s suit
was first designed by Coca Cola
in 1931 to loot
the world? A big fat dollar
for corporate fat cats to get fatter?
Last year eleven billion pounds
were borrowed to fund the Xmas platter
of the rich – and if that sounds
not filthy enough then you may need
to consider that eleven billion notes
is enough, by far, for a year, to feed
fifty million of the poorest poor…
Please: kick sick consumerism out the door.

See, Jesus is not some stained glass sissy
looking woefully down from Cathedral windows:
he’s angry; he’s fuming against hypocrisy,
yelling “Woe to the rich” to the pious offenders
who tithe full of pride and let justice go hang
– and “Blessed are the poor”, “Forsake all and follow”:
get out of the rat race, so shallow and hollow:

Come out of the inn: no room for me there
far from chestnut roasting firelight,
my squalling fogs bleak midwinter air,
and gold quickly sold funds a refugee flight.
From wood of the trough to wood of the cross
from roadside birth to borrowed tomb
from curse of king to mother’s sore loss
I never asked the world for room.

Slam the door; make sure you lock it;
follow the leader means do what I say – like
not running in circles to line every pocket;
like: give it all up; like: give it away.

Like what you're hearing? Like what you've heard?
Wanna be in my gang now you know about my birth?
Like what you're hearing? Like what you've heard?
Would you own all creation
and inherit the earth?

Thoughts on Genesis 1

The famous and dramatic opening chapter of the bible is full of powerful truth.

In the beginning, God... There is one God who is eternal and uncreated.

God created the heavens and the earth... God created everything, spiritual and physical, simply by speaking! He didn't struggle to create - God is almighty. God made the world as a wonderful temple: heaven is the holy place where God dwells; earth, the outer courts, expresses His glory.

God created man in his own image... The climax of building a pagan temple was the setting up of a 'god's' image - an idol. This is a pale reflection of the climax of God's creation: He makes human beings in His image and places them in the world. Living, breathing, loving human beings reflect and represent God Himself.

Everything that He had made...was very good... The created world is good. Evil (which enters the account two chapters later) can only spoil creation, rather than being original in itself.

The first chapter of Genesis is poetic in form. Later chapters become more clearly historical, focusing on Abraham and his family. Powerful poetry stirs awe and deepens the heart's understanding. It isn't 'history' or 'science' in a modern-day sense. Yet what this chapter tells us about God and man and creation is profoundly important.

I'm left with thought-work to do: explore what it means to be 'in God's image'. Mine this chapter for other important truths.

Speaking quietly

“It speaks for itself – quietly.”

So says the visitors' leaflet at Batsford Arboretum, home to many beautiful trees. My wife and I went for an autumn walk there today.

The place is effulgent with luminous yellows, burnished oranges and blazing reds, as well as some residual cool greens among the tall beeches and firs.

It is also, as the leaflet promised, quiet – apart from tinkling streams that criss-cross through the wooded paths.

“It speaks for itself – quietly.” That, I thought, is quite a good summary of what creation does. It speaks, but quietly, on the whole.

Not just in the glory of beech and acer; also in the perseverance of dandelion; the brilliance of carapace; the patience of moss; the humility of grass; the mystery of mist; the utility of worm; the logic of branch; the humour of mushroom; the mischief of cloud; the wistfulness of water; the playfulness of bamboo; the security of sunlight; the equanimity of dog; the cleverness of cat; the generosity of sky...

I need to shut up and listen.

He said what?!

Is the joke on you?

Another poem wot I wrote. Works best read aloud with a bit of drama. I dedicate it to my mother. Not only did I inherit any gifts I may have in creative writing (not to mention drama) from her, but she also taught me that the first step on the road of love is tolerance. Love's road may go much further, but it starts with that first step and never unsteps it. (She also told me last night that she often reads my blog. So this is for her.)

He said what?!
The good Samaritan.
He said...
The good Samaritan!
Good?
And Samaritan?!
A heretic, terrorist, unclean Samaritan?
Good?!
The Pharisee is speechless.

For us for whom Samaritans
Are nice people who help with problems
On the telephone
The shock is less.

Who is he telling us
Is good?
The good gay?
The good Muslim?
The good evolutionary biologist?
Good God we say,
What a shock.

Friends make friends

'What I'd really like is a pint of freshly squeezed orange juice!' One of our house family was feeling rough last night. One of those lingering colds. Hearing his orange juice longing, my 9-year-old daughter and I nipped out to a local store and got him a carton of posh Clementine juice. I think he was well-blessed.

Friendship is priceless.

There's a bit of a catchphrase round our place at the moment: 'friends make friends'. When we're truly friends with each other, it's attractive; others want to join in.

So we've been upping the importance of friendship in our household (by 'household' I mean not only those of us who live in our community house, but our wider circle of members and friends, too). We all know, somewhere in our bones, that friendship is simply the best thing in life. But we need to hear it sometimes, especially when busyness and clashing priorities can seem so pressing. And also because friendship - just chilling together, enjoying each other, laughing, playing - can seem somehow less spiritual than, for instance, all closing our eyes and singing a Matt Redman song.

I think that's a mistake. Friendship is centre stage, not in the wings.

There's a beautiful little bit tucked away at the end of one of the smaller letters in the New Testament: 'The friends greet you. Greet the friends, every one of them.' (3 John 15) Christians are called 'friends'. Not 'members' (powerful word if it means parts of one body, less so if it means belonging to a club); not even 'brethren'; but friends.

There have been many attempts to define friendship, some of which make good fridge magnet type quotations. 'Friendship is a single soul dwelling in two bodies'. That's Aristotle, y'know (thanks Google). 'A friend is someone who knows all about you and still likes you.' That sort of thing.

I like some of the biblical proverbs about friendship:

A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity. (Proverbs 17:17) 'That's what friends are for' they say about help given in hard times. True word that.

A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother. (18:24) There's something about friendships formed in Christ which has the potential to run deeper by far than even family ties - and certainly deeper than just those we sit next to once a week on Sunday.

Faithful are the wounds of a friend; profuse are the kisses of an enemy. (27:6) We usually take this to mean that the truthful reality of a friend is worth a lot even when it hurts - which is true. But I also wonder if it may include the idea that it's better to be hurt unintentionally by a true friend than to lap up the false blandishments of a false friend. Certainly I've been often hurt by my friends in Christ - but they're still my true friends and I ought to remember this. Mustn't let offence rob me of that.

Oil and perfume make the heart glad, and the sweetness of a friend comes from his earnest counsel. (27:9) Beautiful. There's nothing quite like heart-to-heart honesty with a dear, deep friend.

So we're into friendship: meals round friends' houses; parties with treacle toffee; days out together; games; laughter; nicknames; prayers.

We want a widening circle of friends. Life affords nothing better.

Hoorah for pessimism!

'Good morning, Little Piglet,' said Eeyore. 'If indeed is is a good morning,' he said. 'Which I doubt,' said he. 'Not that it matters,' he said.

 So, my friend tweets: 'A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.'

A nice little sound bite (I wonder if it's original to him?)

And I wonder if it's true?

A year or two back, I remember hearing a radio discussion in which one chap was expounding the virtues of 'defensive pessimism'. He argued that optimism, almost universally feted as a wonderful and desirable state of mind, will often have disappointment as its long-term result. (After all, there is such a thing as wishful thinking.) Conversely, a judicious pessimism, he argued, can lead to a life filled with pleasant surprises.

So all you Eeyores out there, all you Puddleglums, all you Lieutenant Worfs - take heart. We need you dour 'bottle's half empty' types just as much as we need those bouncy 'bottle's half full' types.

Of course, this is quite possibly the most pointless post I've ever written. As Eeyore put it:

'This writing business. Pencils and what-not. Over-rated if you ask me. Silly stuff. Nothing in it.'

Everyone valued

I love being in a people-loving church of zero-prejudice.

Two Facebook statuses by different friends, both in the Jesus Army, stuck out to me this morning. Here's the first, referring to our big bash in Sheffield last Saturday:

I am proud of my church, the Jesus Army. We have slogans "All accepted, none rejected" and "Where everyone is valued." Saturday in Sheffield demonstrated, once again, that it doesn't matter how people classify you: by race, colour, gender, age, sexual orientation, previous religion, history, class or any other "box", you can be accepted as a full member of the church.

And the second from another friend:

The last few days have been a stark reminder that life is all about the people... Those who are gone, those who are here, those who are far away and those who are near. They all shape you, make you and change you. Its the people that make life what it is and its those people that remember what you made of life when you're gone. Thanking God for the people in my life, those that have been, and those people making life what it is!

I believe that in our time the church must earn its right to speak into our culture. It earns that right not by seizing or protecting power, not by intoning or preaching from some lofty height, but by - truly, demonstrably, authentically - loving all people everywhere.

I'm glad to be part of a church that is at least trying to do just that.

The bible says

I love the bible. But I wrote this poem in response to those who think 'the bible says' is the end of the argument. It seems to me that what the bible says invites us into an argument that the bible invites us to have... with the bible!

                The bible says

                The bible says
                Slaves
                Obey your masters
                The bible says
                Women must be seen and not heard
                In church
                The bible says
                Go into the land and kill them all
                Spare not the women and children
                The bible says
                Stone
                The man who lies with a man
                The bible says
                Do not eat shellfish
                On pain of death
                This and many other things that are wrong
                The bible says
                The bible also tells a story
                A story in which slaves are set free
                By an almighty outstretched arm
                A story in which Mary is not sent back into the kitchen
                To be with the women
                A story in which
                Love
                Fulfils the law
                A story in which we cannot call unclean
                That which God has made clean
                On pain of death
                The bible tells a story
                That invites us to argue
                To wrestle
                To do battle
                Even with what
                The bible says
                The bible tells
                The story of a journey
                In which love knows the way

Martin Luther, alive and well

Martin Luther's still converting people, 500 years on.

A friend of a friend (who also happens to be a friend in his own right) was brought up a Christian, but pretty switched off to the childhood faith he inherited from his parents.

A bright kid, he's doing A-level History. His period is the 16th century - the Reformation. His teacher lent him a book about Martin Luther and the revolution he kicked off from the day he pinned a little list to that church door in Wittenberg.

Result: my friend's friend (who also happens to be my friend) is being galvanised into real, living, excited faith. Something about Martin Luther has brought him to life. He's being converted.

Made me think of some of the worthies who've inspired and influenced me (that eclectic bunch from Augustine to C.S. Lewis to Watchman Nee to Francis of Assisi).

G.K Chesterton defined tradition as 'giving our ancestors a vote'. Well, it seems that some of our ancestors have even more than a vote - their legacy continues; their ministry endures.

Inspiring stuff.

Who inspired you?

Am I a Buddhist?

Minutes ago, I retweeted the Delai Lama.

“A happy society must be created by people themselves, not through prayer alone, but by taking action.”

I liked this tweet enough to retweet it. It’s practical, not pietistic.

Conversely, a tweet from Christian prayer initiative got my goat yesterday. The tweet quoted A.W.Pink  and said “The measure of your love for others can be seen in the fervency and frequency of your prayers for them.”

Really? Isn’t the measure of my love for people quite a lot to do with being patient, cooking meals, washing dishes, speaking encouragement, confronting wrong, listening carefully, wiping up sick, mopping brows, laughing at jokes, being reliable, keeping my temper, noticing things, driving around, mopping the floor, staying up late, getting up early, seeing things positively, forgiving, forgiving, forgiving, being forgiven, being forgiven, being forgiven, crying, longing, aching – and okay, praying?

Does this make me a Buddhist?

Beyond the box

So what can a snowy-haired bicycle repairman and his ancient eccentric lodger teach me about life?

In Penelope Wilcock’s novel The Clear Light of Day, Jabez Farrall is a kind of heterodox sage who helps the heroine, a harried Methodist minister, to find what is truly true. In summary:

‘Simplify; small is beautiful; cherish the living earth; bless the community where you live; think globally, act locally; watch your boundaries; choose what is handmade with love.’

And his feisty lodger, Seer Ember (who I suspect is Pen Wilcock’s means of expressing her own heterodox truths) adds:

‘Don’t eat food you don’t like; don’t be deprived of firelight; don’t take anything too seriously; don’t let people get you down.’

Penelope Wilcock has provided many members of my church with spiritual sustenance through her Hawk and the Dove books. The Clear Light of Day is less well-known, but has the same earthy spirituality. And she has written non-fiction such as The Road of Blessing, which I recently read and found perceptive, original – ah! an original Christian book! – and refreshing.

Last May I was privileged to meet Pen and talk through silence, solitude, celibacy (among other things). We also laughed a very great deal. You can read that interview here.

We need those who see – and help us see – beyond our boxes. I think Pen Wilcock is one such seer.

Love's the point

I wrote this paraphrase of Paul's famous passage on love in 1 Corinthians.

If I ‘do so make covenant’ * before men and angels, but have not love, I am missing the point of the promises I am making. And if I live in community, and understand all the mysteries of the common purse, and if I attend every meeting, arriving punctually and staying till the end, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give away every chance of romance I have, and if I deliver up my life to celibacy, but have not love, I gain nothing.

Love enjoys people as they are, and can wait for perfection to come after resurrection; love can say ‘I am no less than anyone else’ but also ‘I am no better than anyone else’; love has no need to interrupt, shout others down, or push its way forward. Others can contradict love without having to face explosions or implosions. Love is not afraid to confront others if they’re wrong, but much happier to praise them if they’re right. Love puts up, bigs up, looks up, keeps up – always.

Our inspirations have a limited shelf life; our words will pass their ‘use by’ date; our certainties will be swallowed up. For our certainties are uncertain, our inspirations are uninspiring, compared to what we’re heading for. When perfection comes, my inspirations, words, and certainties will seem to me like that collection of stickers I prized when I was five: I’ll smile at them and let them go. At present these things are the binoculars through which I glimpse God, but when God arrives I’ll drop them without a thought (and realise I was looking through them the wrong way anyway). Then I’ll realise it was never about how much I knew God, but how much God knew me.

For now we need faith; then we’ll see. For now we need hope; then we’ll receive. For now we need love; and so we will forever, when only love remains.

* For those not familiar with the Jesus Army, my reference in the first paragraph of this paraphrase to 'covenant', 'community' and 'celibacy' are three of our church's key distinctives. Covenant refers to the promise of lifelong discipleship that our committed members make to God and each other; community refers to our intentional Christian community houses (with their common purse arrangements); celibacy refers to the promise that some have made to remain single in order to serve God more freely. These things are important ways in which we've sought to put the New Testament into practice over the years.

These things matter to us. But as with the issues that mattered to the Corinthians - tongues, prophecy, faith, knowledge and so on - if we forget that they're actually all about love, we've forgotten what they're for.

Of making many books...

This year I’m only reading novels that were written since I was born.

About a decade ago, I decided to get more deliberate about my reading. I’m a voracious reader, and it’s a good thing. As well as being a pleasure and a calming influence, it widens horizons. But I found the down side of being a confirmed readaholic, sob, an incurable bibliophile, is that reading can become hotchpotch, undisciplined, all over the place. Simply put, I just read whatever my hands fell on.

So about ten years ago I decided to have a reading theme for that year:  biographies and autobiographies. That year, among others, I was inspired by Nelson Mandela, intrigued by Mikhail Gorbachev, appalled by Adoph Hitler, even more appalled by Joseph Stalin, challenged by George Fox, melted by Mother Teresa, and upbraided by John Wesley. I think I can honestly say some of the people I met that year changed by life.

Since then, I’ve adopted a reading theme each year. In the myth year I sailed with Odysseus and believed in the Valar. My theology year saw me getting my teeth into Karl Barth and revisiting my old mentor Augustine of (humorously named) Hippo. Children’s books! That was fun and included spending several summers in one year on deck with the Swallows and Amazons. Science and sci-fi was out of my usual orbit but none the worse for that (I meant to work from physics through chemistry to biology, but never got beyond physics, it was so fascinating – H.G. Wells kept me entertained between the pencil chewing.) The first thousand years BC presented the challenge of fitting a millennium into a year, which I managed with the help of Edward Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, which is quite simply one of the most marvellous things I’ve ever read. And the classics year meant I finally got round to reading Pride and Prejudice and, yes, it really is as good as everyone says it is.

I don’t stick to my theme absolutely rigidly. I’ve usually got one or two Christian or theological books on the go, and I read the Bible and the Times most days. But it’s helped to add some deliberateness to my reading. As with the rest of life, rules and discipline help as long as we deliberately break them now and again.

So this year I’m on novels written since I was born. Since I was born in 1976 this means that I’m having a fairly post-modern year, and rather enjoying it. Life of Pi and Captain Corelli’s Mandolin combined profundity with humour rather excellently. The Wasp Factory made me itch with discomfort. Atonement was brilliantly written and played a trick on me which I quite enjoyed (though I know some people it annoyed). The English Patient was a bit pretentious which is probably why I liked it. Beloved was achingly sad. The Colour Purple was brilliant yet odd. The Blind Assassin was clever and engaging until it became too long. The Road was nihilistic and life-affirming by turns. Love in a Time of Cholera was poetry in motion. The Hunger Games was, I thought, quite brilliant, genuinely moving by the end of the trilogy, and none the worse for being 'popular'.

What’ll it be next year? The complete works of René Goscinny and Albert Uderzo? That's seriously tempting. Poets and poetry? Other people’s diaries? Who can say.

'Of making many books there is no end', said Solomon. He meant it as a complaint, I think. But I’m rather glad.