BANK HOLIDAY weekend affords a happy extension to “left brain time.” There are always more books I want to read, more paintings I want to paint, more photographs I want to make, more writing to be done, more poems to unfold, more prayer to be celebrated, more people to share some time and stories with, more songs to be sung, more colours to be marvelled at, more silence to be revelled in – than time ordinarily allows. And that very fact is cause for thanksgiving! Life is indeed a rich tapestry. The signs of the reign, the joy of God, are all around me. And I’m immensely thankful for the connections that blogging makes possible with people all around the world.
Today’s artwork is inspired, in Eastertide, by Mary Magdalene, beloved apostle of Jesus, first witness to new life in the Resurrection, loyal provider of intimate and loving support and sustenance, someone generous, open-hearted and giving, someone who just “knew” instinctively, what Jesus’ mission on earth was about, someone released, by God’s goodness, from the kind of prison every one of us finds ourselves in from time to time.
All human persons are “bedevilled” by “Legion” the perpetually underlying and taunting belief that somehow we’re failing to make the grade, we’re unlovable, bigger and better “failures” than anyone else, destined to be “alone”, faithless, heartbroken, misunderstood, wretched. All human persons yearn for the kind of release that Jesus’ love and acceptance brought about in Mary’s life; for the kind of release that she brought about in his.
Mary Magdalene: someone cruelly maligned and abused by religious patriarchy and misogyny across the centuries, but all the while someone I’ve admired and looked to as an icon of life’s richness and fullness, of life’s goodness and generosity, of life’s being – under the vivifying reign of God – a beautifully, colourfully, gorgeously dressed dance with our Creator.
Sydney Carter described Jesus as The Lord of the Dance. In my heart I think of Mary of Magdala as Jesus’ dance-partner and she is clothed, dressed, like the environment all around and about her, in colour and glory. And theirs is a partnership, theirs is a dance that, far from being exclusive and excluding, invites you and I to join. “Shall we dance?”, Mary asks. “And shall we sing?”, asks the Lord of the Dance. And sometimes the colours blur a little in the swirling. And sometimes they’re blended by our tears …
Have you seen the wonder of it? Have you seen Mary’s dress?
THERE’S AN ENCOUNTER with Heaven in William P Young’s The Shack that has left an indelible mark on me. It’s a vivid, vital vision of colour-expressed emotions
a wash of ruby and vermillion, magenta and violet, as the light and color whirled around and embraced him …
Countless connections. Whirling. Swirling. Shimmering. Glowing. Loving. Forgiving. Embracing. Changing. And – ever since I read the book – gifts of daily such “visions” have delighted me.
The artist Wendy Rudd recently encouraged me, and a group of friends, to let go of “right brain” connection sometimes and let “left brain” make itself heard. I’ve blessed her many times for that encouragement. I let go of mental overload, on a fairly regular basis, by listening / looking instead to “left brain”, allowing wordiness to become colour and image. And colours – perpetually glancing, gently bumping and bouncing into and through one another, make connections and communion …
(update at 2 May 2012: See Francesca Zelnick onSilence)
DEEP SILENCE is one of the chief appeals of Friday night-time Lakeland for me. Many years ago I found myself somewhat bewildered when my confessor / spiritual director spoke to me of the “language” of silence. The bewilderment passed, somewhere along life’s road, and today I find, like William Cleary, that there’s an abiding eloquence and a deep peace in the quiet places and spaces of my (generally very active and often fairly talkative) days … not least because silence recognises no denominationalism … weaving her wise whisperings into the nooks and crannies, the divisions within and between souls, and – breathing closely – making us more whole.
The silence between us is rife with communication and eloquence. We both speak and listen, a communion. Thanks. And Amen.
A NINETY YEAR OLD LADY gazed tenderly straight into my eyes this morning – others too, of both sexes, and of all ages. Communion. Connectedness. Shared vocation. Eucharist. And I was so, so glad that I’m not the pastor of one of those Cathedrals (in Maggi’s “April Fool” – thank God!) planning to up their charges – even to those arriving for worship, to around £15 a visit. For, as Maggi suggests, there’s a note of truth to be heard in the voice of the Fool, and for all that I love churches and cathedrals, some of them with a passion, it’s time to take stock, and perhaps to have a rethink.
There’s a movement in the Church, right here in England, that’s pure madness. Paying the “parish share” to keep stones in place produces a stream of interminable “action plans” that are draining the Church of her proper essence and energy, both of these vitally necessary for her proper, mothering, task – shaping “living temples to God’s glory”. Something of the ancient edifice is going to have to give way, in this 21st century, to the saner voice of God’s Spirit within. “Hush the noise”, she whispers, “and hear the angels sing.”
So moved was I by his beautiful, simple words of prayer that at the end of his talk, in spite of myself, I found myself joining the throng swelling forward to meet him.
As the wave of people carried me steadily toward him, my panic increased. What would I say when I actually got there? Would I try to tell him all about myself in thirty seconds? Or the opposite – would I just stand there flustered and tongue-tied, wasting his time?
The line lurched forward and I was suddenly dumped into his presence. And there something happened that I would never have expected, and that changed my life forever. He simply looked at me, his beautifully gentle blue eyes right on me, and asked with tenderness, “What is your name?”
“Cynthia”, I said.
“Oh, it is a lovely name,” he said, and he looked deeply into me and through me into depths I never even knew were there. For the next thirty seconds, I had his full attention – perhaps the first time this had ever happened to me in my life, the first time I had ever experienced what it means to be unconditionally loved. I left that encounter with my heart overflowing with hope; by the following year I was baptized. And it was nothing he said – just the power of the way he was present, his complete transparency to love. The Community of Taizé may be a miracle, but there is no secret behind the miracle: in the heart of its founder, deep prayer and compassionate action have become fused as one.
What, and Who is the Church for?
Deep prayer and compassionate action, tenderness for the whole world, in the pastorate, the priesthood, of a humane humanity. The one defines the other.
Roger lived and loved like Jesus, who required no church or cathedral. Like Jesus, who spent more time encouraging people to slow down, and to take peace into homes and villages, than in encouraging religious people to run faster (and/or more expensively, with new-every-morning-novelty, and louder). Like Jesus, who – like Brother Roger – made no charge. How, anyway, could I attach a price to the tender gaze, this morning, in Eucharist, of a ninety year old lady? Better to gaze gratefully – eucharistically – back. Or to put it another way, and wondrously quietly, to contemplate. God help us go tenderly.
SEVERAL CONVERSATIONS TODAY (as in most parish based days) have reflected on the fragility of life. Life’s tough, a lottery, as someone put it to me earlier. You win some. You lose some. And there doesn’t appear to be a great deal of fairness when it comes to the distribution of “good fortune”. We have to rely on something, or someone, vastly greater than ourselves for any lasting sense of stability in a shifting world. We need help that comes from beyond ourselves because it’s vital that we learn to live with mystery, with not knowing, with not being in control. And if we need help we must learn to pray, and with Pierre Teilhard de Chardin (Hymn of the Universe, p23) I want to say
Over every living thing which is to spring up, to grow, to power, to ripen during this day, say again the words: This is my Body. And over every death-force which waits in readiness to corrode, to wither, to cut down, speak again your commanding words … This is my blood.
This is what the connectedness of the Body of Christ is for. I recall an encounter I had with a veterinary surgeon, many years ago, who held the tiny trembling body of a sparrow in his tender hands. I was very much moved by the compassion in his face, glad that the little creature had known at least this much warmth at the end of his days, and I mentioned this to Jack after an 8am celebration of the Eucharist a few weeks later. I told him of the sense of connectedness I’d witnessed at the end of the little sparrow’s life. “Well”, he said, “you know, I was and am connected to that bird, that’s how I got through the vet’s exams. And actually it wasn’t the end of his life. We kept him warm for a few days, got a bit of glucose into him, and set him on his way again”.
So life isn’t just down to the whims of a lottery. It’s more to do with the extent to which any and all of us are willing to hold life’s fragilities tenderly, learning to be in communion with one another.
I LOOKED UPON WELL-LOVED FACES before me today. And new-born George was presented in the temple. Jet black hair. Quietly chuntering to himself in the arms of delighted parents – and under the gaze of the little brother our whole church family already loves dearly. And all the well-loved faces are such a joy. Young and old. Individual, unique, personal. Community, learning together, alongside other communities learning together, sometimes gladly, sometimes perseveringly, sometimes not-so-willingly, that, by the grace of a grand Love, greater by far than anything we’ve yet conceived of,
“… into that gate they shall enter, and in that house they shall dwell, where there shall be no cloud, nor sun, no darkness nor dazzling, but one equal light, no noise nor silence, but one equal music, no fears nor hopes, but one equal possession, no foes nor friends, but one equal communion and identity, no ends nor beginnings, but one equal eternity.” – John Donne
THANKSGIVING TONIGHT FOR KATH, who died peacefully on Valentine’s Day. Thanksgiving for a gentle-woman who never stopped loving her late husband, or her children, grandchildren, or a host of friends. Thanksgiving for a person whose heart offered hospitality and who was possessed, her son-in-law told us, of excitement and imagination, all her life. What a thrilling reflection at funeral thanksgiving, and then again in making Eucharist tonight, upon a person’s having possessed (or been possessed by) excitement and imagination. What a thrilling thought that Kath and Neil will have revelled in reunion on Valentine’s Day! How could we not offer thanks to Almighty God who is Excitement and Imagination in its unimaginable fullness. Lift up your eyes, said Jesus. And people’s imaginations blossomed and they became excited about life again. Here and now and for ever and ever.
THANKSGIVING TONIGHT FOR ESTHER, who one year ago led us in the first of our 2009 Lenten Studies by calling us to prayer. Thanksgiving for a young and energetic priest whose excitement and imagination showed us that Jesus is standing right next to us, loving us unconditionally, even whilst He is the breath within us. Until her own prayer, and her own response to it, led her on to exciting and imaginative times among other disciples in Holy Trinity, Knaresborough. How could we not offer thanks tonight? Dozens of us will never embark upon Lenten studies again without recalling Esther’s bracing, challenging, chuckling, energetic, straight-talking, all-including loving. We blossomed and became excited about life again. We thanked God for her new fellow pilgrims and imagined Knaresborough come the Spring.
THANKSGIVING TONIGHT FOR ALISON who followed the path of love to Australia and who, even whilst celebrating love and a host of life-affirming gifts from God, knows also the pain of being far from “home” and the universal wrench of having to let go of some gifts only she was ever aware of. And I found myself able to give thanks for love’s ups and downs alike. For Alison, too, is gifted with excitement and imagination. Flowers will bloom about her paths and many a surprising blessing lies ahead of her. Dominus flevit – Jesus wept – before his eternal Spring came tumbling into the world, showing us forever that eternal Spring was created for those on earth “as in Heaven”.
TWELVE MODERN-DAY LEARNERS – twelve modern-day disciples – gathered around our family table, gave thanks for Eucharist being made at family-tables and sofas in “every continent and island”. And we took the bread and wine that Jesus gave, to us and to all humankind, and He, and we, and Kath, and Esther, and Alison were caught up in a holy communion.
The videos in this blog are great FULL SCREEN. Click the four arrows button before you click PLAY …
TIME TO GET OUT THE FACULTY APPLICATION FORMS AGAIN! – we don’t have pews in my parish church, but (what do you think?) I reckon we’ll have to dispose of the chairs! Our Growth Action Planning is bringing me to my knees every day. And on every occasion I implore “what are we here for?” – a question addressed first and foremost to the Fount and Source of my life (and of ALL life) – and then echoed dozens of times in my daily encounters with other human beings – some of them churchpeople, many of them not. Some of them women, some men, some teenagers and young children. Some gay, some straight. Some “rich” and “powerful”, some “poor” and “without hope”.
Each and every day I encounter what Richard Holloway calls simply DOUBTS AND LOVES. Each and every day I encounter people who can make neither head nor tail of a Church in / of England that preaches “All are welcome” in the same space and with the same breath put to use in keeping huge tranches of the population either out or “in their proper place”. (Maggi Dawn, among others, has posted observations about the two clerical gentlemen who have recently been in the headlines for their enthusiam for the Scriptural text “Women submit to your husbands” – that have been described variously as “hilarious” and “tragic”. I’m hard pressed to see the “hilarious” myself.)
Every day I encounter fellow Christians who are staggering along the road beneath the weight of the millstones around their necks. “I don’t believe in closing churches” I hear a church leader cry. Lucky old you I shout back. I DO believe in closing dead ones. I DO believe in a gospel that shouts from the rooftops “stop living the lie”. 500 seater mausoleums are choking the life blood out of the dozen people who sit in so many of them for a not altogether very inviting hour a week, the people who are pouring their ever decreasing resources straight down the drain of the temple’s voracious appetite … with not a soul willing to challenge the idolatry involved … and a “gospel” that’s so much more to do with who needs to be kept out than with those who ought to be encouraged to “get in”.
I’m haunted, still, by the cruel irony of the sight and sound of the Lambeth Bishops assembled in our beloved Mother Church in England, heartily singing “All are welcome, all are welcome, all are welcome in this place” – either not knowing, or having “just forgotten for a moment”, or (surely not) having chosen to ignore, the plain truth of that day: that some were not welcome, some were not welcome, some were not welcome in that place.
God help me! I’d love to see every church building in the land packed to capacity, filled with a thankful people, of every race and creed and colour and gender, gathered to give praise to our life-giving, life-enhancing, compassionate, forgiving, welcoming Creator. And that kind of growth doesn’t arise out of box ticking exercises. That kind of growth doesn’t start with an interest in numbers. That kind of growth doesn’t arise out of “evangelical” proclamations of a “good news” that’s actually bad news for many people, and that in plain sight. That kind of growth doesn’t arise out of the kind of barking preaching that insists that people must “opt in”.
That kind of growth arises when women and children and men have been helped (by countless gifts and means – churchy and unchurchy) to understand that GOD has “opted in” FOR THEM. God has breathed life into the very dust out of which every atom in the Universe comes into being. And still breathes it. That kind of growth arises of out “two or three (or maybe – “in Christ” an apostolic 12) gathered together in my name” … knowing that they’ve one heck of a lot in their numbers-saturated lives to be thankful for.
Now I guess I’ve no choice but to submit a faculty application for getting shut of our (perhaps 500 and frequently sat-upon) chairs. And I wouldn’t be overly hopeful of having one granted. But I can at least ask “please stop asking me to manage my church” … though I’m NOT completely thick, and I believe that with customary clarity Nick Baines makes the point about false dichotomies very well indeed …
There are some in the church who wish to divide the words ‘pastoral’ and ‘managerial’. Apparently, Tom Butler is a managerial bishop – and some have accused me of being the same. Well, I see it as a compliment in one sense. Why? Because the dichotomy between ‘pastoral’ and ‘managerial’ is a false one – and a dangerous one. What some people mean by ‘pastoral’ (when asking for it in a bishop) is someone who won’t challenge, who is malleable and won’t interfere too much. But pastoral care begins with getting the administration, communication and ‘business’ right: how do you respect someone who says they care for you pastorally when they then double-book you, fail to reply to letters or emails and don’t do what they promise to do?
A bishop is called to be an accountable steward of the resources of people and stuff/things. He is not called primarily to be ‘nice’ or popular. If niceness and popularity follow, then that is fine; but episcopal leadership and ministry are not good for people who want to be everybody’s friend. The alternative to good management of the resources God gives us is, presumably, bad management. Can anybody show me how bad management equates to good pastoral care?
… but really: I feel less called to manage “my” church and more to love her. That’s why I owe a profound debt of gratitude to Fr Roger Clarke, one of the finest parish priests in our diocese, who sent me a link to these stunning videos from St Gregory’s in San Francisco. Perhaps you’ll notice the lack of chairs in the worship space. Perhaps you’ll understand the lack of them, and hopefully sense EUCHARIST going on. Holy Communion. Church growth, with action, and planning.
My wife and I are of one mind: tonight we just sang “Are you going to San Francisco?”. As soon as possible became our shared refrain. As soon as possible. And by the way, we understand now why San Francisco’s Cathedral is called simply and prophetically “Grace”. With all my heart: thanks for the lifeline, brother.
The videos in this blog are great FULL SCREEN. Click the four arrows button before you click PLAY …
CANON RICHARD PRICE mentored a young ordinand long ago, and then received the skinny young Curate to serve in his parish in 1982, and has remained friend and encourager ever since. It took him only a moment to discover that we’d both turned for Advent re-reading to William Charles’ Basil Hume Ten Years On when he was here the other day. Trainer and trained share a number of heroes!
What will Advent and Christmas bring to the physically hungry and thirsty parts of our world? What will Advent and Christmas speak of to the spiritually hungry and thirsty? Father Basil’s nephew recalls that the Cardinal’s life was changed irrevocably by a visit to Ethiopia. “Each Christmas I find myself calling to mind my visit to Ethiopia” (p179)
Father Basil, one of the world’s most wonderfully human and humane priests, told of having to leave behind a ten year old boy who had clung to his hand, rubbing it against his cheek, since their first meeting:
I can see him now – feet astride, his hands on his waist, and looked at me almost with reproach. I could see in his face, ‘Why are you leaving me behind?’ I felt awful because there was no way I could take that little boy and bring him back to England.
I realised that when you’re lost and are very hungry, and you are abandoned, you have a craving for two things: for food and drink and for love
What sort of Holy Communion do we imagine Jesus would have in mind for such a little boy and his countless millions of brothers and sisters, some physically and some spiritually hungry and thirsty? Would Communion be made in church or temple at the hands of a priest? Let us hope so. Would it not also be made, though, in ordinary eating and drinking, and in ordinary sharing and humanly-priestly loving, wherever we lived, whatever our religion, or politics, or the lack of either?
Dear God at the heart of all created things, dear God at the heart of Basil Hume and at the heart of his oft called to mind young Ethiopian, may it be so. Whenever we eat and whenever we drink let there be a precious calling to mind; that the world’s hungry and thirsty might be remembered and fed.
