the blind leap?

We can never understand the life of faith seen in Scripture and in serious Christian living unless
we drop the idea of faith as a 'blind leap' and understand that faith is commitment to action,
often beyond our natural abilities, based upon knowledge of God and God's ways.  The romantic talk of 'leaping', to which we in the Western world have become accustomed, actually amounts to 'leaping' without faith - that is, with no genuine belief at all.  And that is actually what people have in mind today when they speak of a 'leap of faith'.

- Dallas Willard, Personal Religion, Private Reality

Can true faith ever be 'blind'?  However limited our knowledge is, do we not base our belief on something?  Do we trust because we have a button we press that inspires trust?  Or do we trust because we know something about the person in whom we put that trust? 

Yes, we can have mistaken faith, based on error, misunderstanding or lies - but when these are exposed faith understandably shatters and no longer exists - because the base is taken away.  It sees through them.

If faith is described as seeing what is unseen how can it be blind?
Surely faith's hallmark is sight, not the lack of it?

Have we tried to stretch the vocabulary of faith to fit something else entirely?

John Stott: the legacy

HEARING of the death of John Stott yesterday gave me more than a mere moment of pause.  I never met him or heard him in person and yet I respected the person I met through his writing.  I have always been challenged by his discipline, humility and commitment.  So I felt a sudden sense of loss - not the troubled disquiet I experienced over the death of Amy Winehouse at only 27, but the kind of loss you experience when someone special to you announces they are leaving, for new things elsewhere.

(A memory floats by, of reading The Cross of Christ on the train to London.)

At 90, Stott leaves a legacy of deep and faithful thinking behind him.  I hope that the rest of us continue this legacy of thinking deeply about our faith, of taking the time to know God better,  making time for that which is important in our lives.

And so it was that I murmured a genuine prayer of gratitude for a man I have never met.

Not yet, anyway.


Click on the picture to be taken to the memorial site

blogging: a poor substitute for journalling

In some of my reading recently, both for book research and personal interest, I'm being drawn into thinking about the 'inner life' - how we reflect upon and build character, how we self-examine without naval-gazing, how we pay attention to our spiritual health, for want of a better word.

This where people start talking about spiritual disciplines.  This is very relevant for the final part of my book (mustn't give too many spoilers!) but I can't research a topic like this purely objectively.  Inevitably I start thinking about it myself - in relation to my own life.

Some find the discipline of journalling very helpful.  It's fairly popular in a secular context too - quests for self-improvement and expression often hold it up as a possibility.  Of course, spiritual journalling in the more traditional Christian sense tends to have a rather different aim in mind - examining ourselves in relation to scripture and our journey with God, an act of discipleship, if you will - even confession.

I have journalled over the years - not going at it as a 'discipline' in any kind of conscious way but simply because it has felt helpful.  Now that I blog, I 'journal' less often.  In some respects, this is okay.  Some things overlap, and certainly the interaction can be very encouraging.

But of course there are things we do not say in a blog.  Things we might, in a moment of agony or joy, record in a journal.  Questions we might dare to ask ourselves, in front of our maker but nobody else.  So in this way I think blogging is a poor substitute for journalling.

It's a poor substitute because it's not the same thing.  Journalling is a very private, deeply honest pursuit.  Blogging may or may not be honest, but it's not private and its purpose will always be influenced by the need to please.  Whether we admit it or not, we are writing for an audience and in this way we are in danger of writing to impress - crafting ourselves a character that is not entirely ours.  To whatever degree, we are writing for the public sphere; we are choosing to put ourselves 'out there'.

Not everyone finds journalling helpful ; I realise that.  But I want to try and reimplement this self-examination, this honesty of words.  Something I can look at and say - "I was there, and now I am here."  "I need to work on this."  "I was ashamed of myself today."

Blogging and journalling are not the same thing.  If we think that they are, we miss out - always seeing ourselves as merely a persona - instead of the person we really are.  (Some might baulk at this.  I'm not saying I'm not myself when I blog.  But I am in danger of skirting over the deeper parts of myself, always aware of what appears on the screen.)

In blogging I see my public face.  But there is more to me than that.

impossible

It would be impossible for me

to hold you in my hands,

nor would I wish to.

Even the idea of you is uncontainable,

mind-bending, and yet

so beguiling,

that he who is before all things

should want to walk beside me,

take an interest in such a fragile

heart as mine - 

It would be impossible for me

to hold you in my hands

although I try to understand

you better, not to squeeze you

into my poor definitions, but

for you to define me.

You are vital to my existence

sustaining each thought, 

my every breath -

It would be impossible for me

to hold you in my hands -

rather,

I am held in yours.

Image: mine

journey of faith: the truth inside the cliché

Faith is a journey.

It's rather an over-used phrase - becoming a cliché, perhaps.  The thing about clichés is that they get overused for a reason; often because they carry some truth or at least inevitability.  But once they become overused, the words empty out, spilling their meaning and becoming mere automatons: oh, look - that sentence again.  Those words, again.  That phrase.  It becomes about the phrase - becoming more like punctuation than words.  Or a title for a stage or compartment of life: my journey of faith.  A label, a tab, a header.

That's the trouble with clichés.  They lose their impact.

But there is a journey within faith - at least there should be.  Faith does not stand still.  I wouldn't want it to, ever.  There is no point where genuine faith says 'Right.  I've got it.  Done and dusted.  Here's what I think about this and this and this.  So there.'  That's just assumption, stubbornness even.  True faith, in my opinion, needs humility and longing.

It needs humility because we are all learning and growing.  We have all got rightness and wrongness inside our heads - whether we admit it or not.  We are all muddied in our understanding of certain things - whether through lack of knowledge or understanding, whether because we are influenced by our own feelings: we want it to be so, thus it is.  Faith needs humility because it understands that it does not have all the answers spelled out.  It is still working through them, re-examining them.  Faith needs humility to understand that life is not all about the way I think it should be, even if that makes me uncomfortable.

Faith needs longing because it wants to understand.  It wants a true view of its goal - its object.  For many of us, this is God.  And our faith is based on him and his trustworthiness.  We long to know him better, and dare I say - we long to know him in spite of what this may do to all our assumptions and feelings and previous understandings.  Faith moves - journeys - through longing to know and understand.  It recognises there are some things beyond comprehension but this does not stop it wanting to comprehend - looking forward to a time when the murkiness will recede.

Faith thrills at new thoughts and previously undiscovered meaning.  Faith enjoys splashing in the shallows but desires to go deeper.

Faith never stands still.

Faith is a journey.

do not forget what you have been given

Recently I've been carving out more space for thinking and reflection.  I don't think I've done this deliberately, but suddenly my mental synapses are firing happily away, my tendency to pause and think is re-invigorated - not least due to the words written by others, be it through books, articles, or blogs.

The beauty of our capacity to think and feel astonishes me - taking some inward part and tugging at it, creating a need to think more deeply and communicate more profoundly.

Which makes me look at my own writing projects and think: what has got left behind?  What should I be focusing on - but I am not?

My main big project, bubbling in the background is still the 'book' on forgetfulness and memory, a bubbling that does not stop, but is often trampled on by my medley-like mind, churning with ideas.  I'm challenged to take time out and truly focus on it, in the manner I did in November for my novel writing project.  That project was purely for fun, but it showed me how much I could write if I developed the daily habit of working on one longer piece of work.  I'm more nervous at approaching this one - because I take it more seriously.

It's a book about our tendency to forget - and how this impacts our sense of identity and our faith, yet often I myself forget to actually work on it (pulls face at irony).

I pray that some how I will be able to choose wisely what I focus on and when, not neglecting the important things nor stealing time from those who need me.

Something has happened to me in the past year whereby I no longer desire to 'be' a writer; it is what I am.  Suddenly I am experiencing something that I had always hankered after: a sense of vocation.  I can feel it running through me, fiery and passionate, desperate to be heard.

I do not know how to describe it, but I am utterly grateful for it.  I just pray I use it wisely.

The Lord is my Light - Lecture with Professor Alister McGrath

Spent some time listening to this lecture by Alister McGrath this morning. He tends to tackle topics that interest me, theology and apologetics among them. I decided to plug my netbook into the radio and listen while doing the ironing downstairs. It's a good way of getting two things done at once but I did find myself hissing occasionally that I did not have a notebook and pen to hand. I know my mind is so full of holes by nature that I cannot rely on my memory.


So, I may need to listen/watch again at some point - with a pen instead of an iron!  Plus, the screen was not in my view as I stood at the ironing board, trying to get the fluff off a T-Shirt.  I did run and get a coat hanger at one point, too.

I liked the ideas of seeing Christianity as light but also something that sheds light on everything else, seeing doctrines as both the glass of a window but also seeing through it to a wider landscape.  McGrath talks of theology as something that informs but also excites, something we do together as we look at scripture, drawing each other's attention to things we had not previously noticed (one of the reasons I love this kind of discussion).

In relation to apologetics, I was struck by the fact that in order to translate something, we need to understand our own meaning - which is often what I'm trying to put across when I bang on about intelligent faith.

 If you're interested in theology, apologetics and thinking deeply about faith this may be worth a look, as McGrath talks about loving God with all our minds - while still allowing for the fact that there are some things beyond our mental grasp, some things words cannot contain and some questions that cannot be resolved in a logical way.

Lecture with Professor Alister McGrath – Lanier Theological Library

Image from Alister McGrath's biography on RZIM website

part two of a personal story: under the waves

My nose was baptised a fraction after the rest of me.  A fleeting moment passed as I was aware that the tip of my nose was above water, and then I was lowered just a bit further before coming up out of the waves.

I received infant baptism as a baby and was later confirmed, both  in the Church of England.  So how did I get here, on a pebbled beach beneath a sign which proclaimed loudly and cheerfully 'BAPTISM HERE' just days after my 18th birthday?

I had no problem accepting that infant baptism and confirmation could be seen as a theological equivalent to believers' baptism (and I know that the Holy Spirit and the act of laying on of hands is important in confirmation, too).  I did not discriminate in any negative way on those grounds. I still do not, although I am a proponent of believers' baptism in my personal theology. I was at sixth form college at the time, where I had made more friends and some of them were Christians, from various traditions and backgrounds. My decision to be baptised by total immersion was more of a personal decision than a theological one, yet it was act of obedience, just the same.

I didn't see a particular need for being baptised, having been sprinkled with water as an infant and confirmed when I was 14. I knew that for my parents the former was an act of dedication; they did not believe infant baptism made me a Christian.  My confirmation was where I made those promises for myself.  I must confess, however, to feeling a little sad not to have consciously participated in the symbolism evoked by the water. I say 'consciously' - I was conscious, but I cannot remember it, for obvious reasons!

The decision I made started with a niggling.  I kept coming across things about baptism and it kept on...niggling at me. I was rather surprised by this niggle.  I wasn't entirely clear what to do with it.  Gradually it grew stronger and stronger until it became clear that there was someone behind it.  I didn't know what to do.  In the end, I talked to my mother, who was supportive - I knew she would be.  I confessed the need to have company in this - someone to be baptised with  me.  So we prayed together that evening that if God truly did want me to be baptised by total immersion, there would someone who would accompany me in the whole experience.

That week I walked into my sixth form college where one of my friends was sitting in a chair, beaming.  'I'm getting baptised!'  She told me, jubilantly.  It still makes me smile, even now.  Any doubt was erased by delight.

My friend had a Methodist background and she too had taken the same steps as me.  Neither of our churches having such a thing as a baptistry, we chose neutral ground.  Well, more accurately, we chose the sea.  We were baptised by the chaplain of our college, himself an Anglican and incredibly helpful and understanding of our wishes. In the end, the service was called 're-affirmation of baptismal vows by total immersion', which seemed to cover things.  The words were the same - baptised in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, we made our personal vows to follow Jesus and acknowledge him as Lord of our lives. We knew there were some who still wouldn't understand, but we desperately wanted to do it.

So surrounded by friends and family from various denominations, plus some holidaymakers who asked to watch (my response: of course!), we entered the water.

Before we were baptised, the two of us prayed together. I knew then that for me, this was the decision.  I'd already come to faith, I'd already made various commitments on my journey, but this, I had decided, was for life.  There was no going back for me, not after this.  In enacting the dying (going  under) and the rising to new life (coming up) I was displaying my decision.  Jesus was not only my Saviour, he was my Lord.  In a sense, I visibly signed over the ownership of my heart that day.  I quivered with the intensity of my decision.

I did not know then that in later times, when my faith was all but broken and darkness swarmed over me, how much those promises made in the water would hold me fast.  I didn't know how much I would need that memory. How often, when doubt and grief and chaos flooded my mind, I would recall those prayers we said amid the pebbles, and the promises we made before we went under the waves.  How I would fiercely hold onto that symbolic decision when everything else was pulling me away from it.  How much I would thank God, with all my heart, that he had niggled me into it.

Neither did I know that I would end up in a church which came with a baptistry.

All I knew was: this is my vow.  This is my holy ground, where I take off my shoes.  This is my response to that niggle which became a call.



To be continued...again.

part one of a personal story: the broken sword

I intimated in Tuesday's post that there was a personal element to my longing to see Christians working together.  I'll try and encapsulate it a bit here - but please remember this is my personal experience.  You are welcome to take it or leave it.  Neither is this my Christian testimony about my coming to faith in God, but it does talk a bit about how I have interacted with his people - his church.

As a child I attended an Anglican church - it was a very 'low' kind of Anglicanism, not that I knew much about the differences at the time. Years later I discovered certain kinds of incense made me cough and splutter, so perhaps it was just as well!  I went to church with my parents, and for reasons I won't go into here, also spent a couple of years in a Pentecostal Assemblies of God congregation, and then another charismatic Anglican church before returning, for the majority of my teens, to the original Anglican church where I had begun.

We've touched on the fact I'm not keen on labels (see here), and as a teenager I was very prickly about denominationalism.  I would quite firmly say 'I am a Christian,' beyond that, I was determined not to be boxed.  I knew there were aspects of Anglican tradition that didn't match my own slowly forming theology, nevertheless I loved the people within - and the church is the people, after all - and I wanted to be where God put me.  I also wanted to ditch the labels.

All this makes me sound very firm in my opinions, but I should explain a little more about teenage Lucy-ness.  I stumbled through my teens on a tide of feeling - feeling that I did not know how to express, and longing to know and understand more and more.  But I struggled to put myself into words, and when I sincerely tried, my contemporaries looked at me somewhat oddly - who thinks that much about life?!  I suffered from an innate shyness which coupled with this desperation to express and understand generally left me muddled and exhausted.  It was nobody's fault.  I was just becoming me, in my own teenage way.

As I became more anxious about sharing my heart, so full of feeling, I began to hide behind a mask of a manically overdone version of my natural silly streak.  I consider my silly streak a very healthy and necessary thing, but at this time, it was something I hid behind, because I did not know how to contribute to conversation.  I did not know how to be me, because I did not know then who on earth 'me' was.   This mask wasn't always appropriate, so sometimes I would simply remain quiet, at one point reduced to nauseating panic attacks - coping with sheer depth of feeling and self-consciousness and tiredness.  My body, frustratingly, would not keep itself distinct from my emotions, and thus when I was a nervous wreck, I really was a nervous wreck. (Of course this is a generalisation.  I did have my sane moments!)

Only relatively recently have I been able to look back at that other me and smile benignly, no longer clutched by scorching embarrassment.  She's still with me - not all of it was hormones - but blended in with later experiences and, well, growing up.  Anyway, you get the picture. I felt things very deeply indeed - and not just for myself; I could be assailed with chokingly powerful compassion, which alas was so powerful I was yet again rendered speechless and unable to show it to the person concerned.

Within my passionate nature, I had a longing for God.  I was incredibly sincere in my faith and thrived on seeking understanding.  I also had a passion for Christian unity. I looked at division and it hurt. Once, the young people were holding a service as an alternative to Hallowe'en.  The idea was that it was open to other churches in the area and I took this very seriously indeed.  One of my most vivid memories is of lying in my bed praying furiously for this service.  And lying back, rendered mute, an image flashed into to my mind.

I can still recall my feeling of astonishment.  This is not a way that God often speaks to me, so to suddenly have a 'picture' come out of nowhere was startling.  And perplexing.

It was a broken sword.  I don't mean a sword merely seared in two but splintered, fragments of it lying about - big, small, shiny, rusty.  Baffled, I asked immediately: 'what does it mean?'

The answer came back, startlingly clear and swift. 'This is my church.'

(Now. Some of you will say 'it was all in your head'.  Some of you won't like the image of weaponry.   I understand that.  I'm just telling the story.)

Gradually, the threads of meaning layered in my mind.  A shattered sword is no good for its purpose. It is ineffectual.  What good is a sword that lies in pieces?  But put those pieces back together and what do you have?  A powerful weapon.  One that can stand against injustice.  One that can defend the weak and poor. One that can make a difference.

It's an analogy.  It's an analogy that went straight to my heart.

To be continued...

only the holy

The nature of holiness has always fascinated me.  In the bible, particularly in the Old Testament, we see it as something scorchingly different, special, other.  That which is holy is for God.  Only the holy. In the New Testament we see holiness arrive with arms and legs.  We see God made man, who, when touched by the "unclean" of the ancient purity codes, does something extraordinary.  In the Old Testament, "holy" objects, things set aside for God, can easily get polluted.  They become unholy, simply by contact with the ordinary.  Let alone the "unclean".

But Jesus, the Holy One of God, touches not just the ordinary but those seen as "unclean".  And the flows are reversed. When Jesus touches someone, he makes them clean. His holiness is catching. Suddenly, the whole thing has been turned upside down.

It's important to the Christian to pursue holiness in their every day living, to seek to imitate Christ, to become more like him. But it's also something we can ask for - for it is God's Holy Spirit who aids us and transforms us. So we can pray 'Lord, make me holy,' and trust that he will work within our lives a transformation we could never manage on our own.

***

Which ties in nicely with the current Salt Challenge, Pray for Holiness.

I've recently started getting into Digi-Scrapping (Digital Scrapbooking).  I struggle with the time , space and energy required to get all my crafting stuff out of the cupboard at the moment - writing takes priority.  But this way of engaging with my creative side, which I never thought I'd really like, is proving great fun.  And a lovely way of scrapping all my digital photographs (as I still have oodles and oodles of prints to sort through from over the years).

needing to know: the known and the familiar

It strikes me as somewhat ironic that in a culture where many prize personal certainty, we are so unwilling to seek knowledge.  Unless, of course, it's on a need-to-know basis.  The problem is, I don't always realise what I need to know.  Have you ever taken a bite of something and only then realised how hungry you were? Or sunk into a warm bath and been struck by the heat against the coldness of your body - a coldness you had managed to ignore?

I continue to think about faith - faith that is informed, a seeing faith, a faith that hungers and thirsts.  About what we believe and why we believe it - and how we explain it to others.  How can I make sense to others when I have not discovered the sense for myself?  How can I, relying on nuggets of second hand information, ever hope to firmly grasp the promise and hope that the bible offers?

Yesterday I had one of my regular bible studies with my Jehovah's Witness friends.  We come from different viewpoints, with different beliefs on the central issues of our faith.  But we all enjoy seeking knowledge together, looking at the bible and discussing its meaning.  I wish that more people would take the time to do this.  But I worry that we have become ill equipped to do so.  When discussing the meaning of our faith and what we believe about the bible, we need to be familiar with it.  Otherwise how can we give a reason for our belief?

OED definition - familiar: adjective (1) well known from long or close association

It goes on to add:  'often encountered or experienced'.  Then a second hue of meaning:

(2) in close friendship; intimate

Do we have that kind of familiarity with what we believe?  That familiarity with the bible?

Or do we take it on a 'need-to-know basis'?  Looking it up only when we think we need to, only when we are challenged, asked or troubled by something.

If we do not immerse ourselves in the pursuit of knowing something, we will never get familiar with it.  If we don't frequently encounter it, have a close association with it, we will never achieve an intimate knowledge of it.

If we never achieve an intimate knowledge of something, we will never be able to explain it fully to those who really want - and need - to know.

thoughts on newness and resolving

These days I don't make official New Year's Resolutions.  There is nothing so paralysing as my own expectations of myself.  I like to think of having hopes, dreams, intentions.

But if I'm honest, there's always a giant To Do List in my head and at the beginning of the year, after Christmas is over and there is a sense of starting - yes, it does gain more weight.  Something in the mentality of the season, together with the usual break from the ordinary in late December, means that I return home with a mind unusually geared up for action.

Some of the things on the To Do List are rather trivial and hardly worthy of a New Year's Resolution (NYR), such as 'must clean out that drawer'.  Other hopes/dreams/intentions are rather more profound: 'I would like to be more courageous/wise/disciplined'.  All, of course, are personal in some degree, because they are within my sphere of influence.  'Achieve world peace' would be rather unobtainable since I am not the only person on earth.  However, I can think about how I interact with family and friends.  I think about what I choose to say or not say.  When I choose to stand up, when I choose to sit down.

As I noted in the last edition of our church magazine, I rather like the idea of prayers for the year rather than resolutions.  And certainly, it gives a different emphasis.  'Dear Lord, I would like more courage/wisdom/discipline this year,' has a degree of co-operation involved, no longer a lonely pursuit but a conscious decision to ask for help.  Or as the wise man once said in a rowing boat - you can row and pray at the same time.  The two are complimentary.


So, although wary of making NYRs, I do have a gentle bundle of intentions.  Of hopes.  Of prayers.  And the word 'New' carries a certain sense of possibility.  I went through a stage a couple of years ago when I pondered the nature of potential and worried that left on the shelf too long, covered in the dust of years, it shrivels into nothing.

Such a thought did not hold in the long term, since it doesn't fit with my worldview.  I believe in a God who redeems, a God who is constantly taking things off the shelf and transforming them into something beautiful. The potential you left behind may take a different shape now, but with a bit of imagination, who knows what it will be? Even if it's been left there for years.

You may just need a bigger duster.

Of course, pondering the nature of newness, I remind myself that 'his mercies are new every morning', and I certainly don't have to wait until January 1st to consider how great is the faithfulness of YHWH, the great I-AM, always was, always is, always will be.

intelligent faith

I'm saturating myself in study at the moment, which sounds like hard work.  It is hard work, in one way, but at least I am not suffering from motivation issues.  Due to topics I'm looking at for writing research, including various articles and (eek) the book, plus regular challenging discussions, particularly with Jehovah's Witnesses, my own hunger for understanding my faith is rapidly expanding.  I've always been a proponent of intelligent faith.  Many people think faith is blind.  'Blind faith' is a common phrase, or even more well known the 'leap of faith' (Dallas Willard had some very perceptive comments on that phrase when we went to hear him in Swindon - I intend to look over my notes again on that).

I have faith in someone for a reason - because they are trustworthy, because they are faithful, because I know them.  My faith is based on my knowledge of that person.  It may believe in the unseen, but that is not the same as blindness.  In fact, it could well be the opposite, if you think about it. To keep digging deeper into what my faith means, to get to know what the bible actually says, to remove, as much is as ever possible, the lens of cultural misunderstandings and identify the rawness beneath: all this is valuable.  My knowledge fuels my faith.

No, I don't believe in 'wise words' over and against the demonstration of the Spirit's power (cf. 1 Corinthians 2:4-5), but to use this and other verses not to seek greater understanding seems to me to be nonsense - after all, Paul (who wrote these words), expounded frequently on what his faith meant, especially in response to issues the church was facing (the nature of letters, of course - one side of a conversation).  But when we determine to explore, to the best of our ability, the depths of what we believe and why we believe it, to question continually our suppositions and pre-suppositions, to immerse ourselves in a journey of discovery, we become stronger, healthier, more able to respond readily to those who question us.  It's important to do so in utmost humility, to offer what we have learnt as a contribution to the conversation, without ploughing in waving our discoveries like a baseball bat.

I'm reminded of the angel's words to Daniel in his own quest for understanding:

'Do not be afraid, Daniel.  Since the first day that you set your mind to gain understanding and to humble yourself before your God, your words were heard...' (Daniel 10:12)

belief in hope and wonder

As usual my mind is a whirl of thoughts, ducking and diving.  It means of course that one can easily slip away as another draws my attention, but such are the perils of being me.  I have oodles of writing topics tucked in my brain too, of course, all trying to get out of the neck of the bottle, risking jamming it entirely.  At times like this, I have to go and prune a hedge or something.  (We don't have a hedge; plenty of bushes, however, are trying to work on their ambition to become trees.)


I've been working on my first sermon for a while, which should be interesting.  Loving getting into the topic and learning more myself, re-discovering a sense of wonder.  Wonder gives life sizzle and shine. It fuels faith and gives perspective.  It gives us reason to worship.  Let's have more of it.



Keeping my eye on politics, with interest. BBC News 24 is on much more than it used to be.  I still feel positive about the future.  The coalition has the potential of neutralising the extremes of both parties, a thing of balance.  I love the idea of putting national interest above party politics.  We're all weary of the latter.  I know there are those who claim 'it will never work' but I tire of the negativity.   Let's believe in hope, for a while, shall we?  The idea of the 'Big Society' necessitates co-operation  - its weakness and its strength.  We need to start believing in our potential again, our capacity to change and affect change in the world around us.

Am I playing the same old record?  Well, I like it, so - tough.

The Liturgical Year: the spiraling adventure of the spiritual life, by Joan Chittister

This book is part of the Ancient Practices Series and is the first I have read of it. Overall it focuses on the benefits of the liturgical year, of having a rhythm in our lives and living the Jesus’ life. By using the aid of the liturgical year, we can enter into Jesus’ story and realise it within our own lives. It focuses on particular elements of the year, including the main ‘feasts’ of Christmas and Easter and the preparation times surrounding them, as well as other factors such as the role and meaning of Sunday.

The first thing that struck me about the book was how quickly I was drawn into it, and how peaceful I felt in reading it. Immediately I felt an ally within the words encouraging my own spiritual desire to go deeper and search for new and old ways to mature my faith. Chittister uses language beautifully; frequently I would re-read a paragraph in delight. It’s not just the language, however, but the depth that it signifies.

It is difficult for me to encapsulate all the things I like about this book. It talks sympathetically and powerfully about the struggles we face in our ordinary lives, and portrays life’s potential in a way that excites and inspires.

‘Life is an intoxicant no amount of mundane inebriants – faster, deeper, more alluring, more captivating – can possibly equal. The problem is that for life to become its own exhilarant, we must learn to live it consciously, to live it deeply, to live it to the brim, beyond the visible to the meaningful.’ – The Liturgical Year, p170

This book encouraged me to slow down and examine the things of faith while also firing up the embers of my heart. The spiritual life is seen as an adventure, which I love. I also found it genuinely interesting and informative. Written by someone in the Roman Catholic tradition, some of the references and vocabulary were not known to me, which could be a stumbling block for some. Likewise the chapter on Marian feasts. For some of these things I needed more explanation, but that is outside the remit of the book and would detract from the main emphasis. Overall, I found in the book warmth and welcome and plenty of common ground.

I would recommend this book to any who feel weary of the shallowness of life and want to explore new ways of celebrating and learning about their faith. By focussing on the meaning of the liturgical year rather than merely the intricacies of the structure, there is much that can be taken and applied to our individual lives. Personally, it has sparked an interest in an entire new area of thought for me, informing my own learning, future writing and, hopefully, my own spiritual life.

To see earlier thoughts on this book, read this post.

seasons and storms

The weather keeps dramatically shifting, from gales and squalls and torrential rain, then just as suddenly blows out and blue skies emerge...an hour later the clouds descend again.

It can be difficult to prepare for such extremes - what kind of coat do I need? Waterproof, windproof, warm or light? Which path should I take, and will it be muddy? Do I need thick socks or will my feet get too hot?

There have been times in life where it has felt like I have moved from one squall to the next. Not just for me, but for many. One lot of weather passes, and another sets in, before you can recover from the first, and prepare yourself for the next. You can find yourself in a completely different situation, needing a whole different set of tools and apparel.

Through times like this, we learn what our 'staples' are - in the sense of those things that are valuable and healthy and essential to keep us going whatever the weather, whatever the terrain.

For me these things include God and faith in him, hope, a sense of perspective. A gentle touch when others hurt. A firm touch when things need to change, or when I myself need a good self-talking to! Keeping my eyes on the light at the other side. All the more difficult when the light may not be visible...yet.

The sense I am not alone, that God is in the darkness with me. The sense that others, too, are dwelling in a similar darkness or storm, and that we can reach out to each other with understanding. The reminder that life is full of seasons.

I went through a very dark, isolated season which lasted at least 2 years, not that long ago. Now, I am aware of a quietness of heart and a renewing of strength. I have known the re-filling of hope. But what has remained with me is an understanding of that darkness and isolation. I may walk the path of hope, but there are so many who grapple with hopelessness.

I've been there. It's dark, and horrible. Your faith gets so thin you think it may break entirely. But you are not the only one. And you are not alone. Take the thread of your faith and entwine it with those of others. We can make it through.

By the grace of God, spring comes.

if I should

if I should fall
will you catch me
before I hit the ground?
and if I should hit the ground
will you ensure
that there isn't too much breakage?
and if I should break into a hundred pieces
will you gather up the splinters
and hold them to your heart?

if I should stumble
into an unknown territory
will you give me a light to lead me?
and if it all goes black
and I cannot see
will you hold onto my hand?
and if I feel alone
and cannot sense your presence
will you love me, weep for me,
die for me?

yes.

dancing partners

Who is your most regular dancing partner?

I had an inherent shyness as a child which morphed into sheer self-consciousness as a teen. I masked it by a kind of deliberate silliness, directing attention away from myself and onto another, not entirely real, persona. So much of the time I was dancing with fear. These days I have a more balanced approach to dealing with such twinges of shyness and self-consciousness, something more of a realistic approach to dealing with fears and anxieties – but they are not entirely absent; I have to swallow hard and overcome them. Sometimes it is very difficult. (It’s hard to explain to someone who has never struggled with the feeling of self-consciousness – that literal shrinking inside of you, begging to be elsewhere).

We all have factors in our lives which we deal with regularly. Things which lead us on a dance we do not like, filling up our dance cards until there is simply no room for anyone else. These factors can be anything: fear, worry, bitterness, anger, addiction, or very specific things that only we (& God) know about. They take their toll on us. I have learned from my experience with Chronic Fatigue that even confidence requires energy – on a physically bad day, overcoming that innate self-consciousness is much, much harder. And tiredness, of course, makes us more susceptible to these things – it makes me more susceptible to fear’s advances. And these advances, of course, tire me further.

It’s good to have a realistic view of these things in our lives, to acknowledge their presence – to note what inflames them or makes them more difficult to overcome. In this way we can learn to manage our ‘dance card’ better. Personally, I want to dance a different dance.

I want love to be my constant interrupter:
can I cut in?

For love is the nemesis of fear, overcoming those ‘twinges’ with a greater reality. In its true form, love is stronger, bigger, more powerful. I need no longer feel self-conscious because I am simply not dwelling on myself at all. I wish to reach the point when I am compelled to dance only by the love of Christ, nothing less.

I’m longing for the day when all the negative things inside me are ejected from the dance floor forever. When I will no longer know in part, but know fully the one who loves me and leads me on the greatest dance of all. When everything falls into it’s rightful place, placed into perfect perspective.

And I shall dance and dance and dance…
…and never, ever, tire.

***

Picture credit: 'Dance at Bougival' by Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1841-1919), Public Domain image

star watching, and other things of night

"You do not have to sit outside in the dark.
If, however, you want to look at the stars,
you will find that darkness is required.
The stars neither require it or demand it."
Annie Dillard

"What we learn in the dark we possess forever."
- Edith Schaeffer

"Even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like day, for darkness is as light to you."
- Psalm 139, addressing God

The only one who can see through every darkness - all kinds, not just physical darkness - is the one who created Light.

That last one was me.

I have found it reassuring at certain times in my life that God sees in the dark, even when I am utterly lost within it - he knows my exact location at all times. God is not afraid of the dark - he will wade right in there beside me, even if I cannot see him.

Just a couple of thoughts, drifting by.

Resurrection Sunday

For if, while we were God's enemies, we were reconciled to him through the death of his Son, how much more, having been reconciled, shall we be saved through his life! - Romans 5:10 (emphasis mine)

The resurrection is far more than just a dead man coming back to life - it is proof that Good Friday was not in vain. The power of death has been broken. Death could not hold the Son of God, and by his rising again we see firmly at last that Jesus is indeed God's son, that all that he said about himself was true. What has happened means that life has changed from black and white to technicolor - as the radiance of the resurrection transforms our lives.

The resurrection is essential, for what it showed and what it proved, and in what it means for all of us. Because when we accept Jesus as Saviour and as Lord in our lives, we die with him, and then we live with him. It is the ultimate new beginning, the ultimate transformation, the ultimate moment where death is overcome and life begins anew.

Happy Easter. Happy Resurrection Sunday. May you know the risen Christ more closely every day.