The Gospel according to Rodgers and Hammerstein

Today I’m struggling.  I’m struggling to stay in this moment - the one I know is the only moment that matters, the moment where God is.  

There have been so many moments that have led to this one - many fruitful and good days, and many others that have been frustrating and difficult - but in each one of these moments, whether fruitful or frustrating, as I looked up at the horizon I saw a different day from this one up ahead.

To be honest, right now I don’t really want to be in this day, the one where God is.

Expectations.  Hope.  Trust.  These are a few of my wrestling things.

I expected today to look different.  I expected my working days to be filled with a different kind of challenge from this one by now.  I expected activity and busyness and fresh surprises every day.  I expected joy and stress and an only-just-keeping-my-head-above-water feeling to be my constant companion.

Instead, there is this moment.  This day. 

Here’s what it looks like…

I sit at a desk in one of our two spare bedrooms.  This is our own home and we love it; it’s beautiful, warm and comfortable.  One of our cats, Bhindi, is asleep on the bed in the other spare room.  I’ve just finished a cup of coffee that my husband made me. 

It’s cold today, but the sun is shining and there’s washing on the line in the back garden.  Nicole is digging over one of the flower beds, launching an attack on the wild onions that grow in profusion in this part of the world.  When she’s done for the morning, we’ll pay her. 

There’s black bean soup simmering on the hob – I made it this morning.  My cousin and her family were going to come for lunch but her daughter is poorly, so our lovely friend Liz is going to come and eat bread and soup with us instead.

Today began at Sidmouth Prayer Room where four of us met to pray over the newspapers.  I cycled home and started my laptop up.  I sent a few emails and texts, checked Facebook and Twitter, and then listened to today’s Pray as You Go while I cooked soup. 

This morning's Pray as You Go started with Nóirín Ní Riain singing the Magnificat.  Beautiful.  Afterwards, the person giving the reflection asked “As I listen, can I sense the Lord looking on me in my lowliness, and can I rejoice in him and in all that he does for me, and know that He waits for me in the Kingdom of heaven?”  

I know the Kingdom of heaven is near.  I know that is truth.  I know that God waits for me in that place where I connect fully with him, where I let down my resistance and join in the divine dance.  God is relationship, and I am only fully alive when I am open and welcoming to God, when I take hold of his outstretched hand and allow myself to be swept up into the dance. 

I know this is true, and I’m not sure why it’s so difficult.

This day is beautiful and good.  I’m incredibly blessed and privileged.  I get paid for this!  In fact, it’s my dream job.  Today doesn’t look the way I expected it to look, that’s true, but I urgently need to stop allowing expectation to blur my kingdom-vision.  

It’s completely ridiculous.

All this brings me to hope.  As I look up to today's new horizon I hope for God’s Kingdom breaking in; but in doing that I'm perhaps in danger of overlooking what God is doing right here and now.  I'm in danger of missing the sight of that very thing, that beautiful healing shalom breaking through the clouds, moment by moment, day by day, in me, around me and through me.

And then of course there is trust.  In trusting God to open that door, deliver the goods and fulfil my own narrow expectations, I'm failing to trust that God is faithful in all he does, that the earth is brim full with God's unfailing love and that I can trust him to bring about good things in each and every situation, however mundane or frustrating.

I do trust in God.  I just need to dig down into that a bit more and let go of my own stuff.   I must trust that God really is able to do immeasurably more (immeasurably!) than all I ask or imagine. 

I need to stop resisting being wholly, completely, connected and present in this moment now, however unexpected or difficult this moment is.  This is the moment where God is.  This is the moment where life is. 

This is the only moment that matters.

'We wait in hope for the Lord;

    he is our help and our shield.

In him our hearts rejoice,

    for we trust in his holy name.

May your unfailing love be with us, Lord,

    even as we put our hope in you.'

(Psalm 33:20-22)

...or as the gospel according to Rodgers and Hammerstein goes: 

'When the dog bites.  When the bee stings.  When I’m feeling sad.  I simply remember my favourite things, and then I don’t feel so bad.'

Tricky Treats

A few years ago I read an article that was life-changing in a minor kind of way ... if that isn't a contradiction in terms.  It was one of those moments when you don't realise just how difficult you've found something until you're relieved of its burden.

A couple of years earlier I remember feeling completely exasperated following a conversation about Halloween with one of my friends.  Surely carving a pumpkin lantern isn't going to make our children sign up to the dark arts any more than eating a hot cross bun is going to have them queuing for baptism?

Anyway, all this 'Happy Halloween' stuff is pretty ridiculous I agree, so for two or three years I decided not to engage with it and didn't answer the knocks. One year we even went out to give us an excuse.

It felt terribly uncomfortable though.  Staying behind a closed door doesn't seem the best way to express my faith in Jesus, the God-man whose generosity knows no bounds.  The Giver of Life who promises that 'everyone who asks receives, the one who seeks finds, and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened'! (Matthew 7:7)

The article I read pointed out that, rather than a threat, having small children traipsing up your garden path could be looked upon as an opportunity to bring light into the darkness, to welcome the chance to show practical love and generosity to these little ones.

So this afternoon I spent a happy hour or two baking batches of heart and star shaped biscuits and, once it got dark, lined the garden path with little night lights in jars. 

This evening our street has been full to bursting with the happy laughter and chatter of families and children.  Without exception, they have been absolutely delightful ... "Did you just bake them?"  "Thank you SO much!"  "Which one would you choose?" 

Our youngest visitor was the baby sister of two small (and very polite) skeletons, accompanied by their Dad.

However uncomfortable you feel about Halloween, I wholeheartedly recommend embracing it as an opportunity to engage with families and children in a way that diffuses darkness, brings light, and expresses the kind of neighbourliness that has the power to transform a community. 

It really is as significant as that

... and you might even enjoy a 'happy halloween' next year :o)

Letting Go

It's a bit of a theme at the moment, letting go.

A while back I came to a fork in the road and chose a different one from my churchy friends. I said goodbye and it hurt.  It still hurts.  I miss being with them - especially the children.

Then I had my last pint of beer, a glass of champagne, said goodbye to alcohol, and joined The Salvation Army.

Over many months, plans have been in place for a major restructure at my workplace, and on 1st July we finally arrived at D-Day.  Over the past couple of weeks, the wonderful family I've been part of has been blown apart and there have been far too many painful goodbyes. 

And now it's time to say farewell to the gospel choir I've loved and journeyed with for the past thirteen years.  They have been an absolute joy to me.  I've learned so much with them and we've flourished together... but this weekend I'll be leading them for the very last time.  I need to let go of this baby of mine.

Somehow, it's been the little things that have hurt, the reminders of how things used to be, the labels that fitted and the symbols of belonging - giving my gospel choir gown back for instance.  It's all so ridiculously painful.

I've chosen most of these paths.  I've felt called to them.  But even so, everything in me has been fighting against the 'little deaths' of letting go, but I'm getting there. Slowly.

I've noticed people using an unfamiliar word recently:  Liminality

It comes from the Latin word limens meaning 'threshold'.  A liminal space is the place of transition, waiting and not knowing. Franciscan priest and theologian Richard Rohr says liminality is when you are 'between your old comfort zone and any possible new answer'.

Apparently, this is a good space.  It's a sacred space where genuine newness can begin.  Rohr says when the old world is able to fall apart, a bigger world is revealed.

It's an opportunity to choose transformation.

It's a little death
A letting go 
A hitting of rock bottom
A tipping point

An opportunity to choose transformation ... or to find someone to blame and become angry and bitter.

Rohr says it's all about what we do with our pain.  If we choose to stop fighting and to walk through the depths, we will come out the other side knowing we've been taken there by a Source larger than ourselves ... this is what it means to be saved, to allow and accept the mystery of transformation.

The crucified Jesus is a statement about what to do with pain.  He doesn't retaliate. He holds the pain.  He embraces death and enters into that liminal space, the threshold, the mystery and wilderness of Easter Saturday.  

Through his death, Jesus releases a new spirit of love, compassion and forgiveness into the world, trusting that the transformation and new life of Sunday is coming.

So this is the place I'm moving through right now.  I don't know what lies ahead. My ideas about who I am, where I belong and what my purpose is have been thrown up in the air.  But I'm trusting that Sunday's coming.

I'm learning to let go.  

I'm choosing transformation.