On that day......

On that day we will open our front doors, we will run, and we will run straight into the arms of those we love. 

On that day we will walk boldly into the world, relieved to breathe fresh air. We will dance, we will sing, we will gather. 

On that day we will not fear, we will lay down all our anxiety and we will embrace life in all its fulness. 

On that day we will sit round a table with friends and strangers and share food, elbows knocking, accidentally footsie happening under the narrow table. 

On that day we will celebrate. 

On that day we will open our front doors, we will take a few steps out, we will see the one we love and we will approach them, stopping at 2m, waiting for someone to make the first move. 

On that day we will walk up the street, sometimes on the road, relieved to breathe fresh air. We will dance to avoid hedges, we will sing quietly, we will open the doors, see the crowd and hover outside for a while. 

On that day there will be something inside that will make us feel a little bit nauseous, we will feel out of place and we will hope that life in all its fulness is out there somewhere. 

On that day we will set the table with gaps between the chairs, we will invite friends, but not too many and serve from the kitchen, we will jump at every human touch, an unfamiliar electric shock. 

On that day we will want to be more than we are. 

On that day we will look out of our front door and not move, watch the people walking in the streets, see the one we love standing at the end of our drive, and we will shout, don't come closer, I'm not ready yet. 

On that day we will get in our cars and drive a little bit further than usual, finding a place where there is noone in the road and breathe the fresh air. We will value the space, we will sing if noone else is nearby, we will drive home past the gatherings, glad to get back to that front door. 

On that day we will look on with envy, hoping to experience the joy that others are feeling, but will then retire to our sofas, remote controls on hand, and wait for that feeling to come. 

On that day we will cook, we will sit alone with our bubble, we will hold on to those things, those people we have always held onto and we will say tomorrow is another day. One day at a time. 

On that day we will hang onto our waiting for a little while longer, until it feels safe again. 

On that day as we step out of our front doors, God who knows our thoughts from afar will know exactly how we feel as we see the one we love. He will be there in the embraces, he will be there in the distance, the one who holds all together. 

On that day as we travel to where we feel most safe, God will be our protection, our shelter, our rest. Where we are dancing with others, he will be dancing too. Where we stand alone on the hillside, he stands too. 

On that day the joy of the Lord will be our strength. "Where you are that day", says God, "is where you are and I am with you". The more will come, the joy will dance, the better is still ahead. Take it easy, take it slowly, you're broken now. 

On that day in our eating, in our sharing, whether alone or together, God will be calling - "come and be with me, for I am amongst you, taste and see, taste and see..."

On that day whether the waiting has ended, or the waiting is still here, our patient God will wait with us, watch over us, carry us on. 

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As we await the day of freedom from restrictions we are all in different places. Some of us can't wait, some of us are so used to how things are now, that the thought of things being different is a challenge, some of us fear what life will look like when we're allowed to do again, some of us are wondering what life will be like when we have lost those we love. Some of us would rather just hide. Wherever we are, however we feel, God knows and he understands. As we are told to love our neighbour as ourselves, we are called to be as understanding as he is. Reach out to those in fear, try not to get frustrated with those who have found liberty too fast, find peace on the path, there is a way ahead, and it is being revealed. 

In our Bible study this week which talks about the uncertainty that can often surround mental illness, we prayed this prayer of Thomas Merton. Perhaps this is also a prayer for the slow release from lockdown. A prayer for those making decisions and a prayer for those who are just trying to work out what it means for them as individuals. Keep walking, one day it will make sense. 

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore will I trust you always, though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

The Sparkle of Community

New Addington is looking particularly sparkly in the snow at the moment, but it's also feeling particularly sparkly. Every other Monday I have the privilege of chairing a meeting that gathers together leaders from across the community who are seeking to see this the community thrive as we respond to the challenges of the pandemic - voluntary organisations, schools, people who work for Public Health, local councillors, other council workers and people from services doing amazing things... the list goes on - a brilliant group committed to the flourishing of New Addington and Fieldway which was set up as lockdown hit last year. The way that the community has come together has been awesome. It's not always easy and there is so much brokenness, but beauty rises from within all that. 

I never cease to be amazed at the creativity of this group and all they represent. The vast variety and quality of the work going on at a grassroots level where everything has had to change and challenges have had to be embraced is something to behold. People of passion and commitment who know their community so well and are not afraid to take risks. I'm a relative newbie to all of this, and this kind of collaborative community working has been going on for many years here - but the pandemic has brought it into the spotlight, and bright and sparkly it shines. 

Today as one of the people who works for the council told of how he keeps talking about the brilliant work going on in New Addington and how that is an example to others across the borough something inside me lit up and felt proud - as someone called to the community it is a pleasure to be in a community that gets it, that runs with it and that commits to being all it is able to be. 

It's not been the easiest of journeys in New Addington, not least because I've been here almost longer in pandemic mode than not, but it is moments of joy and realisation like this that remind me of why I am here - and one of these things is to be part of and an encourager of the community -  standing side by side, walking onwards, whatever comes our way. 

This is what, as a follower of Jesus, I believe we are called to be. To love indiscriminately and seek to help the most broken rebuild, to sit beside others in sorrow and offer hope as they weep, to shine like stars in the universe - sparkling light in the snow, finding a way to thrive despite all that goes on around, to move the mirror in the right direction to shine the Christ light in the darkest places that need it most.... to live the best lives possible and invite others to join in and walk with us as we are trying to walk in the way of Christ....  

In the Message version of John 1 it says "The Word became Flesh and moved into the neighbourhood". In the snowy sparkle of today, it is clear this is where God is - he's living amongst the people, he is moving us towards restoration, he is calling us on.... in amongst the bigger picture as a church seeking to be a Christ-centred community, we see that He is moving beyond our familiar boundaries and bringing life in all its vibrancy, embedded in the community, calling us to embed ourselves with him. Telling the world about Christ includes living in the way of Christ, and right here, right now, that's dwelling with Christ in the neighbourhood to which he calls. 

This is not how things are supposed to be

2020 made me ranty. 2021 has made me stroppy...... or grumpy, or just a bit fed up with it all. This is not how things are supposed to be. Whilst the light is at the end of the tunnel ahead, we're still in a tightly packed tunnel of pandemic and we're still waiting, frustrated, for everything to become a bit better, a bit more in person really.

I was stroppy walking on Sunday between releasing our online service and meeting on zoom frustrated at yet another Sunday online, ranting a little about how this, this present time is not what I am called to as a minister. I am called as a community builder, which is why I didn't train in cyber, and although I can pick up the simpler not all singing all dancing online stuff easily, I am not buying the 'forever online' mantra. 

My stroppy walking was aimed at God. Taking inspiration from the Psalms and Lamentations of scripture where reality is laid before God I laid how I was feeling before him. God called me to minister in this place so strongly, yet here I am, living on my own in a pandemic and trying to minister in an environment that is so alien, each day is a new thing learnt. As I reflected on my call, a robin hopped across my path. 

Now, if you know my story, you might have heard me talking about robins and the encounters I have had on the journey. On my first trip here, God spoke to me through a robin playing in the rain - if that robin could enjoy itself so much in the rain, surely I could move here. When considering my second trip here and deciding to come, the moment(ish) I decided to come a robin sat singing right in front of me in a tree. 

So on Sunday, as the robin hopped across my path I said to God - 'come on, that's a bit of a cheesy way to remind me of my call isn't it?' So I walked a little bit more and there, what was in my path, but a robin, a different one, plumper.... then another.... and then as I walked on the sun was trying to find a way out of the lingering fog. I stood and watched, reminded that despite the unusual times, God is still here and God calls me now - not to how things used to be, or even necessarily to how things will be, but to right now, he calls me.

Over lockdown and semi-lockdown and should-be-lockdown-but-isn't as worship services have been shut or a open yet stressful, finding space to be with God has been different, yet slightly familiar. It's in the standing in the trees looking at the birds that God has been speaking - feet rooted to the ground as the roots dig deep into the soil to find their nourishment, birds singing God's song over me and reminding me that life, community, joy continues.

I've been reminded once again this week not only of my calling, but of God's presence - that he is here amongst us and he is our safe place, our sanctuary, our one constant who stays stable amongst the chaos. He made each one of us and however much we feel inadequate or ill-equipped to do what we are doing now, he looks at us with pleasure, because we are here and we're trying..... and it will get better, he promises us that. 

"Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in him. They will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green.”  Jeremiah 17:7-8

   

 

The singing won't stop

I miss singing with other people. I miss hearing others voices as I try and sing with them. I miss being part of the beautiful sound a choir can make when singing together. I miss singing in worship. I miss hearing the congregation sing in worship. I miss the uplift of singing, the community building nature of corporate singing, the joy that singing with others brings. 

My well being has been affected by not being able to sing with other people.... and it's been too long. I sang Silent Night with my support bubble on the doorstep on Christmas Eve and it felt slightly naughty and definitely weird in a 'I'm not used to this' kind of way. Singing is good for the soul and I miss it and want it to be normal not weird. 

A number of articles have been coming out about how maybe we might use this time to move away from corporate singing in worship, that because we can't sing together, we might focus on other ways of worshipping, and our worship will be enriched. Well, yes, I get that.... and that's great. I'm all up for creative worship - once I get my creative on I'm unstoppable.... and I value words and art and creating stuff in enabling me to worship (not dancing so much, but that'd be my awkwardness more than anything else), but I particularly value singing, and not just because I like it, but because it feels integral to my being. When I read those articles and the comments about them, I just wanted to cry (and sing). 

I believe singing is something that God has created me to do, and, although I can sing on my own, not being able to sing with others leaves something lacking. There is an uncomfortable rhetoric around that God is using the pandemic to change the way we worship to move away from singing.... God might be helping us to get our creative juices flowing, but I'm not sure he's really working towards stopping us singing corporately when we can......  

Singing and songwriting has always been key at times of crisis and re-orientating - read some of the stories behind the hymns that have lasted the test of time and you can hear that. Amazing Grace, written by John Newton as he recognised his culpability in the act of slavery but also the forgiveness he received as he turned away from his wrong ways. It is Well with my Soul was written by Horatio Spattford after a fire had destroyed his business and his wife and daughters had lost their lives in a tragic ocean accident. Augustus Toplady wrote Rock of Ages after having to find shelter in a gorge in a storm.... and the stories continue..... just look at all those Psalms.  

Spirituals helped enslaved people express both their Christian values and the hardships of slavery - full of hope for the future under impossibly difficult circumstances - hope of going home, hope of freedom, hope of far better than what they were experiencing. The stories told through blues and folk music speak of journeys and hardship and heading onwards and fighting on.... and there'll be blue birds over the white cliffs of Dover.

The trouble is in this crisis, the crisis has stopped us expressing our hope in song alongside one another, and it makes it harder than it already is. 

Songs and singing are associated with time and space. This song got me through, we sang a lot of this song at that time. 10000 reasons was the song of my ordination year, sang at every ordination but one reminding us all of the goodness of God, Waymaker the song of my first year in New Addington and will always remind me of the first wedding I took here. The Father's Song, a song that has kept me going when I have had doubts in my own abilities, will now be forever shared with Angela who died far too soon as she contracted Covid and couldn't fight it - yet she knew that God has always been there and enfolded her with eternal love (I would have loved to be able to sing it to her). 

We sing to worship, we sing to remember, we sing for wellbeing, we sing to protest, we keep on singing - it's a way of expressing who we are and what matters. And singing with other people makes it so much better. 

I look forward to a day when I can stand next to someone, many people, and sing my heart out, where I don't only have to hear my own voice and the track played through zoom and where all the intertwining of voices, in and out of tune will make a beautiful sound. The pandemic is pausing singing with others, is pausing singing in worship, but it will begin again.... 

And, when we're allowed, try and stop me..... the singing won't stop.

Facing the muddy path (happy!? new year)

"Mud, mud glorious mud. Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood. So follow me, follow. Down to the hollow and there let us wallow in glorious mud"

There is something about mud. If I was a hippo I would love to wallow in mud. That mud has been put there for a reason. That mud has been put there so that hippos can have fun and enjoy the moment. That mud being there makes the hippos appreciate the clean(er) water of the river when they have their daily wash. 

There is something about mud. It's slippy and slimey and there is the continued fear that you are going to get stuck. There are the 'this mud is going to go over the edge of my shoes' diversion through the brambles moments and the 'will my shoe extract itself moments'. 

Apart from in the hollows, mud is unique to a time and situation - it doesn't go on forever, so despite the secret enjoyment in its clarty glory, in moments of mild peril, the knowledge that dry ground is just around the corner makes the mud easier to deal with. 

My knees ache this morning because it's particularly muddy at the moment. I went for a walk yesterday and one of my biggest victories was not falling over in the mud. My shoes almost got stuck, the splashes of mud went a long way up my trousers, my coat is covered in mossy mud from squeezing through the oddest thin person styles you have ever seen and I have cuts on my hands from diving into the brambles to avoid the glorious mud. 

I ache beyond my knees this morning as we come to the end of 2020, a year where, since those first two carefree months, it has been like walking a long path of clarty mud with an end promised, but no idea of when we will catch more than a glimpse of what that end looks like. I ache in body and mind and soul. It's not been the glorious mud that the hippos enjoy because there has been no time (or inclination) to wallow and enjoy the qualities of the mud - this has been the kind of mud that if you stop you will sink - to keep our balance we've had to do some kind of socially distanced dance not around but over the patches that threaten to suck us down. 

Even the most thrive in a crisis people are exhausted by this constant walking through clarty mud. 

It's New Year's Eve, so time to look back and look ahead. It's New Year's Eve and the feeling of wanting to get rid of the horrors of 2020 is strong, but the knowledge that this path laden with mud continues to lay itself before us makes us want someone to invent a new machine that will help us glide across and away from the mud and not have to face the entry to 2021 with the fear of entering Mordor. 

How do we face the unknown of what's next? This is not the time to get excited and play in the mud, but that image of the clarty mud might get us somewhere. 

We need to take it slowly, put each foot down gently, don't rush. The only way we will avoid slipping is testing out the path ahead and we have to do that ourselves - gently. If we are fearful, we need to pause for a moment and breathe and gather our thoughts. If our grips on our shoes are not good enough right now, then stopping for a moment to re-equip is not time wasted. If when we put our foot down it sinks into the clart, our gentle steps will mean we can lift it before it gets stuck. 

We need to adapt, take a different direction for a while, reshape ourselves when we have to climb a stile that has more mud at the bottom and involves some kind of circus performer contortion to get through. Things will look different for a while. That doesn't meant that different has to become normal, but it does mean we have to deal with it in new ways. We might get stuck in the brambles but those wounds will heal and hurt less as time goes on. If avoiding getting stuck means a 2 mile detour, perhaps taking it can only be the best option. 

We need to take what is offered to help us through. If that's being given a break but that break means sitting on a cold, mossy rock, then take it - even if you can't switch off from the mud that surrounds. If that's being given shoes that don't suit, wear them for a while and try and thrive in the uncertain tasks ahead - we're not all made to re-train in cyber but we can try the best with the training available - incessantly being online is not forever. If it's an injection we know nothing about, but is the equivalent of the machine that will help us to glide over the mud, then get that arm out and offer it for puncture - ignore the stories that send you down a deeper muddier path and trust in the narrow stile to a better, less muddy field.

We need to hold onto the hope that this is not forever. The clarty mud will end, perhaps slower than we might have liked, but there will be a moment sometime soon when sitting on the sofa watching Gilmore Girls (or your choice of comfort activity) having had a long hot bath with none of that aching is not just a possibility but a reality. 2021, I hope, will bring the beginning of that process soon. We will have stories to tell, we will appreciate one another more, we will have a lot of healing to do and a lot of trauma to process, but it will come. There is light and it shines in the darkness. 

May your 2021 end better than it will begin. 

“If you’ll hold on to me for dear life,” says God,
    “I’ll get you out of any trouble.
I’ll give you the best of care
    if you’ll only get to know and trust me.
Call me and I’ll answer, be at your side in bad times;
    I’ll rescue you, then throw you a party.
I’ll give you a long life, give you a long drink of salvation!”  

Psalm 91:14-16 (MSG)

You are not Superwoman [or Superman]

You are not superwoman [or superman]

This is your advent [daily] reminder to give yourself a break.

As I walked into my kitchen today and it was, frankly, a mess, and I was once again disappointed with myself. I had to remind myself, once again, that I am not superwoman. I asked myself whether I was too tired to tidy up because I was busy or was I just lazy (I mean, noone else is coming in my house, so why bother) and then reminded myself that I wasn't superwoman. 

As I put together my online service today and wanted to spend hours making and editing a video I reminded myself that I am not superwoman. I am only one and as only one I can only do what I am able to do, and what I am able to do I can do the best I can. 

But what I am able to do is not just about capability, it's about being careful too. 

Advent and Christmas is turning out weird this year and the tendency amongst many of us will be to overcompensate by doing wackier and more time consuming things. A lot of us have decorated that little bit earlier, church leaders are getting their creative on but then spending hours and hours doing stuff that although is going to be great, is beyond the limit of what they can do and keep healthy. 

The reality in 2020 is that we have all at some point got to the point where we have had to say, well actually, enough is enough, this is going to break me..... yet we continue to overcompensate for the lacking of 2020 by driving ourselves into the ground. The reality of 2020 is we probably all need a few months off to deal with everything that 2020 has thrown at us and 2021 doesn't sound like it's going to be simple. 

Advent calls to us. Be still, wait up, take care, there is more, just hang on a minute. 

You are not superwoman [or superman], you have limits, and what you can do is not about capability but taking care too. 

Advent calls to us. Just hush a while, put that thing you are carrying down, stop telling yourself you are not working hard enough, sit still and wait, because the one who changes all is on his way.

"Every valley shall be raised up, every mountain and hill made low; the rough ground shall become level, the rugged places a plain. And the glory of the Lord will be revealed, and all people will see it together....." Isaiah 40:5 

Living in the waiting

It's hard isn't it, 2020? Even with the hope of some sense of kind of normal ahead, the now is just hard. Some days are easier than others. Some days you find yourself sat sighing, wanting to curl up in a ball and for someone to make it go away. Some days your reactions are quite unexpected to the small things that you would normally let pass you by. I'm on one of those days. 

I decided I would dabble in a quiet day. I was going to do it properly, but my brain wouldn't stop thinking about my sermon about peace and I wasn't going to find peace until I began to write it.... so instead I listened to the led sessions and thought a little bit and intertwined it with writing the most badly constructed sermon sentences ever where I couldn't even extract the meaning myself when I read it back.  

It was an advent retreat - a focus on waiting and hope and advent things. As I sat listening I was stumped by the encouragement to think back to January and February - what were your hopes then? we were asked. Hopes dashed are so hard to deal with and the question threw me into a headspace I didn't want to be. I've spent so much time helping others walk through their own loss and look ahead with hope, I realised that there are things that I have lost that haven't emerged at all yet and have the potential to kick me over when I am least expecting it. 

My hopes for moving forward got stopped by the process of lockdown reorganisation. My hopes of walking the Thames path by fears of crowds not wearing masks on the train. My hopes of things changing by everything changing. 

It's not like God hasn't been continually reminding me that there is hope, that things will get better, that this isn't forever - the things he has been doing even in the last few days have been a very real representation of what the phrase 'my cup overflows' in Psalm 23 means. 

But it's just that it has been hard. We're often told to live in the moment, but we're always also told to look ahead and make plans - where will you be in five years time? What are your plans for Christmas? What are your ambitions and hopes for the future? 2020 hasn't been a year of planning, it's been a year of reacting, and in it all, at times, I've felt like I've lost my way. 

Yet God still says, I have called you, I have chosen you, I will lead you by the hand. And I want to ask where to? 2020 has no signposts, just boulders and road closures.  

Today I asked and God answered with this:

"Maybe my desire right now is for you to simply be all you are called to be in the current moment"

As the waiting of advent is all too real this year, perhaps in the waiting we might lean in and say OK then, and be.