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.

 

The Upper Room

A man with a jar of water.

That's who we're looking for. That's who Jesus told us would meet us. Thing is, you just don't see that. A bloke, I mean, with a water jar. It's always the women.

I sometimes don't get him.

I glance over at John, who shrugs at me, drawing his hand over his sweat-soaked brow. 'Can you see anyone?'

He shakes his head.

We drag ourselves onwards, the heat of the day pounding us, wrapping itself around our aching limbs. It's been a long walk into the city, and its heaving. Crowds everywhere, people yelling and hawking and getting into your face. It's Passover, and everyone's getting ready. There's a hum in the air, a kind of buzz, like an expectation hanging over us. A small bolt of excitement pulses through my belly, but I don't know why.

Something's going to happen.

'There.' John nudges me, points at someone far ahead of us, a stooped figure with a water urn on his left shoulder. A man.

My stomach flips and my feet speed up to catch him. To follow him. That's what Jesus said, wasn't it? Follow him. To a house. Then go in and talk to the owner. Yep. Go into some random house and tell the owner we're using his room. Of course. I can't help grinning at the thought of it, at how typical this is. Just the other day he had us go and nick this colt. So very random. So very fascinating.

At the house, we pause at the door, looking at one another. John regards me with a raised eyebrow, and I nod. We're going to do this. We're going to do what he said. I swallow, and call out through the open courtyard: 'Hello?'

I'm expecting a servant, someone who will tell us to be on our way, but a heavyset chap with a thick black beard walks towards us, and there's a glint in his eye and a smile curving his generous mouth. 'Welcome,' he says, as if he expected us, as if we are supposed to be here. 'Come in.'

I swallow again, and force out the words he told us to say. 'Um... the Teacher... the Teacher asks...'

He smiles wider. 'Do spit it out.'

'The Teacher asked me to ask you where your guest room is? I mean, where the Teacher can eat the Passover meal, um... with us? I mean, with his disciples?' I stumble over my words, and he laughs out loud at me.

This is it. This is where he throws us out. We can't just go up to a stranger and demand the use of his room.

But he doesn't. He says nothing, just beckons to us as he turns on his heel and walks towards an arched entrance in the far side of the courtyard. Up some rough-hewn stone steps to an upper room. Inside, he nods to us, his smile unrelenting, and sweeps his arm around the space. A sumptuous room, furnished with a large table and dozens of reclining cushions. This is it. Just like he said.

Why am I surprised? Surely I know better, by now?

The owner, who remains silent, summons one of his servants to show us where to find things, and we prepare the meal. The Passover lamb, the bitter herbs, the unleavened bread, the wine. Tonight we will celebrate the liberation of the children of Israel. The freedom God gave us. The knot in my stomach tightens for some inexplicable reason. What? What is really happening here?

Later, when the rest turn up, the candles are lit and the table filled, and we wait for Jesus to sit. For a moment, he stands, regarding us all, his dark eyes soft in the flickering light. There's a sadness etched on his face tonight, something not quite right. I wring my hands behind my back and ignore the sense of foreboding in the room. There's nothing to be afraid of. Nothing. I mean, yes, he has been saying some odd things lately, but everything is fine. Surely.

We recline at the table, relaxing into the cushions. There's a quietness to the room, a weighty sort of silence settled upon us. We all look to Jesus, sat at the centre of us, so very still, the peace upon him tangible. I want some of that peace.


He gets to his feet, and I start to stand with him. He gestures at me to sit, and I sink back into the cushion, watching him as he removes his cloak and wraps a towel around his waist. Without saying a word, he pours some water into a basin, and the sound of the water rushes through my veins. I inhale sharply as he takes the basin to James and crouches at his feet, then takes his foot and begins to wash it, gently scooping water from the basin and stroking it over James' foot. James sits mesmerised, staring at Jesus, a light in his eyes.

Jesus does the same with Matthew, then Nathanael, and I can see him coming closer and closer to me. I bring my hands together, squeezing them as he kneels before me. 'No,' I say, my voice a rasp. 'You shouldn't be doing this. Are you really going to wash my feet?'

'You don't realise what I'm doing now, but later, you'll get it,' he says, and tears prick the backs of my eyes.

'No,' I say again, but my voice is broken. 'You'll never wash my feet.' He can't do this. I can't let him. It's not right. I should be serving him.

Jesus smiles at me, his eyes full of sparkle.

I take a deep breath. 'Then my hands too. And my head.' I want more. I want all he can give. All this life he has for me.

Later, he tells us we should all wash one another's feet. We should serve one another. Love one another. We glance around helplessly, knowing we can't do this without his strength.

'I've been waiting for this,' he says, when he is finished and sat with us again, his voice a soft breath in the hush of the space. 'Having this meal with you, before I have to suffer.'

Suffer? What does he mean?

We wait in the stillness.

'I tell you this,' he says. 'I won't eat it again until it finds fulfilment in the kingdom of God.'

What does that even mean?

None of us say anything. It's like there's an unspoken rule, a pact between us, to listen. To be still. The opulent room with its colourful tapestries and floor coverings presses in on me, the herb-scented air almost sucked from the space, and yet there's something at the edges. Not a feeling of oppression, but a spark of something else. Something like light. Like hope. I raise my aching head and look at him. His eyes are on me, something unfathomable lying in the depths, and I tear my gaze away, confused.


His voice breaks into the silence, and his words are shocking. 'One of you here now will betray me. That's the truth.'

An audible gasp runs between us as we catch one another's eyes. My heart thumps. He can't mean me? I would never do that. Never.

All of them deny it. Say surely he couldn't mean them. Confusion weaves its way around us, snaking through us. 'It is one of the twelve,' he says, and we shake our heads, so vehemently, so assuredly. He must be wrong. But then Judas says to him, 'Surely not I, Lord?' and Jesus turns to him, gazes long into his eyes until he flinches.

'Yes, you,' he says, and it's barely a whisper. Judas leans back, crossing his arms and setting his face like a stone.

We are sombre as he does something strange with the bread and the cup of wine. Something I've never seen before. The bread is his body, he says, and shares it among us, and as I take my piece something surges through me like a fire taking hold. The cup is his blood, he says, of the covenant. The promise. We share it among ourselves and a strange awareness catches hold of us, a feeling running between us we cannot explain, and I know I will never leave him. Never let him down. I know something intimate has passed between us. Something otherworldly, that I am unable to put words to. It's changed me.

But then he says the words which fall too hard on me, like rocks on my head. 'I have to go away, and you'll all leave me.'

I won't. I won't. I say it. 'I will not.'

He looks into my eyes; deeper than before, and I shrink back. His words are soft but devastating. 'Peter. Before the cock crows twice, you will disown me three times.'

Horror floods me. Never. I gather up my outrage. 'No. Even if I have to die with you, I will never disown you. Never.'

Later, I look back at that upper room, the night that changed me. I look back and remember Jesus' eyes, even as he told me what he knew would happen, eyes full of love. Nothing but love. There was never anger in those eyes as he told me what I would do. Only grace.

Always grace.

And I did do it. I did let him down. But there was never a question, never a doubt that he loved me anyway, that I need bear no burden of guilt.

That night, we celebrated the liberation of the children of Israel, and something more. We ate a meal which anticipated an even greater liberation; a freedom for everyone, in every time and every place, a freedom which ran through the meal then through the hideous events of the next day, then burst into joyous life in what happened on the Sunday, streaming through history with resurrection power. And each time we do it, each time we eat that meal we are remembering. Remembering that God's plan was always for freedom. Always for grace. Always for love.

Always for you.

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.

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.

Abiding Love

So, it's Valentine's Day. So I thought I would write a nice Smuggety McSmug post about how lovely it all is and how wonderful and marvellous Adventure Bloke is.

Except I didn't really.

Now, Adventure Bloke is indeed most wonderful and marvellous, but that is not the content of this post, I'm afraid. I wanted to express something of what love is. The love that underpins all loves. Abiding Love.

Now I'm loving the word 'abiding' at the moment. It's not a word used very often in day to day speak. The only time I can think of hearing it is in the hymn 'Abide With Me' <remember the hauntingly beautiful version of this at the Olympic opening ceremony?>  It's a word that goes deep, that says so much about God's nature.

The dictionary definition is:

Adjective: [of a feeling or a memory] Lasting a long time, enduring
Synonyms: permanent - lasting - constant - enduring - stable

Now, quite a few friends around are struggling in their relationships. Marriages are breaking down, vows are broken, people emotionally abused, discarded. Or simply finding that love has gone. Human love seems to be fleeting at times, transitory, difficult to pin down. People search for love and come up empty. Can the best of human love satisfy the deep need in every soul to be loved, completely and utterly, to be loved abidingly?

God's love is abiding. Abiding is faithful. Abiding is permanent. Abiding is forever. Abiding, also, brings to mind the image of living in a place - of being somewhere, of staying put, of waiting, almost. There is a sense in which God's abiding love is a love that lives with us, stays with us, and waits with us. Never giving up when we are unfaithful to God, not forgetting us when we forget God. We could do all we could do to damage our relationship to God and yet abiding love is still there.

When I see human love doing as it should do and being as it should be - loving unconditionally, valuing the loved one, giving, acts of random kindness, patience, generosity etc, I think of God. I think that such love is possible because of God's image in each of us. When I see it go wrong I mourn at God's image being marred again. When I get it wrong I mourn at God's image being marred in me. And yet there it is - the beauty of it. When I get it wrong, there is still Abiding Love. 'Your love never fails, never gives up, never runs out on me'...

I'd like to think of St Valentine's Day as a day where we can all be reminded of that greatest love <yes, I did resist the temptation to break into song there> and know that whatever our circumstance, however bruised, battered, broken or tired we are, even if we are bumbling along quite happily, we can know the abiding love of Christ, the love with longevity that will never give up.

I'll end this with lyrics by Tenth Avenue North

By Your Side
Why are you striving these days/Why are you trying to earn grace/Why are you crying/Let me lift up your face/Just don't turn away

Why are you looking for love/Why are you still searching as if I'm not enough/To where will you go child/Tell me where will you run/To where will you run

And I'll be by your side/Wherever you fall/In the dead of night/Whenever you call/And please don't fight/These hands that are holding you/My hands are holding you

Look at these hands and my side/They swallowed the grave on that night/When I drank the world's sin/So I could carry you in/And give you life/I want to give you life

Cause I, I love you/I want you to know/That I, I love you/I'll never let you go

This post is dedicated to K, J, S, C and J

 

Those who 'just get on with it'...

So, this phrase has been vexing me somewhat lately. I'm not entirely sure why, but here's the thing:

'<insert name here> is so inspirational, you know. She is one of those people who just get on with it, you know, even when she has proper flu. She doesn't let it get her down.'

And there's that dreadful ad. Can't even remember what it is advertising, some overpriced and ineffective cold remedy, I believe. The one that extols the virtues of 'people who just get on with it', while showing a woman with a sniffle buying food, or some such getting-on-with-it-ness.

Now I think the problem for me in this is the implications about those who don't get on with it. Those who let it all get on top of them, those who stop, those who buckle under a little. It would be fine if this phrase was only bandied around about the usually well, but when it is applied to those who have long term conditions, it can all get a bit upsetting and in some cases intimidating.

You're doing your best to function, to fight through the pain, the never ending side effects, infection, exhaustion and whatever else, and you're having a bad day/week/month/year. You need to sit back and take it easy, to NOT 'just get on with it'. But you're bombarded by images and accolades of people doing just that, and how very inspirational they are. They don't let it get them down, they don't let it beat them. So if you do, you're pretty hopeless really aren't you.

OK, so I realise not every person is saying or thinking this. But it's more common I think than we could imagine. What I want to say is that you don't have to be inspirational today. You can stay inside, let life carry on and just cope. You can just be. And that does not mean you are in any sense worthless, useless or any other type of less. It simply means that you are hurting, you are human and you are taking time that you need to look after yourself. There may come a time when 'getting on with it' is better for you than not, and I am the first to say that a little activism can be a good and healing thing, but there is the time when it is just not. And that is OK.

The problem is, our society is throwing out ever more widely messages about what use someone is to society as a whole. Today I have read a report which says that workfare will be extended to people on ESA, and not only extended, but in fact people will be forced into unpaid work for an indefinite period - as opposed to normal workfare rules which put people into short term employment. What does this say about attitudes to disabled people? They are not worth very much as it is, so better make them more productive? Even if that work is unpaid? Now, many people with chronic conditions and disabilities find that working enhances their lives very much and I am in full favour of such for those able to do so and supported by their employers, but this new stipulation is somehow more sinister and has undertones of the whole 'drain on society' label applied by some. It's a scary world out there if you're ill.

What does God think, I wonder? Does God think people should just get on with it and should be productive and useful to society? Or does God just, actually, Love?

So I want to encourage you, all my friends who struggle with ill health of any description, to give yourselves a break. And to feel free to throw something at the TV when you next see the advert with that poor woman with the little sniffle who Just Gets On With It. ;)

Christmas De-Trimmed

I’ve been somewhat of an observer of Christmas this year. The me that usually partakes fully in everything Christmassy I can possibly fit in has been overcome by the weakness of my body and so I’ve been sitting on the sidelines; firstly at home, watching as my family took part in carol singing, parties, services and school events; and now in hospital, hoping very much for a get-out-of-hospital-free card for Christmas Day.

So where does this fit into the Great Adventure? What can be possibly said to be of any good about this situation?  I’ve cried myself out, ranted and rallied, and then given in to the good of finally getting IV treatment (and that’s another story I won’t bore you with right now.)

It’s made me think about a few things though. What is Christmas when it is all stripped down? What is it when observed from a sofa or sickbed? What is it when someone cannot join in the festivities and the events, save in their mind and spirit?

Perhaps when Christmas is stripped down to its bare bones the truth is revealed. Perhaps behind the tinsel and the mulled wine there is a glimpse of something much more profound, much more thunderingly awesome. To avoid the use of the <too> much-used phrase ‘put the Christ back in Christmas’ we can find that Christ was always in Christmas, and Christ was always in everything. The incarnation of the Son of God is there at the heart of it all.

Not that carols and parties are mindless frivolities and that I am somehow rising above them in a martyr like fashion – I’d far prefer to be an active partaker. More that sometimes sitting back and being hit again by the ultimate truth behind the season can be important. It would be good if everyone could find time in the midst of this fraught last week before Christmas to think on these things – it’s easy for me, it’s writing blog posts under the influence of IV meds or watching endless Jeremy Kyle. Hmmm. <sulks at not having internet>

What is it about the incarnation that makes it so incredible, that somehow makes everything work, brings peace to those in the most desperate of circumstances? Possibly the simplicity of God loving the world so much; possibly the mind blowing way that Jesus lived among people, walked with them in their sorrow and sickness and pain. And still does today. It’s not only that, though. It’s something in the way Jesus was born not as a king in finery and riches. He was born in poverty and weakness. God identified with all that was not strong and successful. In the weakness of beginnings God showed that God is with us in more than just a cold and theoretical way. God really is with us in the mess, and however weak we are, whether in sickness or in other ways, knowing that can change everything.

I can’t say I am happy to be here and content in suffering and all that malarkey. But when I look at this beautiful celebration I’m amazed, and I’m living in hope, and I’m finding peace in the brokenness. I hope you all, in all your life situations, can find something of the immense love of God for you this Christmas.

And so the lonely, the sick, the downtrodden can know that Christmas is good. Please remember them in your own busy lives. I wonder who I can bring this hope to this Christmas.

Now, bring on the tinsel and mince pies, because the food here is rubbish and the decor somewhat lacking...;)

What value on life?

I watched the BBC documentary 23 Week Babies the other night and it's been preying on my mind ever since. In the first case, pondering on the harrowing and unthinkable suffering parents of these incredibly premature babies go through, and endeavouring to imagine what it would be like (impossible to do so, really.) And then there are the dedicated health professionals involved in the process, and the decisions they have to make, decisions that could mean life or death, impossible decisions.

But the documentary threw up some deeply disturbing questions, questions about life, value, disability and euthanasia. The narrator recounted how the statistics of babies born at this gestation were terribly negative, that in fact it was rare that a baby would live. And this led to questions about whether it was even worth trying, or a waste of NHS resources, which could go to 'better use' elsewhere.

Alongside this questions were raised about quality of life, and whether it was worth saving babies who would go on to be disabled, and have 'poorer' quality of life, whatever that may mean (some of the 'disabilities' tiny preemies go on to have are poor eyesight or hearing, for example). While I appreciate the statistics are poor (although not as poor as this documentary contended, according to the ever-right mumsnet.com ;)) I do wonder about the consequences of statements such as the spoken and unspoken ones in this programme. If we say that one set of people are not worth ploughing resources into, what does it say about other sets that society may deem less than valuable? If it is not worth endeavouring to save a 23 week baby, is it worth saving somebody profoundly disabled? If phrases such as 'quality of life' are bandied round about these matters then there could so easily be a danger of the beginning of making medical decisions based on how low the quality of life of the patient is deemed to be, not necessarily about the patient. It is evident to me as well that some do take this further, and add lack of use into the equation. While most of society, I hope, are concerned with quality of life in terms of enjoyment and comfort, some seem to look at what someone puts into society, and if they are unable to, value is somehow thought of as lesser.

Now as you know, I have a wee bee in my bonnet about usefulness, particularly when it comes to living with disability or chronic illness.But even only with the scenario of judging based on quality of life,  I worry that society may one day turn on the most vulnerable, and decide that their quality of life is so poor that it's not really worth putting resources into them, and the even scarier scenario of deciding at or before birth whether these people are worth 'keeping'. Now I realise this is slightly on the hysterical side, but I guess living on the edge with illness can cause dramatic mind wanderings at times :)

Mostly, my view on this is all taken up in how I see God seeing us, each one of us, 23 week baby or 91 year old cancer patient. We are valuable, we are loved and we are lovingly created to be in relationship with the God of the universe. I know it cannot be cut and dried, we cannot simply say 'everyone should be treated the same' but if there can be a view of value not based on quality of life and/or usefulness behind the decisions things may be different. Some may argue that we should leave things to take their natural cause, and that 23 week babies would never have survived before technology, but you could use this argument for any medical intervention. I wouldn't be alive if I'd been born 100 years ago, so that argument sits on somewhat shaky ground for me. The thing is, we have the technology, we have the expertise. Should we not use it?

But it's still not simple. The suffering the baby may go through undergoing such treatment is cited; but on the other side, we hear of the miracles, those 23 weekers getting through it and living delightful and loved lives (thanks to Mumsnet for many such testimonies). We cannot say that just because they may have disabilities they will not have good lives, we just cannot. Do ill people not deserve to live? Where can this line of thinking stop?

I realise I have asked a load of questions here, and not given answers. How can I? I feel wretched for the parents and wretched for the doctors. All I know for sure is that my father in heaven loves these tiny babies, and that they are people of value. In saying that, I can totally understand those parents who say it's time to let go, time to stop. I haven't walked in their shoes, and therefore I cannot make blanket statements about What Is Good or What God Wants.

I guess it all goes back to my mini mission: To speak for those whose voices have been dimmed, those who feel society has condemned them to a life of uselessness, those who feel they have no value because they cannot Do. May we never place a price on life, in whatever 'quality' that may be. May we simply be representatives of God's all encompassing love and grace, for all, in all times.

Who am I?

I have a new toy, and am spending far too much time playing on it. It's CyberLink PowerDirector 9  and it is So Much Fun. I love making audio visual thingys for use in church, bringing the words to life. I know that some people are much more visual than others, some prefer to listen, but I like to look at stuff so enjoy producing it. I'm looking forward to getting stuck in. So far though I have had fun creating a video to one of my favourite Casting Crowns songs, Who am I?

Here it is. I am always bowled over by the words in this song, especially the chorus: 'I am a flower quickly fading, here today and gone tomorrow, a wave tossed in the ocean, a vapour in the wind. Still you hear me when I'm calling, Lord you catch me when I'm falling, and you've told me who I am - I am yours.' I love that in the midst of a world full of uncertainty and chaos, in the knowledge that our time here is so fleeting, we can experience belonging to God, knowing God catching us when we fall.