Forsaken

"Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?"

"My God, My God, Why have you forsaken me?"

The figure on the cross among many cried out, feeling more alone than he had ever done before. Despite the crowds below and the others being crucified around, that moment was just him in his agonising pain and his emptiness. 

His followers and friends were scattered - whilst loyal, they were fearful and they were standing well back. The questions of a future without their leader were racing around their heads. 

The ones who were closer were the ones who wanted to see the death, they were the ones who condemned him to death, this was normal life - this was their role - their role was to stand by and watch and wait. 

And the one who was always closest - Father God - seemed further away than he had ever been before. In fact, he seemed absent. 

But as Jesus hung alone on that cross, the world began to shift. 

I have spent Holy Week in Covid isolation and inevitably I've been reflecting on what it means to be lonely. The week has been a complete change of pace, moving from 'how on earth am I going to get this done' to 'what do I do when all of this has been taken away'. It's been a week where I have been cared for deeply, and have had the chance to rest that I was waiting for but didn't expect for another three weeks. It's been a week where I've had time to begin to reflect on the last two years, have got over some fears that I had before, and have learnt to let go and trust. Someone wrote on a comment on a facebook post that perhaps this was an answer to an unspoken prayer, and whilst I'd like to think it wasn't (and those covering for me would say 'no way'), there is something about this weeks journey that that comment resonates with. 

It's also a week when I have had more time to focus on the news, and in particular the stories that people have been telling in response to Partygate (where the government have now (finally) been fined for breaking the law during lockdown). 

The stories that people are telling are stories of grief, stories of pain, stories of agony, stories of loss and abandonment, stories of guilt. They tell of the struggle to say goodbye to a dying relative over the phone, the last time they saw their Mum, their Dad, their child from the driveway through a window. They tell of the funerals where only one or two people attended, had to say goodbye in the graveyard and went on their way. They tell of the fear of travelling 100 miles to a funeral and being arrested on the way. They speak of the guilt now felt that if the government were having parties, that a little wake might have been OK, and by not having one they let their lost loved one down. They tell the stories of no funeral at all. The accounts of nurses and doctors and teachers who would have loved to do what the government did, but instead they had kettles and fridges and staffrooms taken away and went home to take off their clothes into the washing machine and shower before they could go anywhere near the vulnerable family members within. They tell the stories of everyone who felt they were 'in this together' when the ones who were promoting this idea were definitely not. 

And there are many more stories unsaid. 

The loneliness of sickness and death in lockdown, of difficult situations and mental health crises, of no human touch, of lacklustre zoom celebrations, of forsakenness, of dealing with grief alone, it leaves a wound that has been opened before it had time to heal in the parties of those who were setting the example, leading the way.... and as the wounds weep, the collective groaning is sounding in our ears. 

As we walk through Jesus' journey to the cross on Good Friday, that groaning is in each footstep he takes, each movement of the nail in his hands, each cry out in agony that comes from his mouth. 

On Good Friday, we remember the lonely figure of Jesus, abandoned on that cross, and we see someone who understands and whose voice and actions speak deeply into the grief and forsakenness we feel today.

On that cross Jesus knew what it was like to die alone.

On that cross Jesus knew what it was like to feel like he had been let down. 

On that cross Jesus knew what it was like to carry all the guilt and sins of the world. 

On that cross Jesus knew what it was like to have everything stripped away. 

On that cross Jesus knew agonising pain through his body and his mind. 

But on that cross Jesus knew that whatever it was like right now, as the wounds weep, the healing has already begun. 

On Good Friday, as all the questions and the stories and the brokenness hang in the air, know that Jesus understands. 

On Good Friday, as the world begins to shift, and amongst the broken, there begin to be little glimmers of something better, know that the way things are right now are not the way things will always be. 

On Good Friday know that in the struggles you face right now, that God has not abandoned you, in fact he is here, in the struggle, facing it head on alongside you. And because he is with you in the struggle, this constant uphill battle won't be forever, because Good Friday leads us on a journey to Sunday and the victory.... it's already won. 

 

Breaking Bread

And the Word became flesh and moved into the neighbourhood. And the Word brought bread (borrowed from another!) - five loaves, seven loaves, distributed to thousands, never running out. And the Word brought bread, himself the bread, promising that hunger would be no more and that however much bread you ate you wouldn't need to worry about being thirsty from the clartyness of the bread (or something like that) because the bread the Word is, it's the bread of life. 

And the Word sat at a table surrounded by his friends and followers, and he took the bread that sat in front of him, and he broke it, saying 'this is my body broken for you', and after supper he took the cup - the wine in the cup symbolising the blood that would be shed as the bread of life was broken, not broken to be scattered and signify an ending, but broken, to bring healing and restore all that was broken before. 

When the Word became flesh and moved into the neighbourhood, he dwelled amongst people who were struggling to find light. He dwelled in the places where hunger was evident and needs were unmet. He dwelled in a world that needed far more than it received, and in his dwelling, he was able to show and bring life. 

As we're called to gather at the table to share a meal, as we break bread and wine as part of that meal, we find the presence of the Word amongst us. We find in the stories that we tell and the life that we share, that the bread of life is amongst us - he dwells, he feeds, he satisfies, he brings life. 

On Maundy Thursday this story becomes so poignantly our story as we gather in community and share food. Every time we gather as equals, not just on this day, but as companions around the table, this story, we hold onto as ours. The story of Maundy Thursday calls us to a community where brokenness is evident but the smell and sounds of restoration are in the air. Each person at the table brings their own story - from the one who is doubting, to the one who is lost, to the one who is ready to sell everything for the shine of silver coins, to the one who will deny any of it ever happened, to the one who kneels on the floor and washes the feet. 

This Maundy Thursday story belongs to all those who rarely find a place at the table (and those who are often there too), for the table where the Bread of Life dwells has room for all who choose to make the story their own. It is a place where the homeless find a home, where the hungry are satisfied, where the unloved find abundant love, where the lonely are welcomed into community and where the broken scattered pieces of the shattered parts of life find a place to be brought together and made more beautiful than they ever have been before. It is a place where the story of how life in all its fulness is made possible is laid down in the symbols of the broken bread and wine and it reminds us that however lonely we feel we have a place to belong. 

In this dwelling at the table, this room in the neighbourhood, where the Bread of Life both presides and kneels before us, we hear a call to bring something of what he brings. In uniting our own stories with this story at the table we hear a call be a community that commits to gathering around a table that offers the welcome that the Maundy Thursday table brings. In our offering we are called to serve; in our blessings we are called to give; in our wholeness we are called to break; in the darkness, we are called to bring light; in our neighbourhood, we are called to dwell. 

Mothering Sunday Prayer (2022)

Mothering Sunday Prayer

Loving God, you are both Father and Mother to us. When things are broken and painful, when things are full of joy and goodness, when things are full of hope and when things are full of despair, we choose to sit with you and tell you about our day. When nothing much has happened and when our world has almost fallen apart, we know that you are always there, with ears that hear, arms to hold and gentle calming whispers to soothe the soul.

As we come to you today we come with much fear and sadness, with anxiety for the future and worries for the world. As we celebrate today with Mums and their children, we hear not only laughter, but crying too. Amidst our celebrations, the groaning of a conflict where women and men, boys and girls, grandparents and siblings are separated and suffering great loss. Our hearts travel across the continent where children being knitted together in their mother’s womb were not given the chance for life. Where women were not given the chance to be mothers. Where orphans who already had less had their home stripped away.

We celebrate our Mum’s today, knowing and seeing the protection of a child goes far beyond offering a comforting knee. It is bodies thrown in the way of snipers, it is sending children away and staying to fight, it is leaving everything behind to give our children a life, it is sitting breastfeeding on a wall that has been broken by bombs. We thank you for those who will do everything to protect and care for their children.

Where we hear the sounds of mourning, we pray for those today who are feeling most strongly loss. We pray for those who are separated by war, may they find connection. We pray for those whose Mum is not with them any more, we pray for comfort. We pray for those who have lost a child, we pray for peace. We pray that you might soothe their souls as you pick them up and carry them today.

Loving God, you are both Father and Mother to us. When things are broken and painful, when things are full of joy and goodness, when things are full of hope and when things are full of despair, we choose to sit with you and tell you about our day. When nothing much has happened and when our world has almost fallen apart, we know that you are always there, with ears that hear, arms to hold and gentle calming whispers to soothe the soul.

As we come to you today, we come knowing that family life is not always all we hope it to be. This day for some is a day of bitterness, a day where those who have wanted but not been able to have children have a sorrowful and painful reminder of that. We pray that you might bring some sweetness into their lives through the blessings of others. We pray that they might know that you hold that pain with them and hear your gentle voice.

We celebrate our Mums today and as we do so think of those who are in difficult circumstances and doing everything they can to make sure their children have a life. As the cost of living rises, they work their hardest to ensure that food and clothes and laughter is readily available. When they, themselves are worried, they sit and listen to the worries of their child as they tell them about their day. Where anxiety for the future overwhelms, where the call to be a good parent is a battle in itself, where a Mum never feels they can give enough, we pray that they may be reminded of how you look upon their face – with joy and with love and with compassion – your strength leading them on.

In amongst the good Mums are the Mums that have never been there, the Mums that don’t seem to care. We pray for those who have never known a Mum that sits and makes time for them, for whom this day reminds them of what they have never had. We pray that they might find a place where they can simply sit and tell someone whose attention is fully on them all about their day, in its joys and in its brokenness, in its hope and in its healing.

Loving God, you are both Father and Mother to us. When things are broken and painful, when things are full of joy and goodness, when things are full of hope and when things are full of despair, we choose to sit with you and tell you about our day. When nothing much has happened and when our world has almost fallen apart, we know that you are always there, with ears that hear, arms to hold and gentle calming whispers to soothe the soul.

But

A shift in focus brings a different view. It doesn't make the old view go away, but distracts from the old view for a while. If you have ever spent time with a small child, you will probably have had times when you have seen them fall and graze their knee and it is the worst thing ever. The tears are heartbreaking - you can do nothing to make them stop crying..... until you find something to distract them - until you say to them - I know you are hurting, but just look at that tractor, or how about a sweet..... or.....

A shift in focus brings a different view. It doesn't make the difficult view go away, but it helps to deal with the difficult view better. In our lent studies this week we began with the question 'do you think this community/country/world is getting worse'. The easy answer is often to say yes and have a rant, but the group didn't do that, instead they found a different view. They mourned the difficult bits, the impossible to understand bits - things are getting worse they said, but then, they said, some things are getting better - even in the difficult stuff, a shift of view shows you beauty. I loved that response, and it is the one thing that has stuck with me most from that study. I spoke this week in a meeting about having a box of buts - if we speak of the bad stuff all the time, then it will overwhelm us, swamp us, consume us - so we need to have a box of buts to bring out to shift focus, if only for a short time. 

At the moment we're having to see many difficult views - impossibly difficult. The war in Ukraine is not far from any of our eyes and lips. We are heartbroken for those who are suffering and we don't know how to respond. We try and help through giving and prayer but we really just want it all to stop, and our offerings seem far from enough. We cannot carry our own grief for the world, but we are very aware that people are going through what can only be described as hell, and we want to be able to carry them too.

How do we manage this? How can we carry on when it seems like the world is falling apart?

A shift in focus brings a different view. It doesn't make what is going on disappear. It doesn't take our feelings and brokenness and gut wrenching compassion away, but it does help us cope, it does help us carry, it does help us to keep standing, just for a short while.

It's so easy right now to get caught up in the news of bombings and invasion and seemingly imminent nuclear disaster and it overwhelms us. The news is constant - 24-7 - it never stops. How do we manage it? 

Sometimes perhaps the only answer is to turn it off. Whilst we all know that many people cannot turn it off, because they are living it, it shifts our focus for a while. Have half an hour looking at the birds outside or singing your favourite songs. One of the poignant images in Ukraine is of the small girl singing 'Let it Go' in a safe place underground. That image shifts the focus of those listening away from the outside and the fear of what is next for a short while - that's why they video it so they can watch it again. See how they cope when all is falling apart - in our holding of the difficulties of the world, we can learn from them. 

Sometimes the answer is to dig into the box of buts. Where there is war, there are always peacemakers. Where there is disaster, there are always healers. Where there is sorrow, there is always compassion. Where someone leaves everything behind, there are always others who want to restore what they have lost. Where people are homeless, others provide beds. Where people are on the move, safe refuges are being set up. Where all is lost, there is always more to be found. There are many stories of communities coming together, of people turning their lives upside down so people have somewhere to stay, of the kindness of strangers lifting people on their way. Arm yourself with good news stories in amongst the pain, because those stories help us hold onto hope and remind us that there is always a but that will grab our hand and pull us up. Even a solitary candle can take the darkness away, for a while. 

Sometimes we do need to dwell in the hard stuff. We need to weep. We need to lament. We need to hide. We need to shout. We won't be able to deal with the images we are seeing unless we name how they make us feel. We do need to acknowledge how we feel and give it a name. Our questions will hang in the air, but so often we need to find a peace that means that we can be content to leave them hanging - for now - and that's when the shift of focus for a while might need to kick in again.

I've been reading this week some of the stories of Jesus that we know better than others, and in the midst of news of the war in Ukraine I've found in those stories reassurance that Christ knows, he experienced, he feels the pain of the people of Ukraine. In the wrestling in the garden of Gethsemane when Jesus feels so alone, and those who would normally help him are turned away in sleep. In the loneliness of Good Friday as he hung on that cross, in the loss of the Father as he his son died. In the sorrow of Holy Saturday when all the questions of the week hung silently in the air....... in the story of the escape to Egypt as a toddler, when in danger, Mary, Joseph and Jesus went from reliance of the kindness of the innkeeper to go to a land where their ancestors were once enslaved and found home there for a while. Refuge. Safety. 

In the faces of those fleeing from the bombs and the conflict in Ukraine, we see something of Christ. Each person, made in the image of God, created unique, abandoned by everything they know and fleeing for their lives - Christ knows, Christ understands. Sometimes, the only thing we can do is know that God is there, and he understands. Whilst we cry out to him to change things, we know that he is already in the midst, bringing hope, bringing change, bringing peace, spreading through the underground. 

Even where we can't see, the light is still there. 

All the Gals and the Pals and the Vals put your hands up.....

 

Galentine's Day, Palentine's Day..... invented for me to deal with the sorrow I feel about not having roses thrust on my doorstep for Valentine's Day. Galentine's Day - a day to celebrate my lady friends with chocolate for ladies and with lady activities like spas and champagne and gin. Palentine's Day - a day to hang out with my friends and have fun like only friends can and be a bit more inclusive and go beyond the ladies to the gentlemen (obviously with less pink because gentlemen prefer blue). 

And Valentine's Day? A day for those who do this kind of thing to celebrate love, for those who don't to say 'I celebrate love every day I don't need to do it for one day', and for those who don't do either to be told - don't worry about being single, you're special even though you are lacking. 

Yes this may be leaning towards a rant. Moving away from the whole thing about St Valentine turning in his grave because of what Valentine's has become, and moving away from the fact that he has been misrepresented for what he has done. Ignoring the fact he is also the saint of (not) fainting and the plague (appropriate in 2022). Imagining that his legacy is one of love and romance, I'd like to ask one thing.... 

Don't use this day to try and make that weird tribe of singletons feel better about being single. 

Because being single doesn't mean lacking. You should never assume that someone who is single is going to be sad and lonely when everyone else is loved up. 

Because one person's being single is different to another. You may have been single in the past and you may have found valentines day difficult, but that doesn't mean that you have to focus all of your valentines energy on making sure everyone else is OK. Sink into where you are, don't try and sink in to where you were. 

Because by drawing attention to singleness on a day that's commercialised to celebrate romantic love only makes the frustrations of singleness more clear. I was OK until people told me I shouldn't be but I'd be OK because I'm loved. 

The thing is, even on Valentine's Day when I don't get red roses or anonymous cards, I know I am loved. I know that I am not alone. I know that I am valued and the way I am is more than OK. I don't need a 'there there' stroke or a meme or a special gal pal celebration to remind me that I'm loved and noticed, because I'd prefer to get on with my day. 

Shane Claiborne described St Valentine on his facebook page today as 'a war resister and a revolutionary for love'. 

I'd go with that. Perhaps the attention that we're putting on making sure we get the right number of roses or making sure that our single gal pals are not left out even though they never felt that way in the first place would be better focussed on being a revolutionary for love. 

A revolutionary love recognises that we are all are interconnected - that one persons actions always affects another. Revolutionary love is where we choose to love our enemies as well as our friends. Revolutionary love is caring about justice for all, and not just for us. Revolutionary love goes beyond 'are you ok hun' to changing the world for the better, starting from where we are. 

Revolutionary love is in the story of St Valentine when he is said to have prayed for his captor's daughter who was blind and she then could see. 

Revolutionary love is in victory and restoration, not in warfare or power grabbing, or smooching and smoothing, but in the stretching out of the arms of God on the cross, a declaration that love wins, that love conquers over all.

So gather your Gals and your Pals and your Vals..... on whatever day it is today, and know that the love you are given is far more than anything that others might assume you are lacking, and give it away with abundance. 

Today of all days, may you be known by love. 

Broken Windows

 

Yesterday I was walking to the tram stop and I decided to go right rather than left at the end of my road. Habit means I normally catch the tram at one stop, even though another is about the same distance away. I remembered why when I got there - the stop I normally catch from is the end of the line and the trams often wait there, so there is always someone to sit. 

Anyway. As I got to the non-usual tram stop it was clear someone has had a little bit of frustration or anger at that tram stop because all the windows were smashed. It has clearly happened recently because the glass was still on the ground and in where the windows would be there were webs of smashed glass trying to hold themselves up and continue to be all they were made to be. 

The sun was shining and the glass glistened and whilst I was waiting for the tram I thought I'd take some photos through the broken glass. A spiders web of cracks did not obscure what was beyond, but it drew attention from the view ahead. 

For me, the start of 2022 has been like one of those old cars with a manual choke. If it was cold or you weren't used to the eccentricities of the car, it was difficult to get going. It took a lot of effort. Whilst stuff around me has been going well, me, not so much. 

And I've been trying to work out why. Why can't I just step boldly into a new year? Why am I hanging onto stuff I don't know what it is yet? Why am I really quite grumpy and my head a bit kerfuddled? Why is my mental health a bit shakey? Why can't I grab onto the good stuff happening right now and be excited and run with it? It's a relief, in many ways, to know its not just me - many of my colleagues in ministry are struggling just the same. 

As I played with the photo of the broken glass and posted it on the instagram because it was pretty, I reflected on the blurriness of the picture beyond the lines of brokenness when the focus of the lens of the camera is on the cracks in the glass. The picture beyond looks fresh, looks good - the green of the grass looks welcoming and new...... but to get to the beyond, something needs to be done with the glass. 

At the beginning of the pandemic in March 2020, it was like someone came along with a massive sledgehammer and smashed down the clear window that was giving clarity ahead. In the webs of glass remaining, in the smashed shards on the floor were questions and frustrations and unknowing and pain, and in dealing with all of those things, the web of brokenness has continued to remain. 

Every bit of brokenness changes our view, and whilst the learning and beauty from that brokenness helps us walk into the next, the shattered glass - it leaves scars, it leaves stuff that needs to be cleared up. 

Whenever someone has taken a sledgehammer to something, the clearing up takes longer than it took to make a mess. The pieces of the broken, the dust it leaves - it's found for a long time afterwards. Even when a new window is put in, the reasons for the breaking - they won't have gone away. 

At the beginning of this year, that sledge hammer smashing is too close to have healed all the stuff that has gone on. The scars are still weeping, the view - it's still blurred - the focus keeps switching to bringing peace to what's gone. 

As we step into the future, there is healing to be done. 

I don't know why all that has happened has happened. I don't know why things are such a mess. I don't know why someone wanted to smash up that bus stop. I don't really know why the shattered glass is distracting me. I don't know why all is a challenge right now....

I do know however, that God is a God of healing. I do know that he is the God who restores. I do know that on the cross that though all was broken, in that brokenness all was healed. I do know that that means the focus of the lens of the camera will eventually be skewed towards the hopeful view beyond.... 

And I do know that whilst the focus is on the shattered glass, that the Holy Spirit brings peace and gently applies healing balm - in the stinging, in the soothing, in the levelling, in the making...... that view beyond. It will come. 

New Year reminder

 I drove home from the Shire today, which was fine - quite straight forward really - until the end when I was driving down the Lanes (the sign that home is just a few bends away) and there we stopped as two cars (or maybe three) emptied their occupants to discuss the little bang that had happened. They were OK, I'm sure.

Next to me was the entrance to a farm, which made turning around easier and so I started off on another way. Thankfully I had google maps on (just in case another way is better than the way I know) which, when it had pulled itself together (which took a little while) could find me an alternative way home. It sent me down an unsuitable for HGVs lane, which was OK because there was no one coming the other direction, and I popped out of the top onto a familiar road just past the accident which could take me home. 

It was once I got on the familiar road that I realised my eyes were sore. I had been concentrating so hard on driving through the unknown that I forgot the thing I needed to do to help me see the way ahead. I was ready for what was right in front of me, but wasn't ready for the longer journey through all the bends ahead. I'd forgotten to blink. Driving in London is often a bit like that. It's like one of those hazard perception tests where concentration is key and any moment of missing the hazard may involve heavy braking or a loud beep from outside. Blinking is a distraction in that moment.

However, blinking is necessary. It's normally an automatic response to dry eyes or dirt or to some sort of external stimulus. It gets your eyelashes to work, batting away the irritants before they get stuck in the eye. When you are focussed on one thing (like the road ahead), your blink rate decreases, which is why your eyes get dry. 

As we come to the end of a full year of pandemic, the road continues to feel unfamiliar. When we thought we had got back on the right road, another variant, another set of rapidly rising cases, another load of covid stuff has been dumped on the tarmac before us. Finding our way takes concentration, more decision making, and a need to embrace the unfamiliar route ahead without the google maps that we hope to rely on. No decision feels like the right decision, uncertainty is rife and things feel quite a lot on edge. 

It's at times like these we need to not forget to blink. We cannot continue down an unfamiliar road without blinking, because the dryness of our eyes will get too much and we won't be able to see anything beyond the right now anymore. It is in seeing beyond the right now that we are able to keep going. If we cannot see, we are in danger of just stopping. Blinking is self care. Blinking is nourishing. Blinking is life giving. Blinking brings hope.

As we enter another year down this uncertain road, we hope for better. We hope that next year will end better than the last. And..... as we continue to drive down an unfamiliar route, don't forget to blink. The phrase 'blink and you'll miss it' is not the one for this year - sometimes we might want to blink so we do miss it, because we don't need all the information being thrown in our faces anymore. We need to blink for nourishment, blink for hydration, blink so our eyes continue to work to see where we are going. 

Our blinks are necessary pauses, they are counts to 10 before we react, and they are the moments of joy we seek out in the mess. Our blinks are the times we set aside to stop and look either side of the hazard to the beauty beyond, the times we set aside to read and pray and the moments with wise ones who point out the signpost we didn't see ahead. 

Those blinks will help us see the way to an easier road ahead.  

"You Lord, keep my lamp burning; my God turns my darkness into light. With your help I can advance against a troop, with my God I can scale a wall"  Psalm 18:28-29

You Lord, keep my vision clear; my God helps me to see by bringing light. With your help I can navigate the unfamiliar road, with my God I can continue to walk on. 

Don't forget to blink