Living Wittily

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  • Malala Yasufzai and the Joy of Hopefulness

    Malala Yusufzai and two nurses

    Malala Yasufzai is well enough to leave hospital.

    This is news that rejoices my heart and adds to the celebration of Good News.

    Her courage and determination, the professsional exp[erience and care of nurses, the skill and resources of the surgeon, all made available for this one life at Queen Elizabeth Hospital.

    She is an inspiration and a symbol of hope to millions of women.

    She has learned to talk again, walk again and wave her hand again – and much restorative surgery still has to be endured.

    A young teenager's desire to learn, and her intelligence and hopefulness, outweigh the entire weight of Taliban hatred, violence and religious vengefulness.

    The Lord bless her and keep her; the Lord make his face to shine upon her and be gracious unto her; the Lord lift up the light of his countenance upon her and give her peace.

  • Epiphany and the Memory of My friend Stewart.

    A year ago my good friend Stewart suffered a catastrophic stroke, from which he died last May. One of his great loves was to find reasons for parties and gatherings at his home where he and Helen would arrange food and entertainment. And when Stewart organised things, they were choreographed with care and forethought, with the invited guests made welcome and expected to join in the fun and games, the food and drink and the laughter and conversation.

    Stewart and Helen introduced Sheila and I to Epiphany parties. At such parties we would have soup, home made bread and then a large cake, preceded by games inside or out, with a memorable evening of shove ha'penny on the big dinner table.

    I mention this because the season of Epiphany is here again, and memories of those Epiphany parties are still vivid and carry the emotional freight of good memories and meticulously planned fun and liturgy. Because we prayed and heard the story of the Magi and their gifts on those evenings too.

    The Nativity picture by Burne Jones is one of my favourites, and it captures the splendour and mystery of gifts being brought to the child who is the Gift of God, the God who gives of God's deepest self. This post is in memory of a man who brought much love and laughter into my life, and whose spirituality may best be described as making the welcome of God tangible. He was deeply read in Christian mysticism, and for him deep thought, strong passion and embrace of human life in its diversity and fullness, were given expression in a man whose smile was a benediction, and whose prayers made you feel intrusive yet welcome to overhear a conversation between a man and God. There are many privileges in being a pastor, not least of them coming within the companionship of those whose love for God is contagious.

    Like thos Magi of old, he was a wise man, who brought his gift, and worshipped the Christ child.

  • Review part 1 – Dementia: Living in the Memories of God.

    Dementia: Living in the Memories of God, John Swinton. (London: SCM, 2012) £25

    Dementia: Living in the Memories of God, John Swinton. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2012) £16.99

    This book is published by different publishers on opposite sides of the Atlantic, both of which are available from Amazon, at significantly different prices. I requested a review copy from SCM the British Publisher and I am grateful to them for the copy used in this series of reviews. Page references therefore are to the SCM edition

    It's
    some time since I did consecutive blogging on a theme or a book. That's why I asked for a review copy of Swinton's new book, Dementia. Living in the Memories of God. In my own circle of friends and family, and in
    years of pastoral ministry, I have watched those for whom I care begin
    to lose their sense of self, and have supported those who love them
    through the valley of deep darkness that they have sensed ahead of them,
    and the one they love. The theological and pastoral questions are
    urgent, crucial and take us to the foundation convictions of Christian
    theology and pastoral responsiveness to each human being as made in the
    image of God. Dementia is a condition that raises profound questions
    about human being, human love, the sense of personal identity and
    ultimately the meaning and worth of each human life.

    A
    blog is a good place to explore all this, and invite insights from
    others, and share and learn together something of what it means to
    cherish and celebrate the depths of our own humanity, and God's love
    beyoind understanding.

    "
    The glory of human beings is not power, the power to control someone
    else; the glory of human beings is the ability to let what is deepest
    within us grow."

    Jean Vanier, Befriending the Stranger, quoted in Swinton, page 153.

    There will be several posts reviewing Swinton's book throughout January.

     

  • Snowy, Smudge and a Treasured Book.


    Snowy 2Did I tell you that my favourite animal is the snow leopard?

    And that I am now a joint sponsor of a Himalayan snow leopard, a gift from my daughter.

    As part of the Worl Wildlife Fund deal, you get a small cuddly snow leopard.

    I've called him Snowy, and the picture is of Snowy and Smudge.

    Thirty odd years ago I read Peter Matthiessen's The Snow Leopard, and ever since have been Snow Leopard daft!

    It is a wise, self-revealing and brilliantly descriptive account of his journey to Nepal to try to see the Snow Leopard in its native habitat. It is travel book, autobiography, journal, and in the most serious sense, a self-help book – his journey was in the aftermath of the death of his wife. On a five week epic trek, he is genuinely on a journey, unlike the overused sentimental metaphor of journeying glibly claimed by Easyjet pilgrims.

  • Reflections on Rowan Williams and the Art of the Impossible.


    RowanOne of the more glaring ambiguities of being the Established Church is the qualities, attributes and skills required to be a leader who is able to face two different directions at the same time, work with two sets of pragmatic principles which are likely to get in the way of core convictions that don't easily survive compromise. I am thinking of Rowan Williams, a man in whom deep spirituality, theological scholarship, personal holiness and ecclesial conviction leave him deeply unprepared for the maneouverings and compromises, the moral ambiguities and relational ruthlessness that seems to be required to prosper in the arena of politics, ecclesial or state.

    He comes to the end of his tenure soon, and there will be those who will do an audit on his performance as Archbishop. For myself, I think there need to be two audits, appraisals, or reviews whichever term we prefer. And the criteria for assessment cannot possibly be the same in both spheres, the political and the ecclesial. As a spiritual leader of worldwide Anglicanism he cannot escape political engagement within and beyond the concerns of the Church; but neither can he surrender principles of spiritual conviction, theological commitment and Gospel imperatives. It is that dichotomy of foundational commitments that have always made the role of Archbishop of Canterbury impossible to fulfil to the satisfaction of everyone. That's before we talk about being the leader of a culturally diverse, theologically broad, historically compromised organisation whose foundation beliefs are vigorously contested in the postmodern marketplace of alternative narratives.


    Rowan 2Holiness has little value as political currency; prayer and spirituality by definition are not power tools at committee level, where pragmatic instrumentalism is a primary virtue; theological wisdom and erudition, even when combined with moral imagination in exploring the cultural and ethical minefields facing an ancient church travelling across the terrain of the contemporary world, do not carry decisive authority. It is near impossible to speak with Christian integrity and a political correctness all will approve. Indeed there is a plurality of political correctness which underlies the polarities and conflicts of much contemporary ethical and theological debate. Clashes of fundamentalism tend to crush those who stand between them as mediatior – Christians of all people should know that. The photo above captures someone whose surprise, laughter and sense of the ridiculous are emphatically not out of place in someone asked to do the impossible as a routine expectation.


    RowanI leave to others to judge the contribution of a good man in an impossible role, though I would ask them to be careful of Jesus words about being judged by the same measures we judge others. For myself I am grateful to Rowan Williams for accepting a vocation from God that for his years as Archbishop of Canterbury, has gone against the grain of a spiritually faithful intellect. His term has exposed him to dilemmas of labyrinthine complexity, and at times has made him in turns unpopular, ridiculed, deemed irrelevant, focus of anger. But he has demonstrated the incompatibility of being a leader in Church and State. And he has done so by speaking and arguing out of a resilient and generous faith, by manifesting holiness as both practical and costly and ultimately different from mere goodwill however astute, and by a rootedness in his own tradition that does not need to diminish or exclude those of other traditions and faiths.

    I leave you with one of those momkents of brilliance that say so much about the faith and faithfulness of Rowan Williams.

    Rowan Williams once brilliantly compared prayer to sunbathing. "When
    you're lying on the beach something is happening, something that has
    nothing to do with how you feel or how hard you're trying. You're not
    going to get a better tan by screwing up your eyes and concentrating.
    You give the time, and that's it. All you have to do is turn up. And
    then things change, at their own pace. You simply have to be there where
    the light can get at you."

    I pray that at the next stage of his ministry, there will be time for such sunbathing.

  • Cappuccino, Companionship and the Kindness of Not Quite Telling the Truth.

    Went to one of our favourite places for a cappuccino.

    No loyalty cards there, just good coffee, an off the street ambience, and lots of folk talking, sipping and reading.

    Waited more than  10 minutes for the coffee – short staffed, and those who had turned up were hassled trying to keep things going.

    When it came, the part time barista was apologetic, out of breath and showing early signs of work related stress.

    Then the first sip of anticipated heaven – but beneath the aesthetic beauty of the chocolate topped froth the coffee was cold.

    Gently and pleasantly I explained to the now near tearful student trying to make ends meet with extra work.

    Genuine apologies, immediate promise to replace them and off she went.

    Second cup came, as wsonderful to behold as the last one – it too was cold.

    There comes a time when you realise that someone else's day is more important than your own.

    Asked if this one was OK I lied and said it was just as I liked it.

    If drinking tepid coffee with a smile and a fib prevents tears, what the Heaven?

    Now as to loyalty cards – they don't do them.

    But I don't go there for the loyalty card and the chance of a free coffee – I go for the lovely people who get upset if they don't get it right.

    And I will be back 🙂

  • Salley Vickers’ new novel, The Cleaner of Chartres – benign drizzle for arid minds.

    I agree with a friend who said to me years ago, that The Dean's Watch by Elizabeth Goudge was the most complete and satisfying novel she had ever read. Not necessarily the best, the most literary in accomplishment, or the most imaginatively plotted. But one in which plot and character, historical atmosphere, incident and coincidence eventually weave together in a satisfying and finished story.

    There are other novels I am glad I read, because they have left their traces in my own view of the world, myself and the way to live a life. Anne Tyler's Saint Maybe and Patchwork Planet; Chaim Potok's My Name is Asher Lev and The Book of Lights; Carol Shields' Larry's Party , Happenstance and the Stone Diaries; Graham Greene's Burnt Out Case and The Power and the Glory; Julian Barnes' Sense of an Ending, and John Irving's The Prayer of Owen Meany; Morris West's The Navigator and A S Byatt's Possession: Khaled Hosseini, A Thousand Splendid Suns, and Bernard Schlink's The Reader; Thomas Kennealy's Schindler's Ark and Vikram Seth's An Equal Music; Bernard McLaverty's Grace Notes and Helen Waddell's Peter Abelard; Salley Vickers' The Other Side of You and Miss Garnett's Angel;Gail Godwins Father Melancholy's Daughter and Evensong.

    All of these I remember without getting up from the desk to check; they are books that even if you give them away, they stay with you. The best stories, insinuate themselves into our way of thinking, and dissolve into that inner ethos out of which we live our lives, more or less wisely. Good novels slowly adjust mindset, develop our relational literacy, educate and exercise jaded conscience and moral imagination, and eventually germinate and produce outward fruit from those inner seeds scattered on the varied soil of our minds. And some of that seed falls on good soil. 


    51i5Nht2zgL._AA160_Salley Vickers latest novel, The Cleaner of Chartres does most of these things. It too is a story that seeps slowly into the clefts and crevices of a mind made arid by too much work stuff, and like the benign drizzle on a Scottish hillside, gently but persistently soaks the soil and encourages renewed growth and recovered vitality. It was a great book to read leading up to Christmas.     Agnes, the foundling child, grows up with a legacy of guilt, unhappiness, shattered trust and the kind of brokenness from which a person only recovers through immense courage and the risk of trusting again despite all evidence to the contrary, and through the generous humanity of those whose vocation in life seems to be to believe the best about others and subject gossip and accusation to an hermeneutic of suspicion grounded in goodwill.The human positives of motherhood, love, community and friendship, as often in Vickers' writing, are never allowed to be eclipsed by so much else that seeks to diminish human hope. No need to relate the plot or expound the characters. Just get it and read it.

    I am more convinved than ever that pastoral theologians need to read novels with the same theological alertness as the usual practical theology syllabus. Next time I teach Pastoral Theology one or other of Salley Vickers' novels could well be a set text for a critical review and theologically reflective essay.

  • Poetry, Stained Glass and Being Content with the Inexplicable

    Wit Wonders

    A God and yet a man,

    A maid and yet a mother:

    Wit wonders what wit can

    Conceive this or the other.

     

    A God and can he die?

    A dead man can he live?

    What wit can well reply?

    What reason reason give?

     

    God, Truth itself doth teach it.

    Man’s wit sinks too far under

    By reason’s power to reach it:

    Believe and leave to wonder.

    (Anonymous – 15th C)

  • Joseph kept these things and pondered them in his heart….

    The
    incarnation of our Lord lies at the heart of Christian faith. When the
    arguments for and against virgin birth have been faithfully spoken and honestly
    heard, there remains a residue of truth, a core of mystery not amenable to
    explanation. A small part of that mystery is the faith of Mary who was able to
    say, 'Be it done according to your will,' and the faith of Joseph prepared to
    live with consequences he had no way of foreseeing. Clustered around the divine
    miracle of annunciation and incarnation are a number of smaller miracles of
    human trustfulness and openness to the coming of God. Perhaps we can be helped
    in our appreciation of such miracles of faith if we do a little reverent prying
    into the emotional rationale behind Joseph's reaction to Mary's own disturbing
    annunciation.  

    …………………………..

    Joseph kept these things and pondered them in his heart…….

     

    Every
    time one of our old Rabbi's conducts a betrothal, or a wedding ceremony he
    tells the joke about the angel who gives just one wish. He told it at our
    betrothal reception, when Mary and I got engaged.

    One
    day a man did an act of great kindness. As a reward he is visited by an angel."
    Heaven has sent me to reward you. Whatever you want done, heaven will
    grant."  After thinking carefully
    the man said " Build me a bridge  from
    Jerusalem to Rome so I can visit my family  whenever I want to without going the long way
    round."

    "
    Wait a blessed minute ", said the angel. "Have you any idea what that
    costs?  Fifteen hundred miles of bridge! Even
    angels have to stick to spending guide-lines and work within the constraints imposed
    on the miracles budget. Choose something else. Give me another option. " The
    man replied, " O.K. Help me to understand how a woman's mind works." After
    much thought the angel asked, "How many lanes do you want on your
    bridge?"

    The
    rabbi told it as a joke. But hard as I've tried, and long as I've thought, I
    still don't understand the mind of Mary. What she thought, and what she felt about
    what happened to her, and what it did to us. I didn't understand why Mary disappeared
    for three months to visit her cousin Elizabeth. I didn't understand when she
    came back and said she was three months pregnant.  I didn't understand when she said " I've
    never been unfaithful.  The baby is God's
    gift."

    I
    didn't understand why she, the woman, should be the one who got to decide on
    the name. I couldn't believe her story about being visited by an angel, who
    told her that, of all the women in the world, God had chosen her as his point
    of entry into human affairs,  I didn't
    understand, and I don't understand, in fact, I'll never understand how a virgin
    can be pregnant.

    What
    I did understand, was that the Mary, who was promised to me, now belonged to
    someone else. What I did understand, because I'm not just a man, I'm a just
    man, was the need to protect Mary, from public shame and legal penalty.  What I did understand  was that our future stops here. No marriage! No
    shared joy! No family! Just this unwanted pregnancy forcing us apart. And
    what I did understand, and felt fully, unflinchingly, was the sense of
    opportunity lost, grief
    at the wasted possibilities, the certainty our dreams had ended.

     

    But
    the dreams weren't ended! I thought, just like the just, sensible, unimaginative
    man I am, I
    thought, I'll deal with this rationally, quietly divorce her, and get on with
    my life. Still, before doing anything I decided to sleep on it!  But it wasn't a slumberland sleep. It was
    restless, anxious sleep; my mind and body tossing and turning. in synchronised
    uneasiness. Then through my confusion and hurt a shining clarity.  Interrupting my scheming and dreaming,  a voice, 
    that shook my whole being awake. An angel, not like the one in the
    rabbi's joke. He didn't ask  me what I
    wanted more than anything. Not that it would have mattered.  I wanted the one thing I could no longer
    have…Mary, uncomplicated, faithful, understandable Mary. Mary before all this
    angels and God nonsense.

    But
    before I could think of what to say, the angel spoke. "Joseph, don't be afraid
    to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the
    Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son and you are to give him the name
    Jesus."  I no longer doubted Mary. But
    what it must have meant for her, what it does to a woman to have others
    question her integrity as a woman,while
    all the time she is being faithful to God by receiving the gift of the
    Almighty. That I have not, cannot understand.

     I
    don't understand how Mary, carried the burden of truth, that she would mother
    God's son. I don't understand her openness to God, her obedient humility, or
    her determined yes to the purposes of God. Like the child she carried, she
    nurtured and nourished the truth of God's loving purposesfor
    us and the whole world. I don't understand the ways of God, not even when
    angels tell me.

    In
    my dream a deeper reality than I ever imagined had come close to me;  And in Mary, the deepest reality of all was
    coming true. God coming close to the world in an inconceivable conception. God
    with us, love made flesh, borne and born through Mary.

    The
    Rabbi's joke about bridges and a woman's mind? To unimaginative, rational
    patronising men,perhaps
    understanding a woman is miracle enough. But when it comes to bridges, through
    the faithful intuition, the imaginative love, the trustful yes of a woman, God
    built a far, far bigger bridge than a Jerusalem to Rome flyover.; the promised
    bridge between heaven and earth, through the faith of a woman, and the birth of
    a baby.  That's a miracle of love that
    exceeds all budgets, and like much else in this story, I’ll never understand it.
     But I’ll sleep on it.

  • The Shalom Tapestry and Shalom as Vocation.

    The Shalom tapestry is coming along slowly.

              Peace Haiku

         Shalom comes slowly,

         each stitch hand-crafted  prayer,

         for mercy, peace, love.

    For a couple of months now I have lived with the
    form and the content of this beautiful strange and life-enhancing word. The
    quest for shalom means seeking well-being of heart and body, discovering energy
    and resilience to live faithfully and creatively for God, receiving from the
    Holy Spirit the freedom to trust our imagination to envision healing and
    wholeness and justice for our world.

    This small  tapestry (4 inches by three) is part of a bigger project.
    When finished it will be the small panel at the bottom of a larger, brasher
    celebration of Shalom based on rainbow colours. Working with these Hebrew
    characters, and the English letters in the larger panel, is an experiment in contrast, construction
    and compassion. This small panel is entirely impressionistic. I love the sound
    of the word Shalom – the threads impossibly try to give sight to the sound as I
    say it or hear it spoken; the colours depict mood which you may rightly say is likewise
    impossible, but the attempt is still important; sometimes while working it I
    listen to music, carefully chosen music. So reader, what music should be played
    when stitching Shalom?

    During the last two months of stitching Shalom I
    have prayed for Malala Yousafzai and Afghanistan; for Palestinian people and Jewish
    settlers; for children, teachers and families in Newtown Massachusets, and for children
    and families in Nangarhar Province, Afghanistan; for people close to me struggling with the life
    they are living or trying to survive, and for others I hardly know but whose
    hurt makes prayer and work for Shalom both an enacted imperative and an essential
    attribute of spiritual integrity.

    To seek Shalom and pursue it, to be a Shalom
    maker, to recognise again the words of Jesus ‘my Shalom I leave with you’, to
    lie within reach of and to trust the Shalom that passes all understand ding –
    not a bad way to live really, or to really live.And during Advent to share the longings of millions for peace on earth and mercy mild….