Embracing Changing Seasons and the Space In-Between

In Spring I felt the gentle nudge of new life. It had been a long winter. I had almost given up hope. But the sun’s heat and the slightest hint of green pushing through the soil reminded me of the possibility of life returning. The gentle whisper of a voice. The swiftest glimmer of presence. And then, one crisp evening, looking over the river that burst forth with life, I asked my Mother to lead me to her Son.

Later, when Summer arrived, I had forgotten those simple Springtime moments, and that riverside prayer. Then he returned and I, taken by surprise, rejoiced! His voice was clear, presence close, and each day brought fresh revelations and new mercies. I returned to the river and reveled in sacred creation. I realized how starved of spiritual food I had become, and began to know the glorious goodness of grace.

This season was wonderful and exhausting in its immediacy as I was shown, with increasing clarity, the depths of my selfish misunderstanding of the loving ways of God, stretching back years. The refining fire burned bright, stripping back layer upon layer of pride, entitlement, ingratitude, and decisions formed of fear.

I came to the Lord each morning with hopeful expectation of further discipline; knowing that this work was being performed in love. Quickly I grew to understand something of forgiveness and mercy, and the urgency with which I must give and receive both. I learned about giving thanks, appreciating that every uncomfortable truth revealed was a gift.

Then the seasons changed again and, with the coming of Autumn, the intensity of inner cleansing paused. As quickly as it had arrived with the Summer sun, the divine-discipline-directive faded into the oranges and browns of first fallen leaves. At the same time, my external life came to a sudden standstill. Challenging family events have necessitated me giving up my job, barely leaving the house from one day to the next, and facing restrictions on even the most mundane actions.

Is it right to grieve the losses, I wonder: Losses of close personal attention from the Lord? Of a job I had hoped to do for years? Of certain everyday freedoms? Or, is it possible that a fresh challenge – the next stage in spiritual formation – might have been brought about with the changing season?

So it seems I am presented with an opportunity in this new season to follow-up on what was recently revealed to me. Through the generous nature of God, much that was hidden within me has been brought out to the light. I know a great deal more about myself and my position before the Lord. I understand the consequences of certain decisions and I realize there is a lot more work to be done in repairing damaged relationships.

While I am very thankful for the gracious revealing of such truths, clearly knowing the problem is not enough. It is only the first step toward a internal transformation to which I must submit. Indeed, as has been said since ancient times, it is not enough to leave Egypt, you must also enter the promised land! But the question is, what exactly do I do during this season? That is, how I move forward in a situation where there is no movement?

Following such an intensive internal cleanup, and with all external activity halted; my position before God is very different to any previous time in my life. The walls of home are now my mission field, thus there is nowhere to practice the Kingdom except within my own self. And I think this is precisely the point.

There is nowhere to hide, no work to throw myself into, no mask of “righteousness” to wear. With all past hypocrisy laid bare and brought out into the light, I am left vulnerable before the Lord. Empty and quiet, with nothing to offer but… me.

But I am not convinced that I even fully understand who this exposed “me” is. Can it be right to appear before God truly…actually…honestly so weak and bare?

To step into the next season, the answer must surely be “Yes”!

Thomas Merton is extremely helpful in his articulation of the cold reality of moving towards a new stage of relationship with the Lord. He writes:

“We should let ourselves be brought naked and defenseless into the centre of that dread where we stand alone before God in our nothingness, without explanation, without theories, completely dependent on his providential care, in dire need of the gift of his grace, his mercy and the light of faith” (Contemplative Prayer, p.85).

This speaks powerfully to me, suggesting this new season is one of getting real and facing the present moment. But what Merton describes as “that dread where we stand alone before God” is fitting. For such a long time I have put so much stuff in between myself and my Lord, that to be stripped bare, just me before God, is disconcerting.

But at the same time, it is, strangely perhaps, a relief to shed the pretense and just be. There will be space now to listen and obey. There will be time to pray – get it wrong – address each small issue as it comes. I might then be found trustworthy in small things so as to be one day trusted again with bigger things. However, all this is still to come.

For now I am like the dry bones waiting for the LORD to breathe life into them. The bones are still to feel that breath coming from the four winds that will cause them to stand and know the LORD has acted. Also, this moment reminds me of the prodigal son turning back towards home, empty handed, yet to receive that loving parental embrace that will restore and take the relationship into the future.

I have been shown the consequences of past mistakes. I know that my only hope for new life comes from God: Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Similarly, having seen my errors in a true light, I have repented, turned and started the journey home. However, this moment is one of being completely still, in all of my revealed weakness, simply listening out for “a noise, a rattling” (Ezekiel 37.7) and the beginnings of transformation.

Struggling with Submission, Service and Self Denial

I have had to give up my job. It was not any sort of high-status role, but for me nonetheless, a dream job that I loved. Although becoming clear for a few weeks that I would need to give it up, the act of formally resigning was performed with considerable sadness and a great many tears. This grief has resurfaced several times as I handed back my laptop and staff badge, then found myself to be logged out of the staff email.

And what replaces my work?

Large portions of my day are spent relaxing with music playing, a book in hand, eating and drinking.

Sounds nice doesn’t it?

Then there are the times each day when screams fill the house. This is when I stand and watch my fifteen year old daughter rip through another set of clothes. When I try frantically to attach bandages and guards upon her arms to protect the skin she had pierced with her teeth on so many occasions. When I try to put myself between her and the wall she is crashing her head against. When I dodge flying plates, kettles, fruit bowls. When I am punched, bitten and scratched.

This is why I have given up my job. By caring for my daughter, unable to attend school regularly due her disabling anxieties and unpredictable behaviour, I am somehow attempting to also serve my Lord who said, “in as much as you have done it to the least of these, you have done it to me” (Matthew 25.40). In my daughter’s broken body and troubled mind, Christ is present, requiring patience and kindness, wounds to be cleaned and bandaged, and a unwavering readiness to do it all again next time.

But, it has taken me some fifteen years as her parent/carer to realize this truth. Yes, I have cooked meals for her, taken her to appointments, played games with her; but righteousness is not found simply in outward activity; it is whole person attitude and action aligned with the way of Christ Jesus. And in that I have fallen far too short. Impatient, lacking in compassion, I have often performed my parent/carer tasks with a drudging sense of duty or despairing desire for escape.

Now, with all external activity halted, there is a fresh opportunity to align my whole self with the way of Christ Jesus through right attitude and action in service to my daughter. Somehow, I feel as though everything had to be stripped away so that I am literally in lockdown, barely leaving the house, unable to commit to anything beyond the hour or two when she might actually make it into school; in order for me to be educated very practically in this central idea of Christian life:

“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (Mark 8.34).

Fine. Necessary discipline from the Lord as an expression of heavenly parental love. Fine. But it’s really, really hard, and some days – like today, as I write – everything in me struggles as if confined within a straight jacket desperately seeking escape. Internally I am screaming out along with Janet Jackson in her absolute 1980s’ classic “Control”:

“I’ve got my own mind, I want to make my own decisions, when it has to do with my life, I want to be the one in control!”

So I struggle to embrace the changing season. Complaining about my lot in life, I fail to find the joy in repeated and limited activities based around one room of the house. I continue to lack empathy and patience with my daughter, and am regularly dragged down into the persona of martyr and victim. And quite often – most days in fact – I really begrudge listening to those same songs (…that make her so happy, help her to relax) over and over and over.

I have realized that to follow the call of Jesus into self denial is ultimately an act of submission. This is an internal positioning towards meeting another’s needs, placing them before your own, and being pleased to do so. The outward acts of service can be easily performed through resentment, without any self-giving at all.

I know that I have been called to a season of self denial. This is God’s will for me and to it I must submit. The resurfacing of grief over what has been given up, and the cycle of days seesawing between internal peace and conflict, reveal just how necessary this period is for my spiritual development.

Of course I am completely free to continue in my fight against what is set before me. I could devote considerable efforts to pushing my daughter back into school full time and myself back into work and whatever else I feel is best… but to do so would be putting myself first above both my daughter’s needs and also that to which God has called me for this time.

So, the best, most fruitful, most life-giving solution is this divinely inspired narrow way of denial and taking up the cross. As such I must re-submit each day. It will not just happen within me. I absolutely cannot do it. To give of myself and be faithful in submission to the Lord is not in my nature.

How to submit everyday? Fix my eyes on Jesus who modeled the life of submission, self denial and service. He says, “I can do nothing except what I see my Father doing”; through tears and stress at Gethsemane, he cries, “not what I want but what you want”; when asked how disciples should pray, he says, “your will be done on earth as in heaven”.

In light of all of the above, this should be my daily prayer:

I submit just to being in this moment You have laid out before me. Please help me submit to just being in this moment You have laid out before me.

God on the Fens (a reflection on Psalm 84)

Early one morning last week, I was out on the Fens near my home. Walking beside the River Great Ouse as it pulsed high against its banks with energy and life, my senses became suddenly alert. That is, I had the strangest sensation of experiencing my surroundings in some kind of ultra high definition – thus being able to truly attend to that present moment with utmost clarity.

Rushing wind, rustling reeds and wheat. The rat-a-tat of dragonfly wings startled me with its urgency. Birdsong in the trees above. Crickets in the grasses below. And my attention stolen by the hidden abundance of activity detectable only by coy cracklings in the undergrowth.

Sweet purple blackberries plump among climbing thorns glistened in the rising sunlight, seducing the day’s first wasps. Daisies and dandelions stretched upward, daring to reveal their faces that they might consume every beam of warming light. And, lining the path, nettles’ thin needles waited, poised.

Over and on the river were swans and signets, sparrows and swallows. A clattering of jackdaws, geese and gulls. One grey heron nestled through the reeds. Another, in flight, its pterodactyl-gait prompting me to wonder about the ancient times when water and marsh reigned and the Fenlands were rich with eagles, egrets and eels.

Then, turning towards home, the cathedral came in sight. Beautifully imposing itself on the landscape for some thousand years, or thereabouts: cruciform frame of grey stone, intricately decorated in worship, and visible for miles. Bold in its declaration of holy human achievement, for generations this place has called: “Come all! This is the house of God!”

And yet, on that morning, cathedral claims were diminished in the face of natural splendour. The mission of ages compelling worshippers to exchange the gloriously created rivers and roots for pews and pillars, appeared to me unjust. I thought, am I not, at this very blessed time, already in the house of the Lord?:

“Better is one day in your courts than a thousand elsewhere” (Psalm 84.10).

And it seemed to me that a place – any place, perhaps every place – becomes sacred through the presence of the divine. Cathedral nor Fenland has the greater claim as the whole earth is the Lord’s, the Spirit blows where it will, and Christ is all and in all.

Then, finally on that morning (and making my joy complete); one, then two roe deer leapt across my path, just metres away. I laughed out loud, my soul restored by the loving playfulness of divine presence and revelation, and went on my way praising God for the wonders I had shared.

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Following this remarkable experience, I have continued to reflect upon Psalm 84.

The Psalm seems to be about one’s anticipation and longing for divine presence:

“How lovely is your dwelling place, O LORD of hosts. My soul longs, indeed it faints for the courts of the LORD.” (84.1-2)

While the focus is on the pilgrimage to the temple where God is said to dwell; my recent experience highlighted to me the universal nature of divine residency. I am as likely to meet God out on the Fens as I am in the cathedral or the bus station!

Just because the psalmist’s attention centres around divine presence within the temple (e.g. courts, altars, house, Zion), it is clear through the Bible that God is present and active everywhere. Indeed, “the whole earth is full of his glory” (Isaiah 6.3). Presence at the earthly temple has no bearing on divine activity elsewhere on earth or in the heavens.

A meeting with the divine is thus possible anywhere. The key is surely my desire for such a meeting to take place. And indeed, recently emerging from an extended period in the driest of wildernesses, I realize just how starved of spiritual nourishment I had become.

So it is no exaggeration to echo the psalmist in saying, “my heart and flesh cry out for the living God” (Ps. 84.3). Inside and out, I crave connection with the restoring presence of my Lord. I want to receive my life again.

“Happy are those whose strength is in you, in whose heart are the highways to Zion” (84.5)

I do not understand the season spent in the wilderness. However, I feel that such times are indeed a journey along “the highways to Zion”. Experiences of drought and God’s apparent hidden-ness, seem to be where certain necessary lessons about one’s own self are learned and strength is gained in readiness to encounter the Lord afresh.

I even wonder if there is something of great importance in being led to the point of my soul truly longing, even fainting in desperation for the courts of the LORD. I have not passed with ease through the Valley of Baca. Rather, I leave the valley significantly more damaged by life’s struggles, mercifully growing in strength just enough to approach Zion again.

But, remarkably, I approach as if for the first time.

The revelation out on the Fens was a profound and kindly act from a loving God. It was a timely reminder to seek the divine presence at all times, in all places. And as a new experience, it has also left me thirsty. But not for more of the same. Instead, I hope every future journey to Zion might be as if it were the very first, flowing from anticipation and desire for the new ways in which I may encounter the Lord.

Screaming Through The Long Haul of God’s Call (a personal reflection with Matthew 11.7-9)

In 2007 my wife and I began seriously considering adoption. We understood this to be divine prompting based on biblical verses such as “A father to the fatherless… God places the lonely in families” (Psalm 68.5-6). And we opened ourselves up to the possibility of one of these “fatherless” being placed into our family.

The story that we heard soon after praying the above, was of a baby girl who had suffered tremendous trauma in her early months of life. She was in need of significant care and attention. We were told that there was definitely some kind of supposed learning disability, but it was too early to tell exactly what was going on. Approaching one year of age, she had shut down from human interaction and the only sounds she made were her screams lasting well into each night.

That was our girl! And from the moment she first entered the family some months later, she belonged. She truly had been supernaturally placed in a family. Our family. There was honestly not a single sense that she was not our own biological child. To this day we claim it as a miracle and some kind of confirmation that we have been, in a sense, “called” to be her parents.

Now, on her very first day with us our little girl had been happy to receive cuddles and love, but quickly the immense change taking place in her life became all too much. She screamed if picked up by anyone at all. She screamed if put down in her bed. Eventually, I found one spot in the house where she was happy and I was stuck there for most of the second day.

Well, she got used to us after a while and soon enough was able to sit up, use a spoon to feed herself, and all of those usual baby things, just a little late. Time went on, the family grew in number, and everyone got older. But then in 2010, a significant change occurred resulting in the family being separated across different continents for four months. Although only three and severely developmentally delayed, our little girl could sense something was happening. And, on the very night that my wife and older daughter left the country, the screaming started again.

As a (temporary) single father with work and other children to worry about, there was little I was able to do. So, she screamed herself to sleep every night for four months while I paced around the darkened house, waking after just a few hours. I learned how much you can get done on no sleep!

Early in 2011, with the family reunited, in a new house, and things settled down nicely. Well, the screaming stopped anyway. Our little girl was diagnosed with autism. In 2012 a couple of tonic seizures had her briefly hospitalised and then treated for epilepsy which continues to this day. Later, in 2016 an MRI revealed brain damage on one side from trauma in her first weeks of life. The following year, when she had smashed windows, turned over multiple tables, and kicked the odd member of the public in the street, we received assistance from our local mental health team who prescribed medication for managing violent behaviour.

By this time she had developed a reputation as being the funniest, cheekiest, cuddliest kid in her school, and she remained at the very centre of our family, charming every visitor who dared to cross the threshold!

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I think back over those earlier times now as we are in another season of screaming. A volatile combination of increased absence seizures, anxieties, and some good old fashioned teenage hormones, has resulted in an almost constant cycle of repetitive behaviour, self-harming, and… screaming. Only now, the screams at six in the morning seem much louder. And the aggressive outbursts feel much harder to manage. And the 3 a.m. starts to the day are much more draining as we’re a little older than we once were.

Of course, the various lockdowns, and other stops and starts from the past year have made their contribution as well. While none of us in the family has actually experienced Covid firsthand, all of us have been somehow damaged by its presence. It means we are just that little less able to cope and bounce back and thank God in all circumstances than we once might have been.

Indeed, it must be said that life as a carer during the pandemic and its immediate aftermath, is an extremely, painfully lonely experience.

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But what did we go out into the wilderness to see? (Matthew 11.7-9) Did we imagine that the very act of adopting a vulnerable child would be some kind of fixer, an end unto itself? Surely not! If you go out to the wilderness you will have a wilderness experience. That is, you will not find a reed swayed by the wind or someone dressed in fine robes, but a prophet. You will be confronted with truth. You will be faced with injustice. You will be connected with the divine.

And our daughter, that little scrap we took in fourteen years ago, has played a prophetic role in this household.

The continual challenge of caring for her reveals the truth of our own limitations; our own dependence on sugar, caffeine and other comforts when the days are long and difficult; our own tendencies to wait until the lowest point before turning to the divine helper.

Further, I wonder whether her screams are some kind of crying out in the wilderness – an earthy, base cry to injustice: the trauma experienced as a baby; the numerous disabilities she has been left to wrestle with each day of her life; our inability as parents/carers to fully understand and sufficiently help. She screams and rages and shakes with anger voicing the unfairness of her own situation which somehow points to the larger picture of vulnerability and unfairness in the world.

And somewhere in the middle of it all we meet with the divine. In pure moments of joy. When she is blessing a stranger with a enthusiastic “hello!”. In the brokenness of her body. In being faced with our weakness and impatience. In being forced to recognise the crappy deal offered to so many vulnerable people. In all of it – if we pay attention – God is present in the most extreme and challenging way, yet so easily missed.

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There is an important prophetic word that John the Baptist says to the people from the wilderness of Judea:

“Bear fruit worthy of repentance” (Matthew 3.8)

This reminds me of another verse:

“Lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called” (Ephesians 4.1)

In other words, responding to God’s call is not a one time event but an ongoing way of life that must not be entered into lightly. I, personally, cannot say that I responded to divine prompting and adopted a child with learning disabilities. I think rather, I should say that that I am responding to divine prompting, etc. The work of response requires constant revision, rethinking, repentance. It is the exhilarating-often-heartbreaking adventure that begins with “come, follow me” at the shore of Lake Galilee, and spills outward from Jerusalem, to Judea and to the ends of the earth. The apostles were continually changed, broken and built up again, as they lived their response to the Lord. So too are we… with screams to accompany us on the journey.

Meeting The Needs Of Every Individual With Heavenly Bread (John 6 and Wisdom of Solomon 16)

“…You gave your people food of angels and without their toil you supplied them from heaven with bread ready to eat, providing every pleasure and suited to every taste… and the bread, ministering to the desire of the one who took it, was changed to suit everyone’s liking” (Wisdom of Solomon 16.20-21)

This passage from the apocryphal book Wisdom of Solomon forms part of an extended section in the text of contrasts between the ways in which God dealt with Israel, the covenant people, and the nations at the time of the exodus. When reading the verses cited above, I cannot help but think of Jesus’ discussion of heavenly bread in the Gospel of John chapter 6. In the chapter Jesus says a number of complicated things like this:

“I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh” (6.51)

I thought it would be interesting to consider the two passages together and even reflect upon ways in which the older book of Wisdom might contribute to understanding John 6.

In the Gospel first recall that, the day after feeding the five thousand, Jesus speaks to the crowds who have sought him out on the other side of the lake. The discussion of heavenly bread comes about after the crowds, asking for a miraculous sign, mention that “our ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness; as it is written, ‘He gave them bread from heaven to eat’ ” (6.31).

Here, the crowd cites Psalm 78 saying to Jesus, in effect, give us a sign like the manna given to our ancestors. Interestingly, neither the crowd nor the psalmist says anything about Moses and yet in 6.32, Jesus seems to interpret their words as a misunderstanding: you think that Moses provided the manna in the wilderness and you see me as presenting myself as some kind of new Moses. If this is the case, and Jesus has read the crowd correctly, I have some sympathy with them as, why would you assume anything else?

But I think that is perhaps at the centre of Jesus’ frustration with the people – in some sense he is like Moses, the man of God doing the work of God, but he is also the divinely-given gift of bread providing life itself.

In 6.35 he says, “I am the bread of life”, and then follows up with numerous repetitions and variations. One aspect of his message is to make a neat contrast between the manna which provided temporary nourishment for the Israelites and the eternal nourishment from eating of the living bread: “whoever eats of this bread will live forever” (6.51).

While this might appear an obvious comparison to make, I worry about the way in which it can be construed as what went before being old, irrelevant and worthless in light of Christ. The manna, being God’s miraculous gift, should certainly not be understood negatively. And Christ, as part of the Trinity and also the living, eternal bread, must be seen somehow as extending the gift of God rather than replacing it.

Here, I think the passage from Wisdom of Solomon 16 is helpful. In this tradition, the heavenly bread is lifted out of being ordinary, as it was “providing every pleasure and suited to every taste” (16.20). There is something extra-ordinary about this gift of heavenly bread. That is, because the manna was the gift of God it must have a supernatural quality above and beyond simply providing nourishment for each particular day.

Now, every person is uniquely made in the Image of God. Somehow the divine Image contains such diversity as to incorporate every aspect of humanity across cultures and genders and colours and all manner of other things throughout the world. Therefore, it seems clear that no two people will experience anything in exactly the same way because we are uniquely made. And I do think that goes for absolutely everything, even how each person experiences the divine presence in their life.

In John 6, Jesus speaks of “whoever comes to me…”, “anyone who comes to me…”, and “I should lose nothing of all that has been given me”. This suggests to me not only that all are welcome to come, but that all who come will find life. I wonder what the personal experience of life actually looks like for each of those “whoever” and “anyone” that have come to Jesus across the world throughout the last two thousand years. Their experiences of Jesus cannot all be the same, and I suggest that as each individual has eaten of the bread of life, they have found something pleasing to them in particular which has satisfied, not just their belly, but also their soul.

To employ the words of Wisdom then, I am suggesting that Jesus, as the heavenly bread, “…ministering to the desire of the one who took it, was changed to suit everyone’s liking” (Wis. 16.21). I am not reading “everyone’s liking” in a superficial like vs dislike manner, but rather as a deep sense in which each and every person can say their soul has been satisfied by the presence of the loving God in such a way that is perfect for them individually.

The experiences, the history, the hurt, the loves, the passions within each person as an individual can be ministered to, dealt with and made new. But when we are offered a generic Jesus who works only like this or like that, the opportunity to truly eat and find life might be hindered.

There is an invitation to eat of the living bread and be nourished. It is not a catch-all offer, but one that is bespoke and personally presented to each and every individual for us to accept or reject. Reflecting on this passage from Wisdom of Solomon has encouraged me to consider afresh the wonder of Jesus’ offer of life which, far from being given at a distance, comes uncomfortably close into our personal space and says, “taste and see that the LORD is good”.

With Jesus, the living bread, miraculously meeting our specific needs as he abides in us and us in him, we may also discover that his offer of life is not a one-time thing, but that nourishment is offered to us again and again. Remember the lesson of the five thousand earlier in John 6: “when they were satisfied, [Jesus] told his disciples, ‘gather up the fragments left over so nothing may be lost’ ” (6.12). We can be assured of the abundance of divine love and provision, truly believing that, “your word sustains those who trust in you” (Wis. 16.26). “Your word”, the Word, who was with God and was God since the very beginning. And who became flesh and dwelt among us bringing light and life to the world.

*this is a fully revised and updated post of mine from 2019*

Considering Purim during Lent: Seeking and Finding, Darkness and Light, Sorrow and Joy

In the next day or two, Jewish communities around the world will celebrate Purim. The origins of this joyous festival are found in the book of Esther. And while neither Esther nor Purim are particularly well-known by contemporary Christians; as a festival with a biblical foundation, I would like to suggest that there is much to be gained by Christians reflecting upon Purim. This, I believe is particularly true as we journey through the season of Lent and look towards Easter.

The book of Esther tells us why the Purim festival is observed annually. Purim is at the very centre of the book, and indeed, the reading of the Esther story in its entirety forms a vital part of the festival’s celebration. To consider Esther without Purim is to miss the purpose of the book! But of course, as a biblical text, there is so much more going on than simply giving the origins of the festival. Esther is a story of the dangers of excess, the uncertainty of life in exile, the need to step up in self-sacrifice for the good of those you love. It is also another great biblical tale of God’s saving action on behalf of the Covenant people!

Now, I know you are going to stop me on that final point because one of the things that everyone knows about Esther is that the name of God is not mentioned in the story. And while this has led some people in recent years to declare Esther a “secular” story whose place in the Bible is a mistake, to me it seems a lot more encouraging to side with the two thousand years or so before our cynical, contemporary age, when readers of Esther felt inspired to look beneath the surface. For the most part, God’s role in the story has been assumed and readers have reflected upon the mystery of the hidden presence of the divine resting in-between the words on the page. And in fact, God’s hidden presence in Esther is vital to an appreciation of Purim:

The festival is to be a time of feasting, joy, and giving gifts to the poor. This is in remembrance of the rest and relief the people were given from their enemies (Est. 9.22). Recall that the plan of Haman had threatened the very existence of the Jewish population in the Persian kingdom. When the Jews had defended themselves against this threat and effectively turned things around, they said that they must remember this rest and relief for all time (9.28). Celebrate with feasting, etc. Yes! But also remember the “times of fasting and lamentation” (9.31). That is, the magnitude of Haman’s threat against the people must never be forgotten – and tragically, history has shown how many other “Haman’s” have risen up against the Jewish communities.

Ancient readers of Esther noted that the Purim festival arose in a situation of dis-order. A people-group is not supposed to have their existence threatened, nor are they supposed to be exiled out of their home country and forced to live under the fierce power of foreign empire.

One major part of the context of dis-order in which Purim takes place is the fact that God is hidden. And here is the point:

Through the “dis-orderly” challenges and uncertainty of exile, and a threat against the community’s existence, suddenly God appears and saves the people, using the people to bring about salvation.

That is to say that God is active within the story, but somehow hidden from view. The focus on the human characters (Esther and Mordecai) might be best understood as a reflection of the ways that God quietly restores order out of dis-order by working with human partners to move towards the divine purposes of salvation. And when God is understood as acting in this way, we can begin to appreciate and share in the joy of Purim.

 Challenges, uncertainty, God hidden from view… these seem to be common human experiences of life. Hence the joy when God suddenly is revealed in a situation and we realise the divine presence had been with us all the time. Recall the celebration in the parables of finding the lost coin or lost sheep (Luke 15) – what if we have temporarily “lost” God?! Well, that is Purim: the unexpected joy at God’s sudden reappearance in our lives!

This should not be seen necessarily as an error, or lack on our part, because there is actually quite a lot of divine hiding going on in the pages of the Bible. Think of Jesus sloping off to be alone or instructing people not to say anything about the miracle that has just happened. There is something in the divine character that wants to be sought and found. The times of our searching are of course, painful, difficult and uncertain. But perhaps this promises a greater joy when we find the Lord again.

In this current season of Lent, many Christians are reflecting upon wilderness times such as the temptations of Jesus. It is important for our faith, to be honest in acknowledging the times when actual life experience makes it hard to detect the Lord’s presence with us. We might know with our heads that God is always beside us, but what is actually happening to us and around us can make it so difficult for that spiritual truth to be experienced as reality.

And again, I am led to consider this season which takes us towards Easter. Think of that pivotal and devastating moment when Jesus cries out from the cross: “My God, why have you forsaken me?”

Now, we might read the Passion narrative from our twenty-first century position and say that, of course the presence of the Father was with Jesus the Son throughout Good Friday! But for Jesus at that moment, apparently he felt completely alone. And doesn’t that somehow make the joy of the resurrection on Easter Sunday so much greater?! From the lowest point to the highest! From sorrow to celebration! From lamentation to feasting!

Just as Jesus felt abandoned as he lay dying upon the cross, the power of God raised him up to glorious new and everlasting life. And just as the Persian Jews grieved their forthcoming destruction at the hands of Haman, Esther and Mordecai were raised up to work as the Lord’s partners in bringing about a complete reversal which is to be forever remembered by every generation (Est. 9.28).

And this is why I think it is good for Christians to reflect upon Purim. As our Jewish neighbours celebrate their festival, recalling for another year how God saved their ancestors from annihilation and turned their mourning into dancing; we also prepare ourselves to consider yet again the darkness of the crucifixion and the light of the resurrection.

Times of trial will come. The wilderness will find us. The darkness may linger. But, God is with us. And God can be found. Our Lord’s faithfulness in that respect has been proved time and time again.

As we prepare for Easter, why not read the book of Esther and seek some inspiration there! 

Fleeing to Egypt, Henry Vaughan, and an Absence of Peace after Christmas (Matthew 2.13-15)

The baby is born, the Magi have knelt before him, and now the holy family must run for their lives.

“…An angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, ‘Get up, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you; for Herod is about to search for the child, to destroy him.'” (Matthew 2.13)

St Matthew’s Joseph the dreamer responds to a night time visitor (as in 1.20 and 2.19-20) and takes his family to Egypt for safety. Although most famous in the Bible as a site of oppression in Exodus, Egypt was first a place of salvation for another dreamer called Joseph (Genesis 39-50). Even baby Moses was drawn out of Egyptian water to safety and would later draw the Israelites out of danger in Egypt (Exodus 2-14). Elsewhere in the Bible, troubled Israelites kings often looked to Egypt for refuge (e.g. 1 Kings 11.40). So, in biblical terms, fleeing to Egypt – rather than anywhere else – is not unprecedented.

It is important to note that in the Bible, Egypt is always linked with trouble. Something goes wrong causing the biblical character to look to their powerful neighbour for help. In Genesis, Joseph only ends up in Egypt because of the violence of his brothers; Abraham due to a famine in Canaan (Genesis 12.10); the people of Judah because they feared the Chaldeans (2 Kings 25.26); and here in Matthew, it is the threat of Herod which prompts the escape from Bethlehem.

And this trouble is what stands out to me as – my goodness – we have all seen some trouble this year! Fear – check. Stress – check. Fatigue – check. Loss of security – check. And so on… it has been a year of trouble. Maybe that is just the way life is for us at a time of coronavirus, climate change, shifting political landscapes, and Brexit. And really, history reveals that people always have trouble. 2020 feels extreme for sure, but none of the things thrown at us are necessarily surprising; it is perhaps more to do with the combination of factors coming together in one single year that has knocked us all off-balance so severely.

In any case, back to Matthew 2.13 and I am confused as to why the coming of Jesus at Christmas is surrounded by trouble: shouldn’t the birth of Christ be the one thing not cloaked in darkness and struggle? However, the holy family need to flee to Egypt in fear of Herod, having already faced the possibility of public disgrace with regards Mary’s mysterious pregnancy, and the trials of a long journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem. The coming of Christ appears as problematic as any other human experience, and the divine intervention comes in the middle of factors such as human prejudice, power struggles, fear and violence.

In the lead-up to Christmas I read some poetry by Henry Vaughan published in the 1650s. One particular line, from The Nativity, has been rattling around in my head throughout the festive season:

Peace? and to all the world? sure, One

And He the Prince of Peace, hath none.

That is, the One arriving as God-with-us bringing a promise of peace, himself experiences no peace. The troubles surrounding events at Bethlehem already mentioned, reveal something of the truth of this verse. And in fact, the restlessness of Jesus extends far beyond his birth alone. Vaughan goes on:

He travels to be born, and then,

Is born to travel more again.

These words make me consider the journey from an eternal, heavenly existence of the Word to the foetus growing in the womb of Mary. Then, I think about how Jesus’ life recorded in the Gospels appears as one lived in almost constant motion, confrontation, and sacrificial giving. His lack of peace is painfully familiar to me during this time when I feel no peace. In some ways it may even be reassuring.

I might put it this way:

In order for the coming of Christ to be meaningful, he must embody the human experience truly and absolutely. In doing so, Jesus, as God-with-us, accompanies us in our troubles – even those of a deep and profound nature.

The picture in Matthew 2.13-15 of the holy family scared, running for their lives to Egypt, reveals something of the true nature of God-with-us. It is similar to the sign offered to us each Christmas of the pregnant woman and the child called God-with-us (Matthew 1.23; Isaiah 7.14). Both show the vulnerability, dependence, strength and struggle common to humanity. They reveal God-with-us as actually God present in all that we experience. The fleeing parents help their baby, but also require help from the angel and in the temporary safety of Egypt. And in Henry Vaughan’s poem The Nativity, it is the baby’s “restless mother”, “oppressed with troubles” who gives Jesus rest upon her “chaste lap and sacred breast”.

There is no peace apart from that received from another who themselves is lacking in peace. Indeed, this seems to be the model of Jesus’ life recorded in the Gospels: he gives of himself through compassion, and is awoken from sleep to save the disciples. But at the same time, he allows himself to be blessed by others, all of whom had their own struggles. Again, there is no peace apart from that received from another who themselves is lacking in peace.

And I think it is here that I find myself without excuse for not enacting God-with-us. My own troubles from this year and lack of peace do not give good enough reason to disengage from interactions altogether! That is, I cannot claim to be “damaged goods” not fit for purpose because, the ways in which 2020 have left me hurt, cynical, and tired, will surely be exactly the ways through which others can engage with me, help me or indeed be helped by me.

Micah 5.2 at Advent: Caught in the Cycle of Salvation

This year, Advent feels a bit like an in-between space. I can look back and recall the excitement felt about my faith before, and I might scrape some enthusiasm for what may possibly lay ahead. But for now, due primarily to the unprecedented run of events in 2020, it is tempting to think of myself as temporarily annexed, exiled, or even abandoned, until the coming of the Messiah at Christmas.

However, reading the great messianic prophecy in Micah 5.2 recently, has given me cause to hope and rethink being caught in-between old and new at Advent.

The words of Micah 5.2 are familiar from chapter 2 of Matthew’s Gospel, but in the Old Testament book of minor prophet Micah, it reads like this:

And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, the least among rulers of Judah; from you shall come one who is to rule in Israel, whose origin is from of old, from ancient days.

We might connect Christ Jesus with these words by our knowledge that he is “Son of David” through the family tree of Joseph (e.g. Matt. 1.1-16; 20) who needed to return to Bethlehem at the time of the census (Luke 2.1-4). But we also might dare to believe and confess that Christ is from even older “ancient days”: the Word who was with God and was God in the very beginning (John 1.1-5), and the “firstborn of all creation” (Colossians 1.15).

The words of Micah 5.2 relate to the davidic and cosmic dimensions of the Christ. The prophecy reveals that the coming Messiah enters into the story of Israel as one who has already been present in the earliest story of the universe itself.

The fact of Christ entering Israel’s history at a certain point, whilst also having been present since the beginning is significant, particularly during this Advent when I am struggling to centre myself following the year’s events.

There is a commonly held belief that Jesus arrived in Bethlehem following a period of great darkness. Certain Christian groups refer to “400 years of silence” when the divine voice was not heard in between the two testaments. In biblical terms, the theme of “Exile” is of profound importance, in terms of the actual Babylonian exile and its aftermath, but also an identity-defining concept lasting into later Jewish tradition. In all of these ideas, the underlying assumption is that the divine presence has temporarily left the people of God as a consequence of their long-standing disobedience.

In a year when it seems that almost everything has gone wrong, it is difficult to avoid arriving in Advent with ideas of darkness, silence, and exile in mind. Yes, I look ahead to the light of Christmas morning, but for now, I blame myself for causing the Lord to stay silent or even abandon me to some spiritual exile. But actually, I am not convinced this is the case at all.

Earlier when considering Micah 5.2, I found that the Messiah comes into Israel’s history at a particular moment in time, having already been present since the very beginning. This should provide much encouragement on the issue of divine silence/abandonment as it actually solidifies a pattern of unseen-yet-constant presence and tangible intervention that makes up the Israelite story of salvation.

It is crucial to remember that the Bible presents a rich variety of perspectives on many topics. For every verse declaring that God will abandon Israel, there is another proclaiming everlasting love and protection. Even within Micah itself where 5.3 states, “he will give them up until the time when she who is in labour has brought forth”; we also learn in Micah 4 how the people will arrive as exiles in Babylon where, “there you shall be rescued, there the LORD will redeem you from the hands of your enemies” (4.10).

And, looking at the scriptures more widely, it seems evident that, rather than giving them up to exile, the presence of the LORD actually travelled to Babylon with Israel (e.g. Daniel); returned with them to the land decades later (e.g. Ezra, Nehemiah); and even remained with those of the community who did not return (e.g. Esther).

These stories I mention above present themes of suffering and restoration, darkness and light, death and life in a kind of cycle of salvation. Round and round these salvation stories go in a circling, spiraling motion, which work together in revealing a single message that the LORD, though often unseen, is always with Israel and at certain points clearly intervenes on their behalf to save and make new.

Christians can understand these things as signs pointing to the ultimate expression of darkness turning to light in the coming of Christ. To me, this is immensely reassuring. It tells me that in feeling a temporary sense of abandonment/exile I am somehow sharing in an experience common to people of faith through the ages; a pattern which involves reckoning with the mysterious character of God but which will eventually culminate in the divine presence coming through powerfully for the covenant people.

So I wait for Christ’s arrival on Christmas morning expectant and hopeful of new things that lie ahead. But I wonder if this in-between moment of Advent requires a balanced, more disciplined acknowledgement of the divine presence. Perhaps for now, it is necessary to simply look back over the cycle of salvation playing out in the stories of ancient Israel, in order to remember the patterns of lament and joy in which I share.

But the discipline of “remembering” that Christ has always been present in my story, just as he is preparing to enter afresh and make it new, comes with real implications.

First is the immense challenge of wrestling through the ways in which Christ has accompanied me in this year of trials. Do I actually want to seek him out in the mess of 2020; or would I prefer to wallow in an assumed spiritual exile, navel-gazing my way towards the hopes for restoration?

And second is this point of great significance:

The Christ, the Ancient One, has been present. Is present. Will be present. Every story is his story – even our own. This realisation can begin lifting us out of our dismay and cause us to extend our gaze outward in search of the divine presence in other people. And perhaps an active seeking for Christ’s presence will involve us becoming the presence by being the hope in someone else’s despair and the joy in another’s sorrow. In this way, we become truly caught in the great cycle of salvation.

The Race to Bethlehem: Starting Advent with John Milton

The prelude to John Milton’s 1629 poem “On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity” begins:

This is the month, and this the happy morn,

Wherein the Son of Heav’n’s eternal King,

Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born,

Our great redemption from above did bring.

From this grand opening however, the poet quickly faces a problem of inspiration regarding what to present the new-born king. He asks his Heavenly Muse, “hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, to welcome him to this his new abode?”

Each year, Advent offers a fresh opportunity to prepare for the coming of Jesus. But Advent also presents challenges: How do I prepare? How do I enter the celebration? With what should I present the baby? Certainly, this year when I personally have faced two lockdowns across two continents, family stresses and tragedies, extended periods of no school for children, etc; I approach Advent in a kind of covid-malaise, with little inspiration or enthusiasm. Indeed, I find myself at a loss, looking up to an imagined Heavenly Muse to assist me in finding a meaningful way of preparing for Jesus’ birth.

Turning again to the poem, Milton is helpful. Although lacking sufficient inspiration for an appropriate welcome for the “Infant God”, the poet senses the import of the effort. Finding a welcoming gift – his “humble ode” – is not only necessary, but somehow, urgent:

See how far upon the eastern road

The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:

O run, prevent them with thy humble ode,

And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;

Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,

And join thy voice unto the angel quire,

From out his secret altar touch’d with hallow’d fire.

The Magi haste to present their sweet-smelling gifts to the baby, and so too must the poet’s “humble ode” be brought with speed. Indeed, with more speed than the wise men, so that he may have the honour of being the first to greet the Lord. This then, is a race to Bethlehem!

Of course, running the race language is familiar from the New Testament letters (e.g. 1 Corinthians 9.24-27; Galatians 5.7; Hebrews 12.1) where it is employed with reference to perseverance, and keeping the faith amidst trials in order to “receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him” (James 1.12). But here I am thinking of the following notion:

By competing in the race to reach Bethlehem before any other can do so; and, laying our gift at Jesus’ “blessed feet”, we may gain the honour of being the first to greet the Lord.

For me this is a new idea, and it is one that I find rather exciting! It reminds me of pregnant Mary rushing to visit Elizabeth and the shepherds hurrying to the stable. Indeed, this idea of racing to Bethlehem might even lift me out of my lockdown-induced-discontent! Imaginatively stepping into the biblical world, I want to make my way to the stable with as much haste as I can manage, eager to present my gift to the baby – who is also my Lord – and greet him first. Approaching Advent once again, I desire to summon up the energy, reach him before any other, and say, “this year I offer you…”

And here I must pause, a fresh anxiety rising up within me: What do I present to him this year? What will be my “humble ode” that can be laid at his “blessed feet”? Is there anything from this most unusual year of 2020 that can be drawn out of my experience and offered to the newborn king in the faithful hope that it will be received and made new?

Maybe the task of Advent is to discover the gift we each have to give and then, when it is found, to race toward Bethlehem, delivering it to our Lord in eager anticipation of his receiving our gift and using it to transform us, yet again, in the year ahead.

Ephesians 5.25-26: A Call To Husbands

“Husbands love your wives just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her, in order to make her holy…” (Ephesians 5.25-26)

Life in lockdown has the potential to put a lot of strain on relationships. As such I have been reflecting on some of the marriage texts in the Bible, and here is a thought for husbands from Ephesians 5.25-26.

The verse begins with “husbands love your wives”. Of course, love should be at the very centre of marriage! There is a very famous text in 1 Corinthians 13.4-8 saying that love is patient, kind, not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude; does not insist on its own way; not irritable or resentful, not rejoicing in wrongdoing, but rejoicing in the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.

Trying to live according to these aspects of love in a marriage would provide more than enough to keep us going for a lifetime. But the Ephesians verses goes much deeper: “husbands love your wives, just as Christ loved the church…”

This verse for husbands (5.25-26) comes in the context of “be subject to one another out of reverence for Christ” (5.21) and, “wives should be subject to your husbands as you are to the Lord” (5.22). So it is clear that both need to submit to each other in the name of Christ, but the passage makes a link between Christ and the husband: be subject to your husbands as you are to the Lord; husbands love your wives just as Christ loved the church. However, before any husbands celebrate their high position, recall that Christ “loved the church and gave himself up for her” (5.25)!

Think on the way Jesus “gave himself up”: he taught and healed the crowds day after day, had the exhausting experience of dealing with both resistance and adoration everywhere. And then, consenting to betrayal, washing the disciples’ feet, facing arrest, trial, beatings and mockery; Jesus gave himself up to death, even death on the cross. Christ is all humility, love and selfless giving of his whole self. And Christ’s humble, selfless love makes his bride – the church, that is us! – holy (5.26).

A wife should be loved by her husband with a self-giving love that enables and encourages her journey towards a greater holiness to which she has been created.

As John the Baptist recognised about his own ministry: “no one can receive anything except what has been given from heaven” (John 3.27). If, as Ephesians 5.25-26 suggests, husbands have been given from heaven some kind of Christ-like position within marriage then husbands must strive to love in the way of Christ who emptied himself. Again, applying the thought of the Baptist, husbands must position themselves towards their wives with this attitude: She must increase but I must decrease (see John 3.30).

But how does selfless love encourage and enable a wife’s journey towards greater holiness?

I don’t think it is too much of a generalisation to say that there is a tendency for husbands to dominate. In however mild a form it may take, honest examination will reveal how often husbands force their personalities, bodies, opinions, “needs”, anxieties, dreams onto the one to which marriage vows have been made. But self-awareness and acknowledgement are important first steps towards change, and repentance of such selfishness can help create space in which a wife might discover that for which she has been created and, indeed, who she is in the Image of God.

Now, this journey of true identity, free from pressure or demands placed by the male partner, is a move towards greater holiness. There is a biblical call to be holy as God is holy in our attitudes and actions (see 1 Peter 1.16), but how much more difficult this is in marriage when a husband behaves in such ways that cause a wife to feel worthless, coerced, suspicious, or even fearful. How can she lift her eyes higher to her true identity in the divine – that is, to greater holiness – if her husband constantly pulls her down to responding to him in earthly, rather than heavenly ways? In what ways might husbands be guilty of causing wives to “stumble” (see Mark 9.42) through a lack of self-examination or any active efforts towards self-giving love?

Thus, whatever innate religious beliefs a husband may have about, for instance, “woman  was created for the sake of man” (1 Corinthians 11.9) or showing consideration to a wife “as the weaker sex” (1 Peter 3.7); in Ephesians 5.25-26 we are presented with a clear call to a much better way. Here we are called to actually enact the selfless loving way of Christ Jesus. And this always involves a death; the death of a husband’s important opinions, his activity (or lack of it) in certain areas, his assumed dominance in the marriage, and so on. These things must pass for a much greater good.

Husbands, love your wives as Christ loved the church, giving himself up for her, in order to make her holy. This is an invitation to step into something new and exciting where the one we have vowed to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, better for worse, etc., is enabled and encouraged to truly and wholly reach for what God has always intended for her. But for the husband who may have, unwittingly hindered such reaching for holiness over many years of marriage; it is also a timely and necessary call to repentance: a call to change minds and alter behaviour, and ultimately put the self to death for the glorious flourishing of the one we love.