Sitting in the Waiting Room

Remember last Advent? It began with so much promise. On Christmas day we'd all be able to get together and celebrate Christmas - I can't even remember what the rules were, but singing (outside) had come back for carol services and the promise of rules being slightly relaxed over Christmas was there. The beginning of December had a sense of anticipation, the rules were different all over the country and we had to have a contingency plan depending on which tier we sat in...... 

But then..... the descent began in earnest..... particularly in London where we fell (or case rates rose) so hard that a new tier was invented to mark the descent. Food orders were cancelled, the surplus we collected for food parcels grew larger and the bedding in began. I was told to 'get out while you can' so I could spend time with my family bubble (a privilege, a blessing, a saving grace as I drove past signs that said 'go home, turn back, all is doomed' on the motorway). The current fear over the omicron variant brings all of that back..... the cancelling of parties and the worry about going out. It's just a bit ominous. 

When all that is hoped for is taken away, the disappointment digs deep. 

For some, though, this reality of disappointment at Christmas is not new. The season of Advent becomes an increasing reminder of what they haven't got, rather than what is coming. The build up towards a celebration that our culture focusses on abundance in family life when family life is lacking, it's bitter sweet, painful, frustrating. 

I love Christmas, the build up, the time with family and friends, the celebration of the birth of the Messiah. I go a bit crazy at times with it all. But in amongst all of that, the reminders that I am on my own and getting older are still there. Ministry is often a lonely vocation, but I've learnt to deal with the lack of a work Christmas do where I can just let go (the pandemic's party pooper attitude is not a problem to me). I still get excited on Christmas morning and wake up far too early even though I am by myself. But.... I also feel lonely at times. I don't have someone to take me out on a Christmas night out and as my years ticked past 40, the promise of my own family to walk through advent with has just about slipped away. But I'm alright, I can manage all of that, I'm mostly content, things are OK for me. 

But I know that there are others who find all of it incredibly hard. Christmas is the loneliest time, a time when brokenness is felt most acutely, when family breakdown is difficult to navigate, when loss is marked by the sad empty chair at the table. In the build up to a celebration that focusses on the birth of a baby, the pain of involuntary childlessness can be hard to bear. 

In the midst of the story of the incarnation, we find a couple who know that pain. Elizabeth and Zechariah, who I would love to know better and understand their story more, have wanted one thing their entire life, but have not been able to have it. Their marriage is one tinged with sadness because the child they desired didn't come. And although the Biblical story does change all of that, let us pause for a moment in their grief.... because this is where some of us are. 

Perhaps in amongst the waiting of advent is not only a call to look ahead to what is coming, but a call to hear and see the frustrations of now. For some waiting is more like being stuck in Holy Saturday, that time between Jesus' death and resurrection where all was silent and dark. There are many for whom living life is learning to find fullness despite..... and navigating the waiting room is working out how that is possible for them. 

So in our waiting, let us be aware that there are people close by who have been waiting forever, the promise of the light at the end of the tunnel has been dragged further and further away, or the route has been changed to one they didn't expect to take. Let us sit with them where they are, be with them as they work out the way out of the waiting room, let us pray for new hope.

 "And when the time for the burning of incense came, all the assembled worshippers were praying outside"  Luke 1:10

Image from flickr

Advent Promise

I won't do that again, I promise. 

It will be better next time, I promise to try harder.

You'll get through this, I promise to be walk with you as you do. 

I promise to stand by you. 

I promise. 

“Sometimes people don’t understand the promises they’re making when they make them. But you keep the promise anyway. That’s what love is. Love is keeping the promise anyway.” John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

Advent is a season of promise. The promise of there being a peanut butter cup behind every door of my advent calendar. The promise of having time and space to see family and friends. The promise of some time off. The promise of a day of celebration. The promise of more and better. 

This morning I woke up far too early (don't even ask) and I was reflecting on how much I want to be with my family during the run up to Christmas. I'd love to live a bit closer to my family but I am always reminded that as I followed God's call into ministry, I promised that I would serve and honour Him as best as I can, and that in the move to the far south He promised that if I was prepared to be planted where He called me to, that He would make all things well. 

But, one of the frustrations during Advent 2021 is that things are really not well right now are they? In that move, although I knew the path in front, I did not know the path ahead. Who could have predicted that within less than a year of moving I would be leading a church through a pandemic? (and in exactly three years after accepting the call (that's today I think) we'd still be navigating this weird road). We're still waiting..... 

The story of the incarnation is one of love amongst pain, amongst suffering, amongst waiting for it all to be made well. During Advent we look to Jesus' birth knowing that when he grew up he suffered the most gruesome death. Advent points to the Kingdom of God coming, but we're still living amongst the frustrations of waiting for that to be fully realised. We're still waiting.....

For those awaiting the Messiah in the Biblical story, in their frustration in the waiting, in the trials and tribulations of a life full of conflict and uncertainty, they held onto that promise of God made in love which, later was expressed so deeply and widely on the cross. 

As we await the coming King, we hold onto that promise that all will be made right - it's not a promise that is made by someone who can just as easily break it as make it, but the promise of God, which is everything we need it to be, and far far more. 

"The days are coming", declares the Lord, "when I will fulfil the good promise I made....." Jeremiah 33:14a

On Waiting

Advent has crept upon us in our waiting for all this to end, in our disappointment that things are looking precarious again, in our hopes for a Christmas less weird than last year - the build up less of a downhill slope to lockdown. When this all began, the thought of it all lasting to one Christmas, never mind two, was far beyond our comprehension, yet here we are, once again, watching the news for signs of what will come next. 

The waiting has been far too long. 

It's like advent has never gone away. Advent means coming. Better ahead is coming. Better is on its way. Better is almost in sight. Better is perhaps, continually, just beyond our grasp.  

Advent is a time of preparation, a time of anticipation, a time of hopefulness. 

But, it seems like the end of this long advent keeps being moved. 

How do we find hope when the light at the end of the pandemic tunnel keeps dimming? 

Hope is right here. 

There is hope in the fact that the light is there, that there is a promised end to all of this, and it will one day come, even if it seems further away right now.

There is hope in the advances that are being made in treating and understanding the virus, anticipating and watching its next move, scientists continue to work to find a way through.

There is hope in the fact that pandemics have ended before, and the viruses have become less dangerous than they were. 

There is hope in the way that so many of us are looking out for one another as we test and step cautiously, as we keep an eye out for our neighbours and family and friends and as we continue to remember what we learnt about community in the first waves of a virus that we don't understand.

And there is hope, because whilst advent is about waiting, THE advent that we wait within has a light at the end where all sickness will be no more..... because advent is not just a count down to Christmas, but is a count up to when Jesus comes again, and all this that we worry about, all the pain and suffering we fear, it will end, and the future ahead will be glorious. 

In the meanwhile, as we wait, let us not just sit in the dark, but anticipate the light ahead by bringing some of that light wherever we are. In love and in healing, in patient waiting and hope, in caring for one another and sharing what we have. The way things are are not the way things have to be forever.... or even the way things have to be right now. 

"The Life-Light blazed out of the darkness; the darkness couldn't put it out" John 1:5 (MSG)

(image from rawpixel.com)

The Unknown

 

"If you could see 

the journey whole,

you might never

undertake it,

might never dare

the first step

that propels you

from the place 

you have known

toward the place

you know not"

From "Those who have far to travel" by Jan Richardson

I've had this poem on my wall since I first heard it when I gathered with other ministers - the first time I'd met most of them in person and not on zoom - a few months ago. On that day, as we were retreating together, the weight of leading a church through the pandemic and all the effects of that on me, my relationships and my own sense of identity began to feel like something I couldn't carry for much longer. The burden was too heavy, and I knew, if I didn't do something, I would break. 

As we read this poem I didn't get past this first verse. When I first moved to the far south, I moved with a sense of unknowing, uncertainty, but sure that this was where I was meant to be. I had had music played over me that spoke of me going, not only on a journey south, but on a journey myself, and this poem reminded me of that. 

I reflected on that day when I first met this poem, that if I could have known the things that lay ahead when I first answered God's call, I may have never made the journey, but in the blurriness of it all, the ahead was enough - the mystery propelled me forward and brought me to a place where everything was unknown. 

And sometimes, the unknown is where you should be. 

In remembering that, it reminded me that in all my efforts to find certainty, to take control, to keep a handle of things in the pandemic chaos, I'd been trying to hang on too tightly to something that was too difficult to hang onto. The pandemic storm and all its after effects have not been something we have been ever able to get a handle on. Our mantra of 'one day at a time' or even 'one hour at a time' has always said that, but our actions have not necessarily said the same thing. 

Last night as I was waiting for yet another zoom, I looked up to my right and there was this poem and I remembered that maybe the unknown of the last 18 months, the journey I've been on, the things that have almost broken me, is part of the journey that God has called me on in moving south. 

It's taught me that I can't stay in control, however hard I try. It's taught me to listen to the voices around me who say that I am doing well. It's taught me to know and value the gifts God has given to me and my capability and strength that only come from Him. It's taught me that despite the chaos around, God is still doing good things, that lives are still being changed and there are things to celebrate. 

It's taught me that when I bring something to God in prayer I can lay it down at His feet and there it can stay. Let go and let God, and sit at His feet. 

When we are at our lowest, when things hurt more than we can possibly dream, when our head is racing and we're not sure how we can grasp something that is running away, perhaps resting in the unknown is where we should be. We don't need to know every waypoint on the journey we are called to, we need to know that the one who is guiding us is sure of the way. 

"The Lord is the one who is going ahead of you. He will be with you. He won’t abandon you or leave you. So don’t be afraid or terrified" Deuteronomy 31:8

Instructions not included

I've had a bag of Lego on my desk for a while. I don't know where it came from, but I think I found it lying around and claimed it. 

Yesterday I decided to open it and make what was inside. The picture on the outside of the bag promised much, but inside there were no instructions. Maybe that's normal for these kinds of bags of Lego, or maybe that's why it had been discarded, or donated, or whatever happened with it. 

Being a resourceful person, I decided that I could probably make it using the picture as a guide. I started with the bits I could see most clearly on the picture, which, with a bit of manoeuvring, rotating and inspecting the picture closely were quite easy. It was beginning to look like a train. 

It was the next bit that was hard. I couldn't really see what was going on underneath and there were a few irritating bits where I had to get up close and personal with the picture and try and work out if it was two pieces or one, but in the end the outcome didn't look bad and resembled the picture quite nicely.

But then I put the train down on the table and it tilted. The front wheels far too small and the back far too big - misaligned and not quite stable with two spare pieces that I have no idea where they go. 

I eventually figured out that to make it stable it probably needed a track - some kind of rails to give it some direction and stability, showing it the way to go. 

Whilst I was building the train I reflected on how the mystery of how it fitted together is a bit like trying to lead a church - particularly trying to lead a church right now. The picture of what we think it might look like is there, but how the pieces fit together is a bit of a mystery. The pieces aren't necessarily the pieces we expect, and don't fit together in a logical order sometimes.... yet something is being built. 

Where the pandemic scattered our pieces and the instruction book that went with them, as we come back together the pieces aren't necessarily fitting together easily. Key pieces are missing because people have moved away or disappeared or are still nervous about stepping out into the world. What we are trying to piece back together is not quite the same as the picture that we might imagine is on the outside of the bag and when the pieces seem to be put into place, the end product, it leans..... and there are some bits that don't seem to have found a place at all. 

When I looked back at that picture I noticed that it wasn't because the wheels were wrong, but because the wheels had no track to sit on. Perhaps if the wheels had a track to sit on, then the train would feel stable and the pieces that were struggling to find a place right now could be carried without falling out. 

As we cling on to the picture we hope will emerge, beneath our feet has got to be a track to hold us steady, and what might seem to be a track made of Christian cheese, those rails that hold us steady - they are the rails that Jesus laid when he said, come follow me. 

As we seek to put the pieces back together, we've got to remember that however finished the final model is, without rails, it will just be wonky and functioning will very likely be a challenge because a wonky train without tracks is not going to get very far under its own steam.....

"Everybody says they want to be free. Take the train off the tracks and it's free - but it can't go anywhere" - Zig Ziglar 

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your [tracks] straight" Proverbs 3:5-6

Faithfulness

My Grandad Dan played the organ. I will always remember him sitting at the organ at Durham City Baptist Church, tongue in its place that showed his concentration, playing with all his strength despite his MS, worshipping as he played, believing that the words that were being sung to the music he was playing were true. He held those truths in his heart. 

At his funeral (a long time ago now, I was only a teenager), we sang the hymn 'Great is Thy Faithfulness' (I'm doubting myself right now because it's one of those weeks, but I'm just about convinced - the hymn always reminds me of him), and as I attended the church up the road today online (because when you've put together an online service you don't always want to watch yourself preach or take communion with yourself) we finished with the same hymn..... and my thoughts went back to my Granddad, as they often do. 

What would he have thought at a time like this? How would he have reacted? 

I don't know really - he died before I started to have too many in depth conversations about faith and life.... but I'd imagine he'd be frustrated. I'd imagine that over the past 18 months the loss of freedoms in worship would have got him down. I'd imagine that my Grandma would have been anxious and my Grandad would have had to try and be the level one. 

It seems so long ago that my Grandad died and my biggest memories of him, as well as the organ playing, are him sneaking a cigarette on a walk on the cold Hartlepool seafront telling us not to tell our Grandma because despite 40 years of marriage she 'didn't know' and teas where the offer of jam tarts was often on the table..... yet in amongst the ordinariness of all that (ordinariness in a Nicholls way), he continued to walk in the ways of God and God continued to be faithful in his life, working through him in amazing ways. 

The writer of the hymn 'Great is thy faithfulness', Thomas Chisholm, lived an ordinary life, there was no big disaster or time of grief or significant encounter that inspired the hymn, just words of faithfulness from the prophet Jeremiah in Lamentations 3. It was written in 1923, which was not long after my Granddad was born, so he would have grown up with it. It's a hymn of how God is with you through all the significant and insignificant times. It's like the footprints poem but with a deeper dig into the theology of it. God never leaves you and provides hope for tomorrow. Whatever today brings, there is better and more ahead. God is with you in the most ordinary of moments as well as the less ordinary ones. 

It pops up quite often at significant times and this morning as it popped up it moved me. I've been in isolation for 6 days and it's getting me down and Sunday is always worse because I just want to be with my church family, but in this hymn I was reminded of how God has been faithful through the last 18 months (and before that)..... that somehow we've got to today and I'm still standing firm -  church is standing just about together and things are looking up. 

The next few weeks feel uncertain. I feel like I'm meant to be excited about restrictions easing, but I am really not. The pandemic hasn't eased up enough for me to be anywhere near excited and I continue to be fearful. The weight of the next is heavy and self isolation has brought more time for reflection on this. 

But, in this song I am reminded that through the lives of those who have gone before I have seen God's faithfulness. Through the lives of those who are walking with me now, I have seen and experienced God's faithfulness.... and through the lives of those who are going to walk beyond the path God has put me on now, he will continue to be faithful.... because that is Him.... that is God.

Great is thy faithfulness, O God my Father. 
There is no shadow of turning with thee
Thou changest not, they compassions, the fail not
As thou hast been thou forever wilt be. 

----------------------------------------------------------

God’s loyal love couldn’t have run out,
    his merciful love couldn’t have dried up.
They’re created new every morning.
    How great your faithfulness!
I’m sticking with God (I say it over and over).
    He’s all I’ve got left.      Lamentations 3:22-23 (Message Version)

Communion - Together and Apart

This Communion Liturgy is written for New Addington Baptist Church' first in person communion service of 2021, acknowledging that the community is still scattered - our call is for God to gather us in around the story that centres us. 

Communion – Together and Apart

Invitation

We gather round this table, our tables, representative of this table - some of us in person, some of us online, some of us just at home.

We gather around this meal of bread and wine to celebrate life. We celebrate the life of God in the world.

The Word became flesh and moved into our neighbourhood, and as we have scattered in our community, the Word has continued to dwell here.

This bread and this wine are representative of the Word – the bread is Jesus' body, the wine is Jesus' blood – and as we participate in this meal, His story finds its rightful place at the centre of our story.

We come to remember that His body was broken, just as we are broken, but that through His brokenness healing and reconciliation, transformation and salvation, deep love and forgiveness all comes.

It is Him who has been there when all seems silent, speaking in a whisper “all will be well”.

It is Him who has been there when we have wandered the quiet streets, our companion and our guide, leading us on.

It is Him who has been there when the situation has felt impossible and through the words of others has brought us peace

It is Him who has been there when the house normally teeming with life has been emptied and has made sure we are never alone

It is Him who has been there in the cries of injustice as the inequalities of society have been laid bare. He shouts in the protests, this is not my way.

It is Him who invites us, again and again to His table, ‘come sit down, I’m here, come and laugh, come and talk, come and cry, come and be’.  

It is Him who gathers us here and there today, it’s His story and we remember all he has done.

It is in Him that the church is held together, this community, in His breaking, is able to live, for we are called to be the body of Christ.

And so this table, our tables, is a place where we remember our calling to be His body, and that as His body we must walk with and watch over one another as we seek His way.

Thanksgiving

So let us give thanks

Lord God, we give thanks for this bread and this wine, a reminder of all that Jesus has done for us. A reminder of body broken, of a life rejected and scarred, yet of an unstoppable life.

A life that will not be ended by death, will not be stopped by the purposes and ways of the world. A life that isn’t halted by war and injustice and pandemic. A life that brings transformation and abundance…..so much abundance.

As we eat the bread and drink the wine we give our thanks. We thank you that you accept us as we are, however we’ve been recently and however we’ve behaved. You accept us with gentleness and grace and you transform our shame into honour and dignity. You love us into an abundant life.

We thank you that you look at us and see great potential in us, for you have made us in your image and you call us to be partners in your kingdom vision for this world.

As we eat the bread and drink this wine we call on your Spirit, in this room, in our rooms, to come alongside us, so that as we continue to walk together, as we gather from our scattered places, we might give ourselves anew as participants in your story. So we might restore and renew our places, our parts in your body, and live the life you call us to in this world.

Amen

Feasting

This story we are invited to participate in is a story of hope and celebration amongst brokenness and despair. We hear this story again and again, and we pass it on to one another as Christ passed it on to his disciples, as Paul the apostle passed it on to the churches, as the churches passed it down the generations and as we pass it on in our scattered community. This story says that on the night Jesus was betrayed by one who was meant to be his friend, he took bread, and he gave thanks and he broke it saying:

“This is my body that is broken for you; do this in remembrance of me”

It is in the breaking that we find wholeness.

It is in the sharing we find community.

It is in Jesus we find life.

Let us break our bread and share it now.

The body of Christ broken for you.

Pause for distribution

After supper, Jesus took the cup saying “This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me”

It is in the cup we find God’s promises

It is in the cup we find forgiveness

It is in Jesus we find restoration.

Let us share the wine and drink (in the building we will all drink together)

The blood of Christ shed for you.

Pause for distribution

Prayer

We have taken this bread and wine into our bodies. We have taken his promises, his restoration, his forgiveness and accepted them as our own.

Let us Pray

Lord, may you through this meal, draw us back together, draw us ever closer, gather us in.

May we be a community centred on Christ. May our hands be his hands in the world, our feet be his feet, and in the places where we go, the people we meet, may Christ be seen in our lives.

May we be the ones who in the silence, speak His words of wellness.

May we be the ones who amongst the lost, point out the directions

May we be the ones who stand with those finding life impossible and bring peace

May we be the ones who sit down with the lonely, welcome in the wandering, walk with the justice finders.

May we be the ones who say come and join us, you are welcome here.

May we be the community Christ calls us to be.

As we move from our scattering, we pray for unity.

Lord gather us in.

Amen

Here is the communion led through on video: