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When Everything’s On Fire

Two years ago, mum passed away. And in her passing I discovered a gate that led, out of the garden in my heart, and into a wide panorama of beauty and life. I chose to open the gate and found myself exploring The Great Adventure.

For the first time in my life, I was finally free to think what I wanted, believe what I wanted and live how I wanted. And that, at sixty-one years old! Quickly it became a journey of discovery. For too long, and under the fear of eternal damnation, I was imprisoned in doctrines and beliefs that I was terrified of. I began to explore and question, read and talk over coffee. I soon became clear about what I no longer believed in, but struggled to be certain about what I did believe in. It is a scary place if you have been imprisoned all your life.

Slowly but surely I began to emerge from thick forests of uncertainty. Depression and anxiety came to stay for a while. Love and kindness, from family and friends, helped to make sure that their stay was short.

There have been two or three friends who have walked with me. My Band of Blokes is growing, the walks and the coffee and the conversation have become very real encouragers along the way. And there have been two or three authors, new to me, who have significantly helped me to rethink and reimagine my faith. And Brian Zahnd is one of those.

The timing of this book was perfect. He described what I had been through, given some of it names, and illuminated with force some of the conclusions I had come to. I loved the way he challenged certitude – our attempts to put God in a box and ensure he never leaves it.

But for me, the chapter “House of Love” created a finishing line to my explorations… for now. There are other books waiting to be read, and I am sure I will revisit the writings of Brian Zahnd again. I cannot recommend this book highly enough. I don’t recall ever saying about a book – “This book is filling my heart with joy!” I did this time.

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That Persistent Whisper

I had just had a great cup of coffee and a good catch-up with one of my close friends, an honorary member of My Band Of Blokes. I always leave invigorated and thoughtful. And today was no exception.

As I slowly walked (thanks to sciatica) home, I approached a very small car, the size of which will become significant soon. A lady approached the car in a wheelchair. I was going to say she was an older lady, but then realised that she is probably about my age. She wrestled the drivers door open and heaved herself from the chair into the car. I paused. As I was about to walk past the car, the woman pushed the back of the drivers seat back, so that she would be almost lying flat. I realised that she was about to heave the wheelchair over herself and onto the passenger seat. I thought carefully. These situations can be tricky.

“I don’t mean to insult you, but would you like some help?” She smiled. “I’m not insulted, and some days, I appreciate the help, but today, I’m fine, thank you.” I smiled. “Then, in that case, I will continue walking, feeling inspired.” When I mentioned it to my daughter, she told me that the woman goes swimming, heaves herself out of the pool and onto her waiting wheelchair. She swims faster than my daughter, all with upper body strength. I’m impressed.

I had barely crossed the road, when the whisper I have come to know and love, asked a very pointed question: “So, which miracle draws more attention to me (God)? The miracle of supernatural, instantaneous healing? That, quite frankly, is often forgotten within days? Or the miracle of somebody exhibiting supernatural courage and grace as they face the challenges of every moment of every day?”

If there is a correct answer, it is probably, “Both/and.” And please, do not misunderstand me. I am not suggesting for even a second that we shouldn’t be believing in miracles, or even praying for them. I’ve seen enough to know that miracles, whatever shape they come in, give My Great Papa bucketloads of credit, and inspire faith and confidence in him to do it again. But I wonder – that’s all – whether we underestimate the stories of those who are never healed, but exhibit the same faith and confidence in God by their courage and resilience in the face of adversity?

Speaking for myself, I am inspired by those close to me, and those who are strangers, who have no faith or bucketloads of faith, who face their challenges with courage and resilience. And my faith is lifted and injected with new life – yes, with the way they deal with their lives, but also when I see and hear stories of Papa’s supernatural interventions in the lives of others.

It is often not what you are looking at, but what you see and the way you see it.

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Where the Light Fell

I have always absorbed Philip Yancey’s books. He has never been afraid to ask awkward questions of the church, or of God. The rebel in me kind of likes that.

This is subtitled, “A Memoir” and in his usual way, he shines a light on his own life, and the pain that has been endured by all of his family and many more.

What I didn’t expect was the book to become a mirror and a spotlight onto my own life. In so many ways, our stories are similar, though what he endured at the hands of Church and Bible College leaves my pain in the shadows. And it appears that the soul ties that exist between fundamentalism and Republicanism in the US are more obvious than they are here in the UK. Although… when I was growing up, it was almost insisted on, at least by my parents, that the only party a Christian should vote for is Conservative. Really?

As I read, and looked in the mirror, and allowed the spotlight to shine into the dark shadows of my own life, I saw, in a new way, that I am more free today than I was even a couple of years ago. And if only to ask questions and to allow the answers to send me on an inner journey of adventure and discovery. As you will see in the coming year, my reading material is varied and diverse. And before you blame somebody else, I requested these books for Christmas and Birthday, myself, and with purpose.

I would heartily recommend this book by Philip Yancey. It makes for painful reading, but the story of redemption and grace shines through, even in the darkest moments.

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Goodbye Joan

On Wednesday, October 6, 2021, family and friends gathered to say goodbye to my Aunt. The Tuesday and Wednesday left me reeling in astonishment and wonder.

I stayed with dad. Always a risk. Dad is eighty-six, his world shrunken by dementia and Covid-19. He didn’t understand why I had travelled for the funeral. I tried to explain. He grunted, but I wasn’t sure if that was out of reluctant approval, or I still don’t get it. To me, it didn’t matter and dad has probably already forgotten.

We had circular conversations, that still carried on when I phoned him this morning. The tragedy of dementia. And yet there were moments of memories as sharp as if they were yesterday rather than eighty years ago. And optimism for the future; yes, at eighty-six. He remembered that at three-years-old, he was in hospital with a chest infection, and how his mum came to the hospital to tell him that there had been an accident and his dad had died; and the length of their garden.

And then that moment when he owned up, with very sad eyes, to missing mum, so much. And wondering whether he will recognise her when he leaves this life. “I would really love to see Heather…” And then his eyes lit up, sparkling with hope and expectation; a big smile spread across his whole face. “… But I can’t wait to see the Lord.” My own eyes well up with tears as I write. I have never met anybody so ready to take that final journey. I will cherish that moment. And then, as we said goodnight to each other, with a sense of mischief in his eyes, “I’m trusting we will see each other in the morning!” We laughed, but Dad was being serious.

When I said goodbye to dad, as I left to attend the funeral, I realised something. I don’t ever remember having my dad all to myself for that length of time. Nobody’s fault. Just the realities of life. We both told the other that we had enjoyed a great time together. I suspect dad has forgotten. But that memory will stay with me for a very long time.

Rewind to Tuesday afternoon. Eltham High Street. Costa. Barry, my cousin, had offered to meet up. Something we had never done before. Barry is still the spitting image of his dad – the clothes he wears, the way he talks and laughs, the way his personality filled the room, even in Costa. In the past, I would have felt intimidated, but not anymore. Probably an age thing – put in before Barry makes some joke of the ten years gap we enjoy.

The old me would have had a metaphorical crowbar hidden behind my back, to be used to prise open a big enough gap to shove God into the conversation. And as the conversation would have gone, I would have become more and more anxious, and even more determined to find the opportunity to shove my faith down Barry’s throat. But those days are gone. And because they are gone, I was able to enjoy the moment, the coffee, the man and the conversation.

And then to my shock, almost the first question, “So, have you had some kind of epiphany?” “You what?” No crowbar needed. I talked briefly about the hills of Northumbria in the freezing cold of February 2008, the circumstances that led up to it, and what happened. I could have talked for hours, but the conversation moved on.

I discovered that Aunty Joan, belonged to a Nordic walking group for years. I had no idea. We talked about the pain of broken relationships and the voids that are left when people die, or walk away. And we talked about Barry’s new career venture. A city banker for as long as I can remember, redundant, and now training to be a paramedic. There is so much more to this man than I had realised.

11.30 am. Falcon wood crematorium. As people gathered outside, there was a group of about twenty women, all dressed in purple hoodie’s – the Nordic walking group! It made me smile, and I heard Joan laugh! I met Barry’s three kids, all adults. They didn’t even know who I was. A sad indictment. In my very limited experience, funerals without faith (as far as I know), can be very depressing affairs. Not this one. There were plenty of occasions for smiles and sniggers along the way.

Both Barry and Julie said something, carefully scripted. Barry struggled, tears of sadness threatening to engulf his speech. He made it through to the end. And I know it sounds strange, but I was proud of him.

And I enjoyed the gathering at the pub, not just because of the food. I was able to relax and be myself, not feeling out of place. Barry, as expected, the larger than life character filled the room. Of course, he did. He had been trained well.

It was only as I reflected, driving home, that I realised something. Joan’s funeral and things written in the book of remembrance painted a picture of a woman, who loved life and family and friends, as best she could. She was a good friend, a leader, and somebody that anybody could turn to for advice and help. Pause. More tears.

And then I realised something else. The distortion of faith that I was brought up with, categorised people in two camps – in or out. In meant that you agreed, down to the last full stop, with a position of faith that has become for me quite ugly and distorted. And if you didn’t? I’ll leave you to work that out. The result of it all is that relationships, within family, within church, can very easily become toxic and broken. Whatever I thought I knew of Joan was only part of the story. And I will leave it there.

I had a text conversation with Barry the next day. The pivotal one simply said, Paul, hope you understand that a conversation last night (in Costa) was a huge support to me today. Thank you. Keep walking on the beach, it is good for you and us.

Partly in honour of my sorely missed Aunt Joan, and partly to stop me from tripping over while walking! I’m thinking of getting a pair of Nordic sticks for Christmas. Photographs to follow in due course!

And in the meantime, I want to do love, grace, kindness, beauty, wonder and mystery. Being myself. Nothing to prove or earn. Just being myself.

Goodbye Joan.

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My Walk in The Secret Place 3

My walks this week have been bitterly cold. On Thursday, a friend pulled several threads in my life and knotted them together into one string, with one source. This morning, Friday, I spent the whole walk, speaking with my Great Papa and understanding that I am created to be at home and comfortable my God. A habitation, not a visitation.

Keep safe. Be kind. Enjoy

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Welcome to the Journey

I am a son, a husband, a father, a friend. I am, a recently retired, local authority foster carer, now a “Lollipop Man” at the local school, a sometimes churchgoer. I am a pilgrim, a traveller, an explorer, an avid reader and novice writer.

And I am wounded and scarred, broken and damaged. And yet healed and loved beyond recognition. On a good day, I am Papa’s Little Boy and Papa to “the next one.”

On a bad day… I am self-righteous, self-absorbed, religious, judgmental, critical, negative, determined to be right and let you know that I am right, at all costs. On these days, my scars have been prodded and poked enough for them to hurt all over again. And when I hurt… here comes another bad day.

Why am I writing?

Some years ago a friend nudged me to write. And then I remembered that, as a child, I loved to write. And so I have started, in fits and starts, ebbing and flowing. I write stories, some true events, some made up. Some of the stories I have shared on a Sunday morning at church.

I am certainly not trying to persuade, convince, convict or put right. I have had more than enough of that in my life, both as a giver and a receiver. Neither am I claiming some superior revelation and experience; it is my journey and my story, not yours.

I do want to explore and discover, provoke and stimulate, encourage and support… fellow travellers and storytellers. I am not looking to force our paths together, but if we should bump into each other? Well, let’s walk and explore together for a while and see where it takes us.

When the past catches up with you

It is now a month since we attended the funeral for Lizzie’s Uncle Derek, who was eighty-three when he passed away. And that is where my past crashed into my present in the funniest of ways.

It is just over fifty years ago that I started work having left school at the age of sixteen. This morning I looked into the mirror, expecting it to say, “But you don’t look old enough!” It didn’t. In fact, it said the opposite! I did a five-year apprenticeship at a local printers in Ashford, Kent before moving on. My manager for most of those years was Derek, who spent all his working life at Headley’s. He was a proper gentlemen. At least that is what we were told at his funeral! Two years after I left Headley’s, Lizzie and I met, got engaged and married. It was either at our wedding or at a family gathering after that, that I saw Derek. “Lizzie, what is he doing here?” “Oh, he’s my uncle!” she replied.

Fast forward to a funeral. As we waited in the car park before the service, there was a small gathering of retired Headley’s staff. I recognised a few, who to my shock recognised me. I had no idea that I had left such a mark!

The service was as they usually are these days. It’s like, now “religion” has been removed from the experience, it is just that; an experience rather than an ordeal. Derek’s son, Steve, paid tribute to his dad and, in the middle of his tribute, he told the story of how they had found a small notebook in his dad’s belongings, entitled “Grievances.” Rather than take it out on his colleagues, he would go home and write in this little book. Considering he had worked there for fifty years there were very few entries.

The pub was in the middle of nowhere. The family were there and perhaps about a dozen ex-colleagues. Steve grabbed hold of us, almost as soon as we got there, exclaiming: “Paul, you’ve got to see this.” The first entry in this notebook read as follows:

“Paul Cook… Again! Moaning about the next job!”

The second entry was about Jim, who worked next to me. (It was great to catch up with him.) His entry was for something else. Steve told us there was one entry, which had a swear word in it – not mine I hasten to add! Derek’s kids had never heard their dad swear. Ever!

Lizzie’s reaction to all of this and to my entry was succinct: “And he still is moaning!”

Both family and ex-colleagues at the pub all laughed at my expense. It took the sting out of the sadness of the occasion.

The moral of the story? There is none. Why does there have to be? Why can’t we just enjoy the memories for what they were and still are? And laugh at ourselves?

The Good Neighbour

I shared this at Logos Community Church – our home church – this last Sunday. Enjoy.

Luke 10:30-37

Jesus replied, “Listen and I will tell you. There was once a Jewish man traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho when bandits robbed him along the way. They beat him severely, stripped him naked, and left him half dead.

“Soon, a Jewish priest walking down the same road came upon the wounded man. Seeing him from a distance, the priest crossed to the other side of the road and walked right past him, not turning to help him one bit.

“Later, a religious man, a Levite, came walking down the same road and likewise crossed to the other side to pass by the wounded man without stopping to help him.

“Finally, another man, a Samaritan, came upon the bleeding man and was moved with tender compassion for him. He stooped down and gave him first aid, pouring olive oil on his wounds, disinfecting them with wine, and bandaging them to stop the bleeding. Lifting him up, he placed him on his own donkey and brought him to an inn. Then he took him from his donkey and carried him to a room for the night. The next morning he took his own money from his wallet and gave it to the innkeeper with these words: ‘Take care of him until I come back from my journey. If it costs more than this, I will repay you when I return.’ 

So, now, tell me, which one of the three men who saw the wounded man proved to be the true neighbour?”

The religious scholar responded, “The one who demonstrated kindness and mercy.”

Jesus said, “You must go and do the same as he.”

This story was significant in the early days of this church. A while ago, I trawled through the pile of prophetic words going back over the years. It makes for interesting reading, but I have never talked publicly about them before. Until today. It seems to me it might be worth revisiting. When God speaks in prophetic words, the very least we can do is ask, “Why?” And “What?” So, here we go:

WHY JERICHO?

On the border of what is now Jordan. An oasis town. King Herod had a villa there. So, why did Jesus tell a story about a man travelling to Jericho? 

It is about exaggeration to highlight the plot of the story. Because the road from Jerusalem was known to be unsafe. Bandits were everywhere and took full advantage of any lone traveller who looked easy prey. Those listening would have been familiar with the dangers and may even have wondered why anybody was travelling to Jericho in the first place.  

WHY THE GRAPHIC DETAILS OF THE ATTACK?

Again it is about exaggeration. I don’t know, but I suspect Jesus was enlarging the story because he knew that in his audience were people who were blind because they didn’t want to see. While accepting that many wouldn’t see, perhaps he wanted to make sure that the man who asked Jesus, “Who is my neighbour?” Would get the point. 

Fast-Track to 2024. You could change the story up multiple times all with the same outcome:

  1. The man is white and gay, attacked here in the UK. The bishop of anywhere walks past with his entourage, and ignores the man. He is quickly followed by the pastor of a thriving charismatic church. Finally, The Good Neighbour, a young Pakistani man, a Muslim sees the man, stops, and gets him to where he can get help.
  2. A Jewish man beaten on the streets of Gaza. If you can call them streets today. The Good Neighbour? A Palestinian; oh, and a member of Hamas at that. Or flip it over: a Palestinian woman attacked on the streets of Tel Aviv. The Good Neighbour? A young Jewish boy.
  3. The summer riots here in the UK. Muslims, Asians, Blacks – migrants – or are they really refugees? targeted. A Muslim Imam stands outside his mosque, and talks with the rioters. They part company with a hug. Yes, this really did happen. The Good Neighbour.

The conclusion is brutal. Who was a neighbour to the injured in each scenario? The one who helped and had compassion. No excuses or justifications. No, “Yes, but…” The one who was kind to the other; kind enough to do something about the situation. LOVE IN ACTION.

To set the flow: Matthew 22: 

“Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?”

Jesus answered him, “‘Love the Lord your God with every passion of your heart, with all the energy of your being, and with every thought that is within you.’ This is the great and supreme commandment. And the second is like it in importance: ‘You must love your neighbour in the same way you love yourself.’ Contained within these commandments to love you will find all the meaning of the Law and the Prophets.” SELAH.

To wear my heart on my sleeve: I have more than enough trouble with those two commandments, that I really don’t have the energy left to exert myself on any other laws or commandments that have become entrenched in the church in the West over many centuries. And whatever other rules and regulations there are, if they cannot be contained within these two commandments to LOVE then I’m afraid I quickly start to lose interest.

REWIND: July 24, 1990. Keith Hazel, a prophetic voice to the nations. Came to Logos Community Church and shared a prophetic word based on this story that Jesus told. Just a few clips, taken word for word:

I believe that the Lord would speak to you tonight, he is calling you to be a unique Good Samaritan Church. That you are to have the heart of the Good Samaritan. The Lord says to you, and speaks to you, as a people, that you are not going to see the best people in town arrive at this church in the best condition. That rather, you are to have people who have been stripped, who have been beaten and left by others, and that you might not be surprised that the Lord brings you those kind of people.

The Lord speaks to you; that there is nobody whose condition is too bad for you as a church to pick them up and bring them in and see them healed and touched and delivered.

Again, the Lord speaks to you that the Good Samaritan was unlike any of the religious people that came the way of this man, and the Lord says that you are never to become religious. For if you become religious, you will lose the Samaritan heart of God, and even as you lose the Samaritan heart of God, you will also lose the presence and the blessing of the Lord.

Just a flavour. The language is a bit dated and there are conclusions within the whole prophecy that I am still grappling with, but I hope you get the point.

And now to the Headline:

The wisdom of the Zulu people of South Africa:

I AM BECAUSE WE ARE. I am who I am because you are who you are.

Who are the We? We is a universal, inclusive word, with no exceptions. NO EXCEPTIONS.

It was the Apostle Paul who said:

Galatians 3:28

And we no longer see each other in our former state—Jew or non-Jew, rich or poor, male or female—because we’re all one through our union with Jesus Christ with no distinction between us.

I think we could justifiably add to the list – We no longer see Christian or Muslim, Neurotypical or Neurodivergent, straight or gay, black or white, Reform, Conservative,  Labour or Green. There is no distinction between us.

It was Peter who said, struggling with a vision that made no sense: “God has shown me that I should not call ANY person unholy or unclean.” 

I AM BECAUSE WE ARE! I AM as one man, who is one man within humankind. When I look in the face of the other, whoever they are, wherever they are, it is like looking in a mirror. When I hurt, the pain reverberates around humankind, whether they know or not. When I celebrate, the joy touches the lives of those around me and way beyond. 

When I watch the news – the war in the Middle East, the war in Ukraine, the riots in the UK, the combative political situation in the US. When I don’t see the war in Burma – because it is rarely in the news –  (but remember the sounds and smells of being there), the war in Yemen, in Sudan, etc, etc. I AM BECAUSE WE ARE. And it hurts! 

I AM BECAUSE WE ARE! As I look around this room, I have the full spectrum of relationships. If there are 50 people here today, I have 50 different relationships, ranging from the intimate friendship with my soulmate to the strained and, occasionally, difficult relationships with those who perhaps don’t agree with me or even like me; or maybe I don’t agree with them? And I have to accept the reality that WE ARE BECAUSE WE ARE! Good, bad and indifferent. Whoever you are, and however you are, I AM. I may not realise it or be aware, but who you are contributes to who I am and vice versa. Humankind. UBUNTU!

The good neighbour was not the righteous one or the right one, but the one whose kindness and compassion… and a dose of courage compelled him to do something about the situation.

As ‘church’ We are not primarily called to be righteous, and never to be right, but to LOVE! Not in some vague kind of way, but tangibly. 

And so we must each face the question: which one are we? And who needs us to LOVE them enough that our LOVE looks like LOVE? Not just words, but actions.

Selah. Let’s pause. BE STILL AND KNOW… who do you need to be reconciled with? What relationship is broken that needs to be repaired? Who needs your help – help that you know you could give, but won’t? YOU ARE BECAUSE WE ARE.

Jesus said that people would know I follow him by the way I LOVE. Not by my righteousness, or my rightness. Not by appearance, but by heart. By the way I LOVE. By the way I embrace the significance of my place within humanity.

LOVE IS THE DEEPEST CALLING OF THE CHRISTIAN LIFE! The standard by which everything about our lives is measured. Any decision-making process that fails to ask the LOVE question misses the point. Discernment is intended to take you deeper and deeper into the heart of God’s will: that you would follow Jesus passionately into LOVE – even if it takes you all the way to the cross. Both metaphorically and physically. 

Compassion – concern for the suffering and pain of the other. 

“Compassion changes everything. Compassion heals. Compassion mends the broken and restores what has been lost. Compassion draws together those who have been estranged or never even dreamed they were connected. Compassion pulls you out of yourself and into the heart of another, placing you on holy ground where you instinctively take off your shoes and walk in reverence. Compassion springs out of vulnerability and triumphs in unity.” Courtesy of Richard Rohr’s Thought for the Day.

Provocative. Challenging. Disturbing. Food for Thought.

Keep safe. BE KIND. Enjoy.

God, lover of life, lover of these lives,  God, lover of our souls, lover of our bodies, lover of all that exists: 

It is your love that keeps it all alive…. May we live in this love.  May we never doubt this love.  May we know that we are love,  That we were created for love,  That we are a reflection of you,  That you love yourself in us and therefore we are perfectly lovable.  May we never doubt this deep and abiding and perfect goodness.  We are because you are.

Greenwich Market

It is timely to upload this just a matter of weeks after violent Racist and Islamophobic riots threatened to spread like wildfire through the cities of the nation. I would add that coming from one of the provinces, visiting London for a holiday is a shock to the system. One more contextual comment: we do church, Lizzie better than me. That suggests that we are people of faith. For both of us, the friendship that God has with us defines who we are, sometimes at great cost.

I write this on the last day of a week’s holiday. Not in some hot, luxurious resort, or even in the lush countryside of the UK. Oh no. Instead we left our provincial town on the south coast of England and travelled into London to stay in our daughters house and cat-sat while her and partner basked in the sun of the Dominican Republic. 

Our – sorry, my – provincial mindset had painted a picture of what to expect in London. My fragile relationship with anxiety then enlarged the images to become a gross distortion of the reality. Thoughts rattled around my head for days before we left. Is it safe in London? How will we get around? What about the crowds? And other less savoury questions.

What I discovered was sensory overload and not just the views and skyline. A kaleidoscope of faces and colour, of sounds and languages, and the fragrance of food from all over the world. Kindness in the diversity of people and lives lived in the bustle of a major city. People helping each other on and off the bus, standing to let a woman or an old man have the seat; music rich and deep from the merging of different cultures; food, a cacophony of tastes and smells my nose, my tongue and even the skin on my hands were overcome by; the adventure of trying to work out where somebody was from by the language they spoke – I failed miserably. And families, all spending time together, having fun together, sightseeing as we were, eating out as we were; mothers berating their children, as we would have done ours; fathers kicking a ball in the park with their boys, as I often did with ours; the grandma of Asian descent playing a game with her grandson on the DLR to keep him occupied. We smiled.

And then there was, and is today, the universal sadness – the old man struggling to get on the DLR, his stick almost a hindrance rather than a help; the far-too-many homeless on the streets, in the train stations, on the platforms of the underground. We were surprised that there were so many women – I have no idea why; everybody on their phones, most with headphones, as the world and humanity passed them by; food banks everywhere, just as it is back home – poverty and addictions are no respecters of person; the almost constant blast of sirens – if it isn’t an ambulance or three, then it is a police car or four. And I wonder about where they are going and who is in distress, whether that is in London or back home in Gosport. 

A proper potpourri of life, the only difference being the location and what that location carries within it. My memories of living in London as a child are greyscale. Black and white and no colour. As I write, I am strangely proud of being born and bred a Londoner, not because of how it was then, but because of what London is today; a cosmopolitan city up there with the best of them! There is a vibrancy, aliveness in the city that a small town in the provinces can’t match. While a city reverberates with so much variety and diversity, life away from the city can become beige, bland, tasteless, greyscale, one-dimensional in comparison. Could I live in London? Probably not, but I will return home with a new commitment to My People and My Community, whoever they might be. For the record, they may not be who you think they are, but I return home with a longing to embrace and love and be kind to all of humanity, even all of creation, for there I find the image of God imprinted on the hearts of all.

The Universal Need to Grieve

I’m assuming it must be my age, and I feel privileged to be trusted at such a fragile stage of life. Over the last week, I’ve had two blokes, mates, ask if they can talk to me about their own experiences of grief. I’m no expert – who is? But I’ve had to learn the best way for me to grieve loss – and that can be many things. It is never easy.

Fr Richard Rohr has become one of my mentors from the pages of his writing. On Monday of last week, I read this piece and, because of the pleas for help, it resonated with me as being The Wisdom of Mystery. I hope it helps somebody:

Father Richard shares the universal need to express our grief: 

The human instinct is to block suffering and pain. This is especially true in the West where we have been influenced by the “rationalism” of the Enlightenment. As anyone who has experienced grief can attest, it isn’t rational. We really don’t know how to hurt! We simply don’t know what to do with our pain. 

The great wisdom traditions are trying to teach us that grief isn’t something from which to run. It’s a liminal space, a time of transformation. In fact, we can’t risk getting rid of our pain until we’ve learned what it has to teach us, and it—grief, suffering, loss, pain—always has something to teach us! Unfortunately, many of us have been taught that grief and sadness are something to repress, deny, or avoid. We would much rather be angry than sad.

Perhaps the simplest and most inclusive definition of grief is “unfinished hurt.” It feels like a demon spinning around inside of us and it hurts too much, so we immediately look for someone else to blame. We have to learn to remain open to our grief, to wait in patient expectation for what it has to teach us. When we close in too tightly around our sadness or grief, when we try to fix it, control it, or understand it, we only deny ourselves its lessons. 

Saint Ephrem the Syrian (303–373) considered tears to be sacramental signs of divine mercy. He instructs: 

“Give God weeping, and increase the tears in your eyes: through your tears and [God’s] goodness the soul which has been dead will be restored.” [1] What a different kind of human being than most of us! In the charismatic circles in which I participated during my early years of ministry, holy tears were a common experience. Saints Francis and Clare of Assisi reportedly wept all the time—for days on end! 

The “weeping mode” is a different way of being in the world. It’s different than the fixing, explaining, or controlling mode. We’re finally free to feel the tragedy of things, the sadness of things. Tears cleanse our eyes both physically and spiritually so we can begin to see more clearly. Sometimes we have to cry for a very long time because we’re not seeing truthfully or well at all. Tears only come when we realise we can’t fix and we can’t change reality. The situation is absurd, it’s unjust, it’s wrong, it’s impossible. She should not have died; he should not have died. How could this happen? Only when we are led to the edges of our own resources are we finally free to move to the weeping mode. 

The way we can tell our tears have cleansed us is that afterwards we don’t need to blame anybody, even ourselves. It’s an utter transformation and cleansing of the soul, and we know it came from God. It is what it is, and somehow God is in it.

Silence is Golden

I am, by nature, an introvert. I like my own company, at least most of the time. But it is only in the last few years that I have come to crave being alone in a silence that is only broken by my music of choice. 

My choice of music has always been fairly eclectic. From Queen to Crowded House and including a heavy dose of “contemporary worship music.” During our Fostering Years this began to change. Don’t ask me how or why because I can’t remember, I just know it began to happen. I discovered Classical Crossover music, with some film and TV scores mingled in. 

I remember one particular morning. Alfie (not his real name) was one of the children we fostered that we affectionately called our “drugs babies.” There is a heavy price to pay. Sleepless nights and smelly nappies, to name the two that are unforgettable! Lizzie and I resorted to sleeping in shifts, approximately half the night each. I usually did the second shift. If I couldn’t get the little ones to sleep, I would resort to going out in the car, driving to Southampton and back on empty roads, with traffic lights that changed as soon as I approached them. 

I remember one night in particular. I had recently discovered Ludovico Einaudi. It was my go-to choice. On this particular night, I was driving along the coast road. One particular piece came on, entitled “Run.” As I listened, I began to weep, tears flowing from deep within. I played it again. Words began to flow; I was oblivious to Alfie being in the car. I was undone. Very few worship songs ever did this for me, but this piece had savaged me with its beauty and glory. 

We said “goodbye” to our last placement exactly one month before The Covid Years changed our world forever. By then, I had created a growing playlist of Classical Crossover music. I was still waking up at Stupid ‘O’ Clock – it took about a year for my sleeping to settle into anything close to normal. Instead of tossing and turning, I would get up, usually around 04.00 and go for a walk. Technically, it wasn’t silence. My headphones dripped music like honey into the very cells of my being. There was a small band of insomniacs who met each other while out walking – the same every morning, but I bumped into more foxes than people and even the occasional badger. I guess we all felt safer walking at this crazy hour – Covid-19 was surging through communities with an exuberance and vengeance that none had seen before. 

I remember those days with deep affection. I was grieving the passing of mum in the previous January, just before The Covid Years. I was grieving the end of Our Fostering Journey. We were both physically and emotionally worn out. I needed to recharge my batteries. Often those walks were walked in silence with just the healing balm of the music in my ears. Sometimes I heard Divine Love whisper in my ear, words of wisdom and kindness. Rarely We had a conversation. I’m reluctant to glorify my part in those conversations by calling it prayer. We just talked. 

Dylan Morrison is an Irish writer/poet. He is one of my go-to writers. His wisdom is often very insightful. He wrote this:

Silence is the Divine tabernacle, a sacred tent of meeting, the place where we’re at our most real and closest to our Source nature.

That’s why ego, fearful of its psycho-spiritual potential, tries to overdose us with endless, frantic, chatter.

Noise is indeed the Devil’s friend.’ 

I don’t think he’s wrong. So, what is the point of these rambling thoughts? 

The Covid Years have all but gone. And it seems to me that the lessons imposed on us by nature have been largely forgotten. I have changed, for better or worse. That is for others to decide. I love being in My Community, with My People. You might be surprised were you to find out who they are. I care deeply about My People. They help me to emerge out of myself and my self-imposed isolation. So often, Divine Love reveals Themselves through this disparate group of My People. They act as a mirror in which I am able to see myself clearly. 

The Covid Years have all but gone to be replaced by a chaotic world in which hatred and violence are the order of the day. If it isn’t the war in Ukraine or the carnage in Gaza, it is in the knife crime on the streets of the cities of the UK. Our politicians seem too quick to accuse the groups of their choosing, dumping on their weak shoulders the blame for all the ills in our nation. 

While I love My People, I also love the stillness of my now occasional walks along the beach, headphones on, walking sticks clicking on the pavement while gently forcing me to stand up straight. My study is one of many physical safe places. When my internal safe place connects with whichever external safe place I find myself in, I enjoy a deep connection to my God, Divine Love. The gentle call into The Divine Dance is always too attractive to turn down. And there, even with the music gently playing in the background, I discover again, every time, that Silence is Golden.

My mate Charlie

Not my Charlie, but get you get point!

MY MATE CHARLIE

In the last two years I have had the absolute joy of being a local lollipop man or, to give me my official title, “School Crossing Patrol Officer.” I prefer the former! I had no idea what a privilege it would be. Not only do I get to keep children – and parents – safe, but I get to put a smile on somebody’s face and make them feel special today. And I get paid for it! I have many stories to tell, most of them funny, but one sticks in my mind every day. 

Charlie was in year 6, which makes him about ten years old. He stood out from my very first day. He is shorter than most. His head is an unusual shape, he wears hearing aids, and walks with the aid of braces. Every morning, he struggles up the road unaided, except on those very rare occasions when he uses his wheelchair. By rare, I mean I can count on one hand. 

“Good morning, Charlie, how are you today?”

“Good thank you, and how are you? Have a good day.” 

“Hello Charlie, how was your day?”

“Good thank you, and how was yours?”

On one particular morning, I was not looking forward to a doctor’s appointment I had that morning. For the record, I struggle with a variety of irritating, but minor health issues but my anxiety enlarges them exponentially. 

“Charlie, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“How do you cope with all the extra challenges you face?”

“What do you mean?” So typical of Charlie. I explained. 

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “Every day has good in it. Sometimes you just have to go looking for it.” 

“Thanks, Charlie, have a good day,” as I fought back the tears. It helped. 

The next day, I told the head teacher, who told me part of his story. A couple of days later I told his mum, who filled in the gaps. 

Charlie has a genetic condition; not just any old genetic condition, but one that has only twelve known cases in the entire world! It is not only the obvious, that which you can see: he wears a catheter along with a list of other issues. Charlie has had numerous operations with more to come. In spite of all that:

He is deputy head boy in the school and he competes in mini-triathlons to raise money to help other children in similar situations to himself.

That is my mate, Charlie. He left the school in July. What am I going to do every morning without those brief yet inspiring little chats? I’m sure there will be another Charlie. 

Why am I telling you all of this? 

We all need a little Charlie in our lives. They may not be called Charlie, but they bear the same hallmarks – kids who face their world in which the challenges are so much greater than any of mine with courage, humour and kindness. Charlie’s wisdom spoke not only into that day, when I needed it most, but into so many other days since. How do I know there is good in every day? The God, so powerfully expressed in the life of Jesus, who I follow, is a profoundly good God, whose kindness has rescued me from myself on more than one occasion. The world in which we live, as a work of art created by the hands of this God, must be good, even very good. 

In my experience, it seems so much easier to look for the bad stuff, for the disasters around the world, for the evil and corruption that seems to be everywhere we look. And yet, it requires the same amount of effort to pause. And breathe. And see the goodness that is hidden before our eyes in the natural world we live in, in our communities, and in the awesome lives of our friends and families. And that goodness is so good that we will find ourselves whispering, “Thank you, God.” “And, thank you, Charlie.”

The Beauty of Darkness and Silence

DARKNESS. The absence of light. Is that it? 

The man fumbles through the door, tapping with his white stick as he goes. The door closes behind him. There are no windows. No light switches. Not that he can see. He moves forward slowly. His white stick knocks something in front of him. He carefully feels with his outstretched hand. An old armchair, made of leather, high backed for comfortable support. Slowly the man feels his way around to the front of the chair and sits. 

SILENCE. The absence of sound. Really? 

There is not a single noise. Everything is completely still. All that can be heard, if your hearing is exceptional, is the slow and steady breathing of the man. He waits. Still and silent. Bathed in darkness and silence, if there is such a thing. For this man, the darkness is thick and palpable, but he has never known anything else. He has never seen light. He wouldn’t know what it looks like. 

TIME. Time passes by at exactly the same pace as it has always done. But for the observer, watching the dark room and the silence, it feels like hours or days. Maybe it is. Hours or days.

Until in one moment. The only moment the man has. He clears his throat and sings. His voice is rich and deep. Not pitch perfect, but without hesitation or falter. His voice ebbs and flows, rises and falls. Sometimes it is barely a whisper and then it reverberates around the room. There are no words, just his voice. Words would spoil the moment. They always do.

Time. An illusion in the darkness. Time stands still. The man pauses. Smiles – not that you can see it in the darkness. Tears trickle down his cheeks. He breathes and then softly hums the tune of a lullaby. As the dulcet sound slips out of his mouth, the man senses an intruder. A pinprick of light, not external to the man, but from deep within. The light flickers and then becomes a still pinprick emerging on his chest. It is the sharpest pinprick you will ever see. Except you can’t because the darkness continues to smother the light. 

Imperceptible Light. As the pinprick brightens, the shaft of light begins to dance, deep inside the man. As the dance of light grows, the man begins to laugh. He might not be able to see, but he knows there is Light. And Life. And Love. 

“Darkness is a place of unknowing where I’m out of control, where I may be vulnerable to danger, but I may also be vulnerable to divine revelation.” The great liminal space we are thrust into is dark and vulnerable, but it’s also an invitation to transformation IF we don’t rush past our discomfort.

We have been conditioned to be afraid of Darkness, especially in the Western World where, for most of us, we never truly experience complete physical darkness. But we know the psychological darkness that threatens us, lurking in the chaos of the world in which we live now. Too often we find ourselves in the darkness of unknowing, of being out of control and vulnerable to danger. We struggle to appreciate that the darkness, whatever shape or form it takes can make us vulnerable to divine revelation. 

Those who have learned to look in the mirror and refuse to turn away, know enough about themselves that they long to change, to be a different version of themselves, to become the best they can be. But the Road Less Travelled that leads to genuine transformation takes them through the darkness of their own pain and the suffering that the world throws at us. Then we need to the courage to walk right through the middle of our pain, and stay there for a while. Until that moment when The Light penetrates the darkness revealing a place of encounter, of discomfort and transformation. For the comfortable, which is most of us, that is a step too far. 

At least, not for me. Today. On another day, maybe so. But in this moment, the only one I have, I don’t like discomfort, but I don’t want comfort.

 

New Year’s Resolutions

Thank you, Charlie Mackesy. For your creative genius and your wise words.

1. Lose Weight

2. More Exercise

3. Blood-glucose levels under control

The usuals. The ones that usually last for about ten days, and then get dumped into the Room 101 Bin! Maybe this year? Who am I kidding?

But there is one new resolution this year:

BE CURIOUS

I have always been curious, inquisitive, or just plain nosey. I love watching people at airports, train stations or in the local coffee shop or pub. “Stop staring,” has been my rebuke more times than I can remember. I’m not being nosey, just people watching.

When I began to take my journey of faith seriously, I began to explore, to be curious. I have had to negotiate more rabbit holes than a rabbit does and, in recent years, learn how to avoid controversy theories that now proliferate news channels and social media outlets.

When our nation decided we could do better without the EU, and a tiny majority decided to leave, I bordered on being fixated with the political news. As you can imagine that didn’t stop. “The Covid Years, The “Boris Years,” the “Truss Days,” and now the “Sunak Months,” have just added to, and prolonged the political chaos that has ensued. Again, my curiosity led to many blind alleys and wasted hours. I have had to learn how to rein back my curiosity so that it becomes good for me. And it has.

Jesus encouraged his followers to seek in order to find. And so I did. It probably started back in 2008, on the hills of Northumbria, but then escalated during The Covid Years, and the first total lockdown. I had to be careful. My diabetes nurse spelled it out: “You don’t want to get Covid. It will, most likely, kill you.” I discovered the challenges and the rewards of hibernation. Early morning walks, headphones on; alone with very few people, and nearly as many foxes. Hours spent writing, playing around with words and phrases. I hope I have improved.

My music tastes changed beyond recognition; I always had a fairly eclectic taste in music. I became curious about classical crossover, in particular the works of Alexis French and Ludovico Einaudi. Their music soothed and comforted and slowed me down enough for me to explore the Road Less Travelled that was to emerge. My reading tastes also began to evolve, and the content of my book shelves looks so different from before. I became curious about the writings of Richard Rohr, Brad Jerzak and Brian Zahnd, amongst others.

For the record, curiosity did not kill this cat! Since that first lockdown, I have grown and expanded and simplified the things I believe in, and the things I live by and for. Gone are the days of rigid evangelicalism, the wars of tribalism. And those that know me best, and love me more, are not afraid to say that I have become a much kinder man. Curiosity did that. I will take that as a result.

And so to 2024. On New Year’s Eve, I celebrated my sixty-fifth birthday with an Indian takeaway, and a quiet evening in with my very best friend. My very best years lie ahead of me. How do I know? Because this year I intend to be intentional about being curious. I’m not just going to accept that it is just part of what I am like. I want to deliberately explore and wander and discover. I want to inquisitively seek out that which is on the edge.

You will, for sure, discover some of the findings of my curiosity as I write posts for my blog. If you honour me with your company and conversation, it is bound to come out as we talk together, about our lives, our families and our faith. It is certain that coffee and chat, food and conversation will be an integral part of my journey. And curiosity will get the better of me, and I will be the better for it.

Happy New Year!

PS. I have never met Charlie Mackesy, the artist whose paintings and drawings have fuelled some of my curiosity. I wish I had. “Thank you, Charlie.”

Waiting…

For over four hundred years, they waited; most getting on with their lives. A few waited intentionally, attentively.

The Romans turned the screw of empire expansion. Now the waiting becomes urgent. “Where is the Messiah? Our Moses figure? Where is the Kingdom?”

Hidden away, in a small town, in a small cave behind a small pub, a couple wait. Watching and counting every contraction. With each contraction comes more pain and they wait anxiously. In the midst of her cries of pain, there is a waiting for it all to be over.

Another cry goes out. An ancient form of ethnic-cleansing is under way. All boys, 2 years and younger to be slaughtered. The couple wait, along with hundreds of others; waiting to flee for their lives and the lives of their newborn. They flee to Egypt. Hmm. Sounds familiar. And then wait for it to be safe to return. Today that sounds familiar, although now the coin has flipped. And the world waits, largely in silence, with bated breath, for the carnage to end, some waiting for Yeshua the Messiah, to have his way; waiting for the mindless death and destruction to be replaced with peace and reconciliation.

Two thousand years on, and still we wait. We wait for buses, and phone calls, and emails; we wait for the other to change their ways, while they wait for us to change our ways. Maybe we shouldn’t wait, but just get on and do our bit, allowing the flow of Grace and Gratitude, Kindness and humility to change us first.

We wait for what or who we cannot see. Sometimes we wait, not knowing what we wait for; often what we think we are waiting for, is not what arrives, especially when it comes to our friendship with Papa. As the years go by, we discover that He rarely does what we are waiting for. You can’t cage God like that.

I’m starting to get excited. Waiting for 21 days to fly by, when they will crawl at a snail’s pace. They always have! Waiting to see what I have got for Christmas, when I already know what awaits me.

Advent, a time of waiting. Of pregnant waiting. Looking for love, joy, peace and hope to break out before our eyes, while they wait to erupt within each of us, spilling out into the world that we live in to bring Grace and Gratitude, to those we bump into, and those we pray for. All it takes is a smile, a Good morning, a kind word, a generous gesture. I think we would be surprised that this is what the other, the next one has been waiting for. And maybe it is what I have been waiting for, for myself, the other, and for the God who is Love.

The Diamond of Kindness

Before I start waffling, I am incredibly happy to endorse the artwork and thoughts of Charlie Mackesey. Charlie has the knack of posting a piece of art in such a timely way. His book “The Boy, The Mole, The Fox and the Horse,” is one of the best books for both adults and children. “Thank you, Charlie.”

Over the years, I have had at least two periods in my life when I have had to go to see the doctor for depression. I always felt somewhat embarrassed by the whole experience. “Men, don’t do mental health, they just tough it out!” “Big boys don’t cry!” And even worse, “But you’re a Christian! You can’t be depressed.” On all counts, I am guilty as charged.

And over the years I have come to learn that being kind to yourself is an absolute essential if you are to recover from any mental health issue, but also if you are to learn how to be kind to others. However much I would like it to be, I’m not talking about bingeing on chocolate, even though I am the World Champion at it!

For me three things began to take on greater importance:

1. I first started walking during a particularly painful time in my life, when those I should have been able to trust rejected and abandoned me. I thought some were my friends. Clearly not. It left me questioning so many things. When we were foster carers, I could be seen almost every day, whatever the weather, walking with a little one in the pram. We are so fortunate to live just ten minutes walk from the beach. Stokes Bay is my safe and happy place. There I can be alone with my thoughts and my conversations with my God, the One I call Papa. During the lockdowns of the global pandemic, I would walk early and see more foxes than people.

2. When we stopped fostering, I started to take my writing seriously. It helps me to process emotions and ideas. I hope that those who read my stuff are also encouraged in the journey they find themselves on.

3. About a year before Covid emerged out of the storm clouds of rumours and accusations, I started to listen to classical crossover music – the likes of Ludovico Einaudi and Alexis French became constant companions to me, when walking and writing. I know some would be shocked by this revelation. I always had a very eclectic taste in music. Now it is just classical crossover. The kindness of the music penetrates the unkindness that, far too often, I live with, especially towards myself.

And I would add time with family and friends. Being with family is, in my opinion, one of the best ways to receive and give kindness.

We live in very troubled times – I don’t need to catalogue the list of things that can throw a spanner in the works of our mental health and damage how we feel about ourselves. Kindness is more a priceless commodity than anything else we might find in this world. And I wonder why kindness is not considered an option to some of the more hurtful and destructive things we use to hurt ourselves and others?

Please ignore the strategies that help me to be kind to myself and then to The Next One, whoever that is. They don’t always work, but on the days they do… they are good days. Find your own ways of developing and growing kindness. Whatever else I believe in, I am convinced that kindness turns ashes into beauty, whoever you are and whatever situation you find yourself in.

Enjoy.