The Day of Hopelessness

I don't understand.

Don't get it.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. The story wasn't supposed to end this way. I thought there would be more, that he would escape, he would show them all who he was. He raised the dead. He bound up the broken-hearted. He healed the sick.

But he let them murder him.

I sit here in this garden, watching the place I never wanted to see, the stone sealing the cold tomb, his broken body laid out inside. I saw it all. Saw them take him down, saw them anoint him, saw them place him in there. The scent of myrrh lingers in my nostrils, the smell of death weaves around my body.

Hes gone, and I don't understand.

I remember one starry night so long ago, my arms full of this precious load, the knowledge heavy on me of who he was. Who he would be. The miracle of Immanuel. That night, the skies rang out in praise, the moon and stars bowed in homage and perfect peace wrapped itself around my soul. That starry night, hope was born.

But where is hope now?

I watched him die. I watched my son, his face wreathed in the most unimaginable pain, so broken, blood running down his face and dripping onto his devastated body. I watched as they mocked him, sneered, sniggered, pointed, hated. I watched with my hands squeezed against my eyes, tears spilling out between my fingers as he spoke words I could not understand but still shocked me with their power.

It is finished. 

The disciple he loved stood with his hand on my shoulder, holding me steady as I wobbled, my joy and my light fleeing away and leaving me with nothing but bones like water and eyes red-raw and a heart like a sunken stone. Here is your mother, my son had said to him, ever so watchful of me, pouring his love over me even in the worst of moments.

Why? Why did this happen?

It wasn't supposed to be this way.

I remembered the words which curled through my spirit, one sun-streaked day so long ago. My soul glorifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my saviour, for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant. From now on all generations will call me blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for me - Holy is his name. 
But they won't call me blessed now, will they? They won't look back on a starry night and grasp the magnitude, the sheer holiness of a tiny baby. Not now.

Not now he's gone.

I look up. Two Roman soldiers guard the tomb, mouths set in grim lines as they scan the landscape. They reckon we might steal the body. But we would never do that. Never. He is my son. My beloved. Why would I disturb his peace?

I am hidden from them as I watch, crouched behind a grove of olive trees. They stand in their finery, spears at the ready, chins held high in the pride of their station. I wonder if they know who they are guarding. Wonder if they know he was the brightest light, the miracle child, the son of God, the man who loved and restored and healed and forgave. Wonder if they know what they did.

My tears are my food.

But then I recall a starry night, a night when my arms were heavy with a precious load, a night when angels sang to shepherds and I gazed at the night sky, so pendulous with hope. I recall my heart pounding with fierce love and more; a love so great it overshadowed and overwhelmed and held me so close I could not speak. I remember that love, and I burrow deep into my heaving grief to find it. To locate the hope that never, ever dies.

And then I remember words he said, walking along a dust-covered road one scorching day. Words about suffering and death. But there was more. There was something about raising.

I gaze at the tomb, so still in the hushed air of a sultry afternoon. Could it be...?
Surely not. I am looking for something where there is nothing.

But his weight is in my arms and his love presses down on me.

On this Saturday of hopelessness, dare I look for light? Dare I gather up my pain and pour it into hope?

Dare I live in pain-washed expectancy?

God's Great Dance Floor

'I feel alive....I come alive...I am alive....on God's great dance floor...'

So went the lyrics of one of the tunes in amazing Impact this year at New Wine. The first time we sang this, I kind of shrank a little bit inside. But....I thought. But, this is for people who can dance. It's for all those guys up the front who jump up and down and do that stuff I used to do when I had lungs that kind of worked. It's even for those embarassing Dad Dancers and the Liturgical Stylee ones with flags. But for me? No, I am sitting here. I'm not even standing up. I can jiggle my feet a little bit. But alive? On God's great Dance Floor?

So yep, there's part of me hanging on to the fact that I used to be out there giving it my all. I had energy and I wanted to express praise in going for it. I mean, I had rhythm. I got Highly Commended in my Jive and Ballroom exams. But now I can't do it. And it's not fair. And it's not right. And I don't feel alive on God's great dance floor. So hmmmphhh.

Huh.

But then I did that start-looking-beyond-youself thing. You know, the one where I stop thinking it's all about MEEE. And started thinking about what it really meant. And what it could mean for lovely Joyce in hospital and lovely Mum with arthritis and lovely Paul in his wheelchair. Why am I sometimes so slow to realise that things are not always utterly literal and bound by face value? I had just delivered a seminar on The Secret of Contentment (available here if anyone would like to hear it) and yet here I was, wallowing in the same old discontent of me not being able to Do What I Want.

When I had finally moved along from my self, I thought about what God's great dance floor actually was. God's great dance floor isn't a strip of slightly sweaty red carpet in the Impact venue. It isn't a place where people can physically jump up and down and wave flags and stuff. It goes so so much deeper than this. I love it as a concept, actually, because God's great dance floor is where we can all be free to be who we are created to be. And all, whether physically able or not, can dance like no one is watching. It's a place of freedom, where we can be reminded that we are alive in Christ, we are fulfilled in knowing and worshipping God, we are fully ourselves in the time we are fully surrendered. God's great dance floor is where we can sit, taking in awesome beauty, or lie, surrounded by enthralling presence, or walk onwards, knowing we are not alone.

And God's great dance floor is a reminder of the perfection that will eventually be, the wholeness of what we will be. We don't know what that will look like, but know it will be the most amazing thing we could ever experience. It's beyond imagination.

So I sang my heart out for the rest of the week and stood on that dance floor with the dad dancers and the flags. I even tapped my feet a bit <let's not go overboard here, after all>. In my spirit I was on that dance floor in every way I would love to be.

So many of us are not whole, we are not healed, we live in the pain of broken bodies or the pain of our difficult situations. But God offers us so very much even in that pain, so much of himself, having known pain beyond our comprehension. We can all be on God's great dance floor, we can all be freed in the midst of our own pain to know the God who loves us overspillingly and recklessly.

So Keeeeep Dancing....


P.S I'll be blogging that seminar as a series after a few people have asked me for it in writing, as it is far too long winded for one post, so I hope it's helpful to you. The whole premise of it is finding contentment in suffering, in challenging situations in life, and what contentment actually means.

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 cannot 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 take this 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.

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. ;)

Strength and Self Pity

Yesterday I indulged in a nice little Pity Party, all by myself.

Adventure Bloke had come home from an hours run and had rather nice calf definition, if I may say so. But there was me, deciding that it was Not Fair that I could not go out on an hour's run and have calf definition. Because I have messed up lungs, and because yesterday was a Bad Day. I did get the Adventurous pair to the park after school, but paid the price. Breathing? Bonus!

This led to me wallowing in a bit of good old fashioned self pity. Many of you lovely people say to me that I am so strong and brave. But I'm not, really. I cry and I scream and I rant at this disease, and I don't feel very strong at all. I indulge in some envy fairly often. Last night it was envying the midwives on One Born Every Minute. You see, I would love to do that job, what an exciting place to be (I know, sad, exhausting and draining too) But I can't. So I envy their strength. Then I start envying the Adventurous Pair's teachers at school, because they are doing the job I used to do, and used to do rather well, really. Then I start envying people on the street, people at the gym, checkout people in Morrisons. Because they are strong (or seem so to my narrow view) Because they don't have screwed up lungs. Because they can work. Because they can run and have Calf Definition.

Adventure Bloke demurred my kind invitation to my Pity Party, but let me attend nevertheless. Afterwards, he hugged me, and said it was OK. I think that's kind of like God. I don't think God expects me to be calm and stoic at all times and to smile at my disease and say 'it's fine, these things come to try us.' I rather think instead that God hurts with me. That when the pain is so bad I cry that God cries too.

I have learnt that life is not fair. My parents used to tell me this a lot. And to my disgust I now use the same phraseology to my children, which annoys them just as much as it did me. But it is really not. Is life fair for those in Japan affected by the tragic events lately? Life fair for those caught in conflict in Libya? Life fair for the Mumsnetter who lost her darling 2 year old son to cancer last week?

Some say when we talk about suffering that it is God's will. But substitute that phrase for the 'is life fair' phrase in the paragraph above. Can that really be said of God? I don't think so. I don't believe God wills this stuff. But I do believe God is in it with us. My understanding is flawed and shallow and tinged with self pity. But my experience is of a God who hurts, who knows what it is like to lose a child and knows what it is like to not be able to breathe through pain. And who has done something about it.

So I'll still engage in the occasional pity party, I reckon, if only to justify chocolate eating. But then I'll remember the verse from Psalm 73: "My health fails, my spirits droop, yet God remains! He is the strength of my heart, he is mine forever."