Ephesians 3 Prayer

This is my favourite passage of scripture, so I thought I'd have a little play with it this morning.

We kneel before you, Father

We’re named in your love, our whole family in you

In heaven and on earth.

Out of your glorious riches, too exquisite to behold

May you restore us with your power

Through your Spirit in our inmost being.

May you, Christ Jesus, abide in our deepest hearts

Through faith alone.

And may we who are rooted and grounded in you,

Established in the love which never gives up on us

May we grasp the power you freely bestow,

Together with all the saints, now and forever through history and eternity,

The power to seize hold of

How wide and long and high and deep

How immense and immeasurable and boundless and profound

How sweeping and towering and soaring and unfathomable

Is your love, Lord Jesus.

And may we know this great love that transcends wisdom

That outweighs knowledge

That eclipses learning –

That we may be filled to bursting point

Saturated with copious profusion

Completed with the fullness of you, our God.

Now to you – to you, our glorious God, to you who is able to do

Immeasurably

Boundlessly

Limitlessly more

Than all we could ever ask,

And all we could ever imagine,

All we could even conceive of or envisage or wildly dream of,

According to your power

At work within us, around us, without us, in front and behind,

Dancing with us, all-containing, everywhere we go and everything we do,

To you be the glory!

To you be the honour, the praise, the acclaim and the exaltation,

In the church, your bride waiting for you with baited breath,

And in Christ Jesus

Throughout all generations, through history, stretching back and forth to eternity,

And eternity.

Amen.

The Virtual Maundy Thursday Labyrinth

Many churches partake in a ‘Labyrinth’ on Maundy Thursday. People are invited to walk through pathways, usually in a church/hall, and pause at certain ‘stations’ to contemplate on Jesus’ journey through this day.

Well, I can't always get out to a church, and I reckon a fair few of you can’t, either. So instead of going to the Labyrinth, I’m attempting to bring the Labyrinth to you. And to me. I hope that your journey through this virtual Labyrinth brings you the peace and time of reflection on this Maundy Thursday that you crave. I don’t know about you, but my Facebook feed makes me feel sad on days like these, sad because once again, I am on the outside looking in, I am the excluded one, I am the one not caught up in the busyness and the creativity and the community of all that Holy Week can bring.

But why should I be on the outside looking in? I have decided to turn the perspective around, to no longer dwell on all that cannot be, to find instead the fullness of what this day can bring. As I experience fairly hideous chest pain, surely I can turn this round to reflect on the hideous pain Jesus experienced – not only on the cross, but on that day before Good Friday?

So, here we are then. The Virtual Labyrinth.

A prayer labyrinth is not a maze, more of a journey with twists and turns, and no dead ends. There is only one way in, and one way out.

The winding path symbolizes a journey. As you negotiate the twists and turns take time to sink yourself into the mystery of Christ and his last days on earth. Think of the journey inwards to the centre as a time to let go of anything you need to let go of, the centre as a time to connect with God and the journey outwards as a time to take on the peace and protection you need to walk forwards into your life and to share that journey with others.

So we walk into the Labyrinth. We pause at the first bend where we think upon the Noise. The noise, the busyness of life, the fast paced race all around us (and sometimes not including us). Think about all the messages and information that fill our lives, competing for attention, clamouring in every day. Now is the time to turn the noise off, to pause, to shake it away.

We step forwards to another twist. We collect up our worries, our doubts, our grief, and our pain. Jesus says ‘come to me, all who are burdened, and I will give you rest.’ We lay our burdens down. You can visualise taking a bag from your shoulders and putting it on the floor, or taking off heavy shoes, or you can write down your worries on some paper and fold it up, not necessarily to throw away, but to put aside.

It may feel strange, this letting go, and not knowing what the path ahead holds. Try to trust the path, and to trust the God who you are seeking. We are taking steps, what takes place in our mind and spirit as authentic as anything our bodies can – or cannot – do.

We keep on walking, round corners, round twisting paths. Perhaps it would be helpful to begin to physically breathe in God’s presence. Slow down your breathing, and intentionally breathe out the remains of what you didn’t quite manage to leave behind at the last stop. Breathe out that niggling voice, that continuing pain. And breathe in God. Breathe out – Breathe in. Breathe out – Breathe in.

So we come to the centre. 

It’s time to sit down (I am sitting already, but taking a virtual comfy armchair in my head) and reflect.

Start by imagining a waterfall.

Psalm 42:7 says

‘Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls, all of your waves and breakers have swept over me.'

 Imagine immersing yourself in the waterfall, the rushing waters being God’s love, pouring over you, quenching your pain, cleaning your soul.

Then, think about a candle.

– imagine it’s the only light in the darkness. Live it, breathe it. You may want to light a ‘real’ candle at this point. Virtual is good though!

We think on these words from John 13.

^‘3 Jesus knew that the Father had put all things under his power, and that he had come from God and was returning to God; ⁴ so he got up from the meal, took off his outer clothing, and wrapped a towel around his waist. ⁵ After that, he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him.’

Reflect on this verse and this image. Immerse yourself in the scene – in the sights and sounds. In the awe and mystery amidst the normalcy of the Passover Supper. Jesus is washing your feet. Perhaps you would like to take a bowl and gently wash your own feet at this stage.


There now follows a series of verses from these Maundy Thursday passages, from John 13 and Mark 14. We can take as much time as we need over each one, intentionally breathing in God’s presence as we take the words in. Each section is accompanied by an image to contemplate upon in addition to the words.

When evening came, Jesus arrived with the Twelve. ¹⁸ While they were reclining at the table eating, he said, “Truly I tell you, one of you will betray me—one who is eating with me.”
¹⁹ They were saddened, and one by one they said to him, “Surely you don’t mean me?”
²⁰ “It is one of the Twelve,” he replied, “one who dips bread into the bowl with me. ²¹ The Son of Man will go just as it is written about him. But woe to that man who betrays the Son of Man! It would be better for him if he had not been born.”
²² While they were eating, Jesus took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, “Take it; this is my body.”
²³ Then he took a cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them, and they all drank from it.
²⁴ “This is my blood of the^[c] covenant, which is poured out for many,” he said to them. ²⁵ “Truly I tell you, I will not drink again from the fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new in the kingdom of God.”

²⁸ But after I have risen, I will go ahead of you into Galilee.”

²⁹ Peter declared, “Even if all fall away, I will not.”
³⁰ “Truly I tell you,” Jesus answered, “today—yes, tonight—before the rooster crows twice you yourself will disown me three times.”
³¹ But Peter insisted emphatically, “Even if I have to die with you, I will never disown you.” And all the others said the same.

³² They went to a place called Gethsemane, and Jesus said to his disciples, “Sit here while I pray.” ³³ He took Peter, James and John along with him, and he began to be deeply distressed and troubled. ³⁴ “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death,” he said to them. “Stay here and keep watch.”

³⁵ Going a little farther, he fell to the ground and prayed that if possible the hour might pass from him. ³⁶ “Abba,  Father,” he said, “everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will.”

³⁷ Then he returned to his disciples and found them sleeping. “Simon,” he said to Peter, “are you asleep? Couldn’t you keep watch for one hour? ³⁸ Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”
³⁹ Once more he went away and prayed the same thing. ⁴⁰ When he came back, he again found them sleeping, because their eyes were heavy. They did not know what to say to him.
⁴¹ Returning the third time, he said to them, “Are you still sleeping and resting? Enough! The hour has come. Look, the Son of Man is delivered into the hands of sinners. ⁴² Rise! Let us go! Here comes my betrayer!”

⁴³ Just as he was speaking, Judas, one of the Twelve, appeared. With him was a crowd armed with swords and clubs, sent from the chief priests, the teachers of the law, and the elders.
⁴⁴ Now the betrayer had arranged a signal with them: “The one I kiss is the man; arrest him and lead him away under guard.” ⁴⁵ Going at once to Jesus, Judas said, “Rabbi!” and kissed him. ⁴⁶ The men seized Jesus and arrested him.

Are we able to watch with Jesus, this day and night? Can we, in the centre of this labyrinth, put aside our wants, desires, our very lives, to watch, to wait?

The centre of the Labyrinth. The centre of history.

***

When we are ready, we begin to walk out of the Labyrinth. We take with us our tears, our shame, our peace, all that we have found and experienced as we journeyed through. We keep breathing in God’s presence. We take the memory of Jesus washing feet and the waterfall of grace washing us clean.

We come to the place we laid down our fears, our worries, pain, doubt, grief. Perhaps we decide to pick up our folded piece of paper and keep it with us once again, yet with all that we have contemplated here superimposed upon it. The pain is with us, and yet so is the mystery. So is the waterfall, the breakers. So is the agonised Jesus. Where does that leave our pain?

So we take it upon us, and we take it outwards. We walk to the Noise again. Can we take less of it back upon ourselves than we came in with? Can we leave some of the messages, some of the script, shaken off at our feet as we leave? Can we replace it with all that we breathed in, and with the mourning that comes with the watching and waiting, for now? Can we see all the ground we walk upon as holy ground, as stepping out with all we have inside, as taking it with us?

We leave the Labyrinth.

So, who said we’re not able to join in? We’re far from the outside. We’re on the inside, looking out. We’re watching and waiting with Jesus, we’re holding our pain and we’re living in the great mystery of Maundy Thursday, today.

 

Tale Older than Time

Beauty and the Beast? I'm going to do that thing where you say 'Ah! That's a bit like Jesus, that is.' Sorry.

So Adventure Girl and I finally went to see the new movie version. The 90s cartoon version was her favourite film as a little girl, and the movie took me back to hazy Sunday afternoons slumped on the sofa, catching up on sleep while my little girl with her endless energy spun around the room in her somewhat torn yellow Belle dress, the songs whirling through my dozy, tiny-children-sleep-deprived head. As I watched the new film, some of these words came back to me, conjuring up the taste of yearning the story always left me with. I want adventure in the Great Wide Somewhere, I want it more than I can say, Belle sings to a sweeping backdrop of stunning mountain scenery. It struck me that in our lives we are all longing for the great wide somewhere, we are all looking for the big adventure, all drawn towards the soul-level keening for more, and that every story we tell reflects this hidden truth deep within humanity: We are made for more.

Jaded cynics' comments regarding Stockholm Syndrome aside, I thought about some of the themes in the film and wondered why they always grabbed hold of me so. I think the central motifs are of redemption and restoration. Here we have a prince, a bit of a nasty piece of work by all accounts, selfish and rude, turning away an ugly old hag begging for shelter and getting something of a shock when she morphs into a fearful - if beautiful - enchantress and curses him and the entire castle in one fell swoop. It's only when and if he learns to love that they will be released from their bonds, she says, but he'd better do it by the time this rose drops its final petal. So we get the rather grumpy beast who can't find it in him to treat people very nicely, including Belle's father and Belle herself when they drop in. Belle, of course, is a poor village girl, shunned by others for being 'different'. Adventure Girl always liked her the best of all the Disney Princesses 'because she has some sass about her'.

You know the story - Beauty melts Beast's hard heart. You see it beginning to soften, amid the harshness of perpetual winter over the enchanted castle. Love is doing its unique thing, weaving around hearts and minds with transformative power, leaving little room for doubt or fear. And this is where it differs from the norm, where justice is done and the baddies go down: this baddy is changed. This baddy is redeemed. He's given another chance, grace is extended to him freely and gloriously as Belle makes the decision to forget his previous bad behaviour and love him anyway.

You can see where this is going...

That unconditional love is something we can all grasp hold of and all be changed by, poured down over us like morning dew. God is all about redemption. Second chances. Lavish grace.

And then there's the restoration, the dazzling, triumphant restoration. As the beast is transformed, not only back into human form but into something different than before, something softer, something capable of love - so the enchantment is broken and the castle is set free. The imagery is startling; dark grotesque gargoyles utterly remodelled into golden, stunning eagles and angels and cherubs, broken pieces fallen to the ground in the misery of despair and disrepair swept up and re-attached to where they belong, reminding me of a passage in Isaiah:

They will rebuild the ancient ruins
  and restore the places long devastated;
they will renew the ruined cities
    that have been devastated for generations.

The sense of joy as the ruins are rebuilt and renewed is tangible. The castle is set free from its bondage to decay, from its constant winter, and spring comes quickly, flowers opening in delight all over the awakening gardens, darkness fleeing in the face of the light flooding in. Things are put right, restored to their former glory and beyond. The beast is given a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. Even the enchantress is redeemed in the new version, breaking the spell herself even when it seems too late, even when the final petal has fallen and the cursed objects lay too still on the battered ground. She observes a love stronger than death and chooses life. She goes against her own law of the curse, and chooses freedom.

Tale as old as time, tune as old as song, Mrs Potts sings over the couple twirling through the larger-than-life ballroom. The truth is, we are in that tale, the story as old as time, the song older still. The God outside time who made us for the great wide somewhere, made us for more than this. Made us for glorious relationship with him and with each other. J.R.R Tolkien said that we’re all searching for an overarching story, a story where things are made right in the end, because that will be our story, where justice will be done and mourning will be no more. That’s why we love stories with happy endings, we want things to be resolved, we’re desperate for injustice to be wiped away and for the poor village girl to get her prince.

I love that they added some words to Tale as old as Time in the new version, right at the end. 'Winter turns to spring,' sings Mrs Potts, 'famine turns to feast.' How glorious a picture of our faith and the hope it holds, the life in its fullness offered, the transformative power of the gospel.

May we know our winter turning to spring, our famine turning to feast. May we choose to live in the story which will end with love winning. Even though we're in the battle still, the conflict where the beast is still trapped in his enchanted cage and the village girl is desperate and afraid, we’re trapped in our seasons of pain and mourning and fear, yet may we know times of provision and laughter and hope as we wait for the story to come to its yearned for climax, the ending which carries us through to eternity in a contentment we can’t even conceive of in this life.

Tale as old as time? Or a story even older. Song as old as rhyme? Or the song which streams through history and beyond, bringing redemption and restoration, hope in the darkness and as many second chances as we ask for. Irradicable, indestructible hope and love which never, ever fails us.

A Walk Through Sacred

On the last but one night at New Wine 2016, I took a walk through the camp.

A normal stroll, an everyday thing. An achievement for me, certainly, but it turned out to be so much more, because the ordinary hurtled me headlong into the sacred.

It was a balmy evening, the last rays of sunshine bathing the showground in a gentle light, the only sign of a huge deluge a few hours before a few puddles where welly-clad toddlers jumped with joy. I walked past Stomping Ground where a crowd of 8-11 year olds were doing the Cha-Cha Slide, playing arcade games and getting their nails done. I walked on past Boulder Gang and Rock Solid to the Youth corner.

I felt old.

Vibe was very loud and Flava full of gangs of happy kids, and outside were crowds of teens doing that preening thing at one another. My daughter was highly embarassed by my very presence, so I walked on, recalling how earlier, me and a friend had been thrown out of Thirst ('we don't do adults here') and were quite relieved, really. They didn't have any chairs and it was a bit smelly.

I stopped for a second to breathe in the air, the atmosphere full of joy and shouts of laughter, of hope. That's the word. Hope soaked the place, and I began to reflect that this might be something of what the Kingdom is like.

I walked past the Tearfund tent where a late night singer-songwriter strummed his guitar, his plaintive tones echoing out into the night. I watched as folk in the cafe relaxed to the music, and more crowds spilled out onto the pavement outside, chatting and drinking and laughing and singing. Smiling at me as I strolled past, taking it all in.

Then there was Hungry, where people were still utterly lost in worship, abandoned and glowing as they did what they are created for. This is the quieter venue and the sound was beautiful, violins singing on the breeze and husky vocals carrying the hope onwards.

In the food court opposite, long tables were packed with people enjoying a hot donut or a tray of chips. I wondered what the food sellers thought of this bunch of crazy Christians. I wonder if they saw anything different. If they saw Jesus at all. I hope so. I think so.

I ambled through to the Impact venue which was still rocking big time, the young band giving it their all with their techo-drums and beat-boxer, lights streaking though the tent and out into the night in rainbow colours, touching every corner and every heart. The more energetic worshippers among us were pounding the boards in there and the hope was tangible. The freedom more intense than can be described.

On past the Marketplace where dozens of organisations represented their tireless work for the poor, the persecuted, the vulnerable, and where art and creativity in many forms were celebrated. At the centre of it all the Flame International cafe buzzed with more laughter and even more hope.

Walking through past the now quiet Groundbreakers, the sounds of the Arena drifted up the avenue; the place where a little earlier I'd encountered God in profound intimacy. Now the Late Night Live band blasted out 80s covers in style and I jigged a (little) bit.

The sounds of a night alive with joy faded as I carried on and came to the Open Doors refugee camp, where people were gathered in the falling dusk with candles and prayers, interceding for refugees worldwide. Something in the juxtaposition of the fun and laughter with this tender and heartbreaking scene brought me to tears, reminding me of how God's Kingdom will be a place where there is no more pain, no more mourning, no more tears. Where there is joy and life and laughter and peace, for all eternity. The glimpses of how this would look were paired with the bittersweet beauty of God's people in prayer for those who are in the most desperate of circumstances.

Come soon, Lord.

As I walked on past the camp and into the more residential area of the showground, I passed the Pebbles marquee and stopped for a moment, my mind racing backwards to when my children were little. Toddling through Gems, running free and joy-filled through Pebbles then pelting into Groundbreakers, their little hearts so full of all they learned, their legs tired from jumping and playing and dancing. I reflected on how blessed we were to have New Wine as a home for so long now. This is the first year they are both out of the kids' stuff and into the youth, and I was a little bit sad, but more than a little bit happy, too. And to see the girl go and work on the Pebbles team, giving something back, was the most amazing thing. She's now New Wine team-hooked forever.

So then I walked through this mini-city of tents and caravans, pockets of laughter lighting up the night, and thought again of God's Kingdom, of how everyone is here together to worship, to be united, and that is only the smallest glimpse of what it will one day be. I wonder if there will be so much mud?

I walked through the hope-soaked sacred that night, and it changed me, again.

Christmas: It's for the sorted, right?

Here I am; another Christmas, another infection. Actually, the last two Christmasses have been good, infection free, and I've been free to join in with all that seems to make Christmas - carol singing, present buying and wrapping, Christmas meals out, Christmas food. I've been in on that this year too, well, up to two days ago, when my lungs decided they weren't going to play ball. Since then, I've lain in bed or on the sofa, again observing Christmas but not being a part.

But I should know by now how stupid that is. Of course I am a part. Being sick does not make you a spare part, or not a part at all, of the celebration of the greatest gift that was ever given. The adverts would have us believe that Christmas is all about being so very sorted, so very unbroken. The beautiful family sits with more beautiful family and friends around the tastefully decorated table, real tree in the corner dripping with expensive and tasteful decorations (all colour co-ordinated, of course.) The baby giggles, the children play nicely together, everyone pulls crackers and oohs and aaahs at the exciting contents. The food is perfect; everything timed to be ready together, everything presented nicely. Everyone glows with good health and beauty, everyone loves each other, everyone is jolly and fulfilled and the epitome of what Christmas is all about.

Facebook can be even worse, for the sick and the sad. So many photos of happy families, joyous in their lives together, the appearance of all that is good. Christmassy family trips out, meals together, baking together. The sick mum looks on and despairs, her children sat again in front of screens instead of frolicking in the fields or making mince pies good enough for Mary Berry. Pictures of cosy, warm homes, perfectly decorated by someone strong enough, in body and spirit. (I am just as guilty as posting this version of our lives, at times.) Then there are round robins. You know, where all the achievements are listed and nothing bad happens. Hermione gained 14 A*s and learned to play the harp to grade 8 standard on top of mastering ballet and photography. You know the sort. (Thankfully, most of the ones we receive are real, and I love reading them.)

Is this what Christmas is?

It's not, is it? Because Christmas is for the broken. It's for those who haven't got it together, those who haven't got a perfect table to sit round with a perfect family, those who have no family at all, those who are confined to a sick bed, those who have lost someone they love, those who have divorced, those who are struggling with anxiety, those in crippling debt. Christmas is so much for the broken people, and God came down among us in a broken scenario. A stable, not a restful, peaceful place of Christmas card fantasy but a cold, unwelcoming, dirty, smelly setting for the son of God. God chose to come in brokenness, born to an unwed young mum, born in scandal and disgust. No perfect table and hot food for the bewildered, tired couple, no crackers to pull or family sat around in peace and harmony. A few mucky shepherds turned up, trailing their bleating sheep. How was that a perfect Christmas?

Yet that's exactly what it was. The most perfect Christmas. The one which meant everything. That Christmas meant freedom for many, hope for the world. It meant that God was among us. Immanuel.

You tore the night apart
And ripped the silent skies in half
Your glory breaking through the dark
And here our worlds collide
Divinity in man confined
This great design drawn out for me

(from 'King of Heaven' by Hillsong United)

I want to remember that Christmas isn't for the sorted, for those who have arrived. As I sit, frustrated by my body's treacherous unreliability at a time I want to feel strong, I think of that vulnerable baby and remember how God chose to come in vulnerability, in pain and darknesss, and think about how God is here in our darkness. If Christmas seems far from something you enjoy because of life being difficult, for whatever reason, remember what Christmas really is. A celebration of the Christ child, a celebration of God's passionate love for us. In the midst of my pain, this light breaks through and infuses me with hope, with joy that God did this, for me. For you.

May you be at peace this Christmas, wherever you are in life, whether you feel like that perfect family on TV, or whether you are so broken you cannot begin to imagine celebration. May you be infused with the peace beyond all understanding that comes from knowing God's saving plan for you. May you know the hope of the Christ child, held out over the wreckage of wrapping paper and squabbles, filling the emptiness and creeping through the shadows, pervading the gloom and exploding in glorious light.

(And may I get over having to cancel seeing Star Wars yesterday, obviously.)

What does it feel like to be disappointed by God?

I hear that phrase a lot. 'Disappointment with God.' There's even a book with the same title (a very good book, actually.) People often ask me if I am disappointed with God, and if I say I am not, say that I should be. And if I say that yes, today actually I am, I may get the 'oh don't worry, he has plans to prosper and not to harm' etc. I know. I've used it myself.

But thinking about it, I am just not sure disappointment with God is a construct that is helpful. Why am I disappointed with God? First and foremost, it's because I'm not healed. That's the big one - the one everyone expects me to be disappointed about and validates me feeling this way (it's OK - only natural - keep feeling that way.) But I am not sure I want to keep feeling that way, because I am not sure that I am, actually, disappointed with God.

I get disappointed I am not healed, but then when I spend any amount of time in God's presence that disappointment seems to fade and become less all consuming, and my thoughts turn away from me, and turn to contentment instead of dissatisfaction. I could spend the rest of my life deciding to live in disappointment and developing an increasingly bitter exterior. I could also spend the rest of my life trying to be healed at every possible opportunity, but you know what? That's so exhausting, dispiriting and can actually get in the way of a good relationship with God and with others - I become drained by the fact it's not happening, my disappointment begins to eat away at my love for God and I become disappointed by others too when they may try to make it about my problem or my faith or lack thereof.

Being disappointed with someone implies that we think that they have not done something in the way in which we think they should have done it, or that they have let us down in some way. To be disappointed with God, then, means that we are deciding that God should have done something another way. We are putting that box around God again, that narrowing of God whereby we forget that whole thing about God's thoughts being above ours, and all that. Are we narrowing God by being constantly disappointed?

Many writers in scripture show disappointment with God, especially in the Psalms. This fact is often cited as an excuse to be Disappointed. But we need to remember that the disappointment shown by the psalmist is usually accompanied by expectation and finally with praise. ('Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Saviour and my God.) The Psalmist has recognised that the great weight of disappointment can be balanced by the great expectation of God's work in his life.

I'm deciding to balance my own disappointment with great expectation. This doesn't mean that I am banned from the odd rant session at God Psalmist Stylee, but that I decide that my days will not be dictated by a sickening sense of being let down. Again. Instead I choose to look at God, to spend my time gazing upon God, and find that any sense of being let down is so very overwhelmed by feeling utterly loved instead. It's a much happier feeling.

This also doesn't mean that I am saying that I Give Up. I do not give up, but I do reserve the right to not Go Down To The Front every time I go to something where people are asked to Go Down To The Front. Sometimes I quite like sitting in my seat, soaking in worship, and find my healing far deeper in that than in going and endeavouring to explain, sometimes over loud music, what I would like prayer for, and then coming away again feeling a little lessened by the experience, often depending on the focus of the pray-er. I had a lovely experience last year at New Wine, where I did feel I needed to obey that nudge and get down there. After explaining, the lady didn't pray for miraculous healing or tell my pain to leave or anything like that. She prayed simply that God would come to me in my pain and do what God wanted to do. How freeing for me that was - I didn't feel obligated to feel better, like so often in these situations - I felt free to be whatever God was doing with me there and then, which was pretty fabulous actually.

I think God is so much bigger than we make out and can do so much more than we can comprehend. And that our perceptions of what God should do are not always what God chooses to do. But we can have great expectations of what God will do, whether that involves physical healing or not. I know one day I will be whole, and for now I am choosing not to be disappointed but to embrace all God has for me in the body I have today. I'll keep asking for prayer, I'll sometimes sit and be. I pray for you too today:

¹⁶ I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, ¹⁷ so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, ¹⁸ may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, ¹⁹ and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God. ²⁰ Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, ²¹ to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.

Amen!

Yet Another SF and Suffering Blogpost.

I know, I know, there are thousands floating round the internet. But seeing as I am sitting propped up in bed and have just taken painkillers, I have a window where I may be able to pen something that makes some kind of sense. Possibly.

First of all I should link to Adventure Bloke's musings on the subject - he preached it on Sunday, and it is Very Good. http://carterclan.me.uk/sermons/so-what-about-bone-cancer-in-children/

I think that words like Mr Fry's can be seriously shocking for some folk who have perhaps not thought too deeply about suffering, or who can bat them away with not so nice words about the man himself. For me, the words resonate, because it is the experience of humanity throughout the ages. I'm reading the sequel to 'Call the Midwife' at the moment, 'Shadows of the Workhouse' by Jennifer Worth and it is incredibly, deeply harrowing, an account of children's lives in a turn of the century workhouse. I.m sitting there reading it thinking God, where were you when this 6 year old girl was beaten almost to death for nothing. Where were you when these childrens' parents both died and they were sent to the workhouse and treated so abysmally. It's sickening that one human being could do such things to another. Where was God in that?

I'm pretty ill right now. I've got pleuirsy pain, breathing's hard work, I'm sick. I feel helpless and frustrated. Missed Adventure Boy's parents evening and will miss the Girl's tomorrow. It's Not Fair. Looking at other situations such as those described above it's far less Not Fair than some. Yet in my situation, as in other suffering across the world, I can look to God and find...not answers, really. But something. I can find hope. The sensation of a God who looks at all this stuff and weeps. Weeps with us. That may not feel enough to that child abused so young - after all, if God was weeping with her, why couldn't he do something? I don't know. All I know is that this world is well skewed off centre. Not what it was created to be, and people are not who they were created to be. Something went stinkingly wrong and that resonated through history. And God weeps.

He doesn't just do that. He sent Jesus. Jesus born in squalor, died in agony. Jesus the one who can identify in our suffering, Jesus the one who went into our suffering. An immense statement of that Father's love for us. He didn't sit back and do nothing. He knows.

I'm aware it's still not enough, in terms of answers. There simply are not sufficient answers. But we can look at the Bible, we can look at the Psalmist ranting and railing at God, we can look at God's huge emotions spilling over his world in the writings of the Prophets, we can look at Jesus' time on earth and death and glorious resurrection and we can find a voice that speaks through the suffering and says 'I am here'. We can find hope and we can find a depth in the suffering we never guessed we would.

I'd like to be better. I'd like this chronic illness to stop overshadowing my life and cancelling my appointments. I'd like to find out who I could be if I had strength. But I have found so much of God in the depths, that it's difficult to imagine that other life. I live this life, and am called where I am, in the body I am in. I need to decide daily to 'press on' whether in pain or not. Not so much to come to the conclusion that the illness is sent from God to teach me a lesson. Nope. That's not how it goes. People everywhere get ill. They just do. Nothing they did wrong, nothing they did right. It happens. It happens because of the creation groaning, waiting to be righted. I'm waiting for that too, in pain and in hope.

I like Mr Fry, I'm fairly fond of QI when there's nothing else on. ;-) I hope he finds what he so desperately needs, and wish him happiness. If nothing else, his words have sparked so much thought and debate which can only be good. Christians need to be honest, to say that their lives are not easier than other lives because of our faith, to say that we struggle too, and we don't get it either. But to testify to the more that we see, to the peace beyond understanding that we sometimes fleetingly catch hold of, to the beauty underneath the pain, to the world groaning in its' wait for healing.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart?

How easy is it to live out Proverbs 3 vs 5-6 when your life does not seem to tally with what it appears to promise?

⁵ Trust in the Lord with all your heart
    and lean not on your own understanding;
⁶ in all your ways acknowledge him,
    and he will make your paths straight.


I admit to occasionally using this as a slight cop-out. Perhaps in a situation where things don't go as I hope and where I can't understand what God is up to. You know, the old 'well, we can't rely on our own understanding, God is in charge, blah blah blah, it will all be fine in the end.' Because I've not taken time to think over what this passage is really saying. Is it really stipulating that everything will be just fine and dandy? Does God 'making our paths straight' mean that all will be well - that everything we do will go how it should? What does it mean to say that 'he will make our paths straight?'

The times I haven't used this verse as a cop out catch all, I have often instead ignored it altogether. My life doesn't show that my paths are straight, so therefore I don't trust in God with all my heart,' goes my thinking, or even 'I tried to trust God with all my heart, but my paths aren't straight and therefore this verse is wrong'. So I don't think about it an awful lot. But two things have brought my mind to it lately - one person asked me to think upon it, and I heard Christy Wimber speaking on it at the New Wine Women and Leadership conference this weekend. And she didn't, in fact, say that trusting God made everything alright; she didn't say that her paths were straight. She actually said that 'some of the most powerful times I have had with the Lord are when there is a great tornado going on around me'. It was trusting amid the tornado which increased those powerful times.

So how on earth can a 'tornado' be in any sense a 'straight path?' Delving further in, it seems to me that it could be more rightly understood as 'right path' as in the path that follows God, the path that is guided by God, the path that we are best to be on because if we are walking with God than that is the best way for us to walk. None of this implies anything about it being an easy or healthy path. A safe path for our souls, yes, but not always safe for our bodies, our emotions, our health. Does this mean that God means for us to walk in suffering - that our suffering is our 'right path', the path God guides us on when we trust God with all our heart? Huge question - and I'm not sure I have the answer to this. What I do know is that when we are trusting in God with all our hearts, the path feels safe, the path feels right. The path doesn't always feel pain free. I wish it did, of course, but also have found, like Christy, that the times when the storm comes are some of the more powerful and intimate times with God, in the midst. I think that the storms are part of the path, not that I have somehow strayed, and somehow not that God sends the storms to teach me something, either. I am aware that I am being a tad contradictory, but I rarely write without a good dose of stream-of-consciousness-and-emotion thrown right into the mix.

So, the question comes down to, how can I really trust God with all that I am? It's easy in a sense to 'not lean on my own understanding' - I'm aware of how very flimsy that is, you only have to look at that last paragraph to see that. How can I trust with integrity, with fulness, without that slight cop-out of simply saying -oh, trust and it'll be fine? Because trusting with integrity actually means saying 'trust and it may well not be fine.' It means saying 'trust and know that you will be walking with God on the right path, not that the path will be an easy one.' Am I willing to throw in my full trust to that extent?

If there's one thing I've learned, it's that loving God does not make pain go away. It does not stop awful stuff happening and it does not make life easier. But throwing it all in with God, trusting to that huge extent, does something else instead, something greater. Something that makes life work, makes hope work. If I am throwing everything in, I can be confident that I am being who I am created to be, and living in the freedom of that, and everything seems to look right. Even for a fleeting moment, like sunshine bursting through cloud. That feeling won't always be there, but the fact is, and holding on to that, the absolute and burning love of God, is what carries me through, again, again and again.

So can I quote Proverbs 3 vs 5-6 without being a cop out or without ignoring the difficulties therein? I tentatively say I think so. Sometimes. I'll trust, and I'll lean not on my understanding, and in all my ways attempt to acknowledge God. I'll keep getting it wrong, as well. I'll rely on myself again and forget to acknowledge God. But then I'll remember this thing that works. God making my paths straight - God walking with me on those paths which feel fairly wobbly, but are nevertheless my right paths.