Thatcher's Child

I was two years old when Margaret Thatcher became Prime Minister. I was thirteen when she was ousted from office. Infancy to teenage years - Maggie was the backdrop to my childhood. And so, my memories are her policies: sitting in the chilly dawn on the Fife coast waiting to welcome our warships home; driving past a forlorn group of miners who had picketed their pit for almost a year; having no homework for the majority of my primary schooling because of on-going industrial disputes between the government and the teachers... I could go on and on.

Thatcher was no feminist, but there was something about growing up in a country where the heads of state, both ceremonial and political, were women, which means I now refuse to accept that limits can or should be placed on women's activity. For that I thank her. I also rejoice that her strident leadership helped bring down the Communist Bloc and end the Cold War. However, I grieve for, not just those in our country whose lives were blighted by her decisions, but also for the millions of lives lost in developing countries as the "free trade" policies Britain and the US forced on those areas destroyed local economies and created crippling debt. This economic humanitarian catastrophe has barely been mentioned in the debates of the past few weeks.

Margaret Thatcher has been labelled a "divisive" woman in the past few weeks, with people either eulogising or demonising the longest serving prime minister of the twentieth century.  I, however, refuse to sit in either camp. There is something in the nature of these responses which reminds me too much of the extreme Madonna/Whore stereotypes which our society still subconsciously ascribes to any woman of power or influence. "Ding dong the WITCH is dead" - light-hearted protest or a return to language long used to drown women who didn't fit acceptable stereotypes?

So how will I remember her? Ambivalently. But for me that is not the key question. My generation are known as "Thatcher's Children", and so we have a complicated relationship with the Mother of our era. However, years of counselling people who have issues related to their childhood has taught me that in many cases there comes a point when you need to stop blaming your parents for all life's problems, and take responsibility for setting your own course in life. Likewise for Thatcher's children, the real question is what we will do with her legacy? What good can we draw from her example? What wrongs will we right in recognition of her failings? Will we do any better?

Peter's Tale

I’d made plenty of mistakes before.  I was no stranger to messing things up.  My mum said my heart ruled my head.  My dad said I was full of myself.  But Jesus seemed to like that in me.  He nicknamed me his Rock – strong and substantial, if lacking in any subtlety.  And so, despite my hot temper and despite times that I didn’t seem to have the sense I was born with, he took me on to his team.  For a while I was his right hand man.  I was his friend.  And I loved it.

And as I said, I made mistakes. Usually when I got too big for my boots.  You see, I didn’t always get what he was trying to do.  I knew he was special.  I mean we all knew that.  Only the Messiah could have done all the things he did: feeding thousands with just a few rolls; healing the sick, even raising the dead in some cases.  And I thought… well, I don’t know quite what I thought he was going to do.  Be a great leader I suppose, make Israel great again, get rid of those occupying forces – something like that. 

So when he started talking about dying, I told him straight: stop talking like that!  It didn’t go down well.  He gave it to me both barrels – even called me Satan, that time. 

Then that night, that last night, he wanted to wash my feet.  I couldn’t bear it.  Jesus, our leader, the one we knew had been sent from God, perform a task our slaves where shamed to do!  I refused.  But he was having none of that either.  He said I couldn’t be part of what he was doing unless I let him.  So I said wash all of me then.  Thankfully he saw the funny side then, and pointed out I didn’t need a bath.

But we weren’t laughing long.  Soon he was at it again – telling us he was going to be betrayed by one of us.  It was unthinkable – none of us imagined that even one of us would let him down, far less all of us.  And never, never me.  I said I would follow him anywhere, but he told me I couldn’t.  He told me that by dawn I would have said three times that I didn’t even know him.

Yes, I’ve made many mistakes.  Many, many mistakes.  But none of them were anything compared to that night.  The soldiers took us by surprise in the garden, but I followed, sure that something would come right.  But as those hours passed, huddled by that charcoal fire in the high priest’s courtyard, watching as he was put through a mockery of a trial, watching as they trumped up charges against him, watching as they beat him – I knew what he said had been true.  He was going to die.  And despite all my big man bravado, I couldn’t do a thing about it.  And despite all my big man bravado, I was scared.  And then they recognized me – I swore and lied and protested and got out of there by the skin of my teeth.  I saved my own life and left him all alone to give up his.

There aren’t words for the agony of that Friday.  There aren’t really any words for the Sunday either.  We knew something was up – the women’s reports, the empty tomb – but when he stood there, when he stood there… with us again.  It was just something else.  And he told us he was sending us out just like his Father had sent him to take God’s forgiveness into the world.  But the problem was – I couldn’t forgive myself.

I’d once been the leader of our little band – well, after Jesus, of course – and now they were looking to me to lead again.  But all my bluster and confidence had gone.  I’d failed him.  I’d let him down so, so badly.  Surely there was no coming back from this.  So led them to the only thing I knew I was good at – fishing – but even that was a failure.  A full night on the sea and not a minnow to show for it.

And then he was there again, shouting instructions from the beach, leading us to a miraculous catch, feeding us with food from goodness knows where.  It was like he was reminding us of all he had taught us over those three incredible, heart-breaking years.  And then, with the smell from another charcoal fire reminding me of that horrible, horrible night, the night of my worst mistake, he turns to me and fixes me with one of his no-nonsense looks.

Simon, son of John – he used my Sunday name.  No matey nickname Peter now.  I was in trouble.

Simon, son of John – do you love me more than your friends do?

Well, what could I say?  I loved him.  But I knew it wasn’t much of a love.  Yes, they’d ran off and left him, but so had I.  My days of claiming to be braver and stronger were long gone.

I answered half his question not quite meeting his eyes: Yes, you know I love you

He replies: Feed my lambs.

Before I have time to let that sink in, he’s at it again:
Simon, son of John, do you love me?
Yes, I reply, a bit more forcefully, you know I love you.
Take care of my sheep, he says

Lambs, sheep – what was he saying?  He was the shepherd, the good shepherd who had come to care for God’s people.  He told that story enough times.  But surely he wasn’t asking a waster like me, someone who had let him down, someone who couldn’t be trusted, to help him in that.  But he’s saying something again:

Simon, son of John, do you love me?

And that hurt.  The charcoal fire, the three questions, I was back in that courtyard.  The night of my biggest mistake.  He knew.  I knew.  I half shouted half wept my final reply: You know everything – he did – you know that I love you…

And he repeated that funny little instruction to feed his sheep.  It was his way of saying I was back on the team.  No, more than that – this lying, messed up waster was going to lead his team.  It was totally unbelievable, but somehow I knew it was true as well.  He warned me it wouldn’t be easy.  He warned me that one day they would kill me.  But I didn’t care.  To know that one day I would love him enough to die for him was the most comforting news of all.

So, why tell you my story?  It doesn’t really paint me in the best light, does it?  But if you want to follow Jesus like me, you need to know this.  You need to know that you will fail.  You will let him down.  Sometimes, you will think you’ve blown it forever.  Perhaps you’ll believe that he might just possibly forgive you, but you’ll never be much in his kingdom.  But I know, I know that he will forgive you with a generosity as huge and wacky as that catch of 153 fish.  And then he’ll send you back out again to take God’s love and forgiveness to the world.  Don’t let guilt and misery stop you from being all he calls you to be.  All he asks is you love him a little and want to love him more.

Jesus once asked me what today he asks you: Do you love me?

If the answer is yes, his reply will be the same: come and join in the work of my kingdom.  I need you on my team.

Tantruming for the Kingdom...

(This was written 4 days after the failed vote for women bishops in Nov 2012 - I just didn't publish it straight away) On Tuesday the Church I love broke my heart.

To add insult to injury it broke the heart of many others, female and male, lay and ordained, who had worked so hard, prayed so faithfully and waited so long for that day when the Church of England would finally affirm the unqualified "made-in-God's-image-ness" of one half of the world's population.

It has been a really tough week with lots of tears and anger.  LOTS of tears and anger...

Today, something is making it even worse.  It is the gradual clamour of voices - often female - who are saying things like:

The response to the women bishops thing is just a bit hysterical...

It won't do any good throwing a tantrum about it...

The best way to deal with all this is prayerfully and silently...

Let's try and be Christian about all this...

We're called to serve our parishes so rather than protesting, the best thing is to obey that call go out and do our job really well...

And so the pain women need to express, the anger women need to voice, the truth women need to tell (and quite frankly, the pain, anger and truth our Church needs to understand) are silenced as somehow how "not good", "not Christian" and "not priestly".

I have two problems with this. 

Firstly it shows truly dreadful pastoral skills.  To someone expressing grief, would you tell them to pull themselves together and stop being hysterical?  Would you presume to tell someone who had been badly hurt - "well, now, I think it's time you got over that and got back to normal"?  After four days?  Would you condemn anger against any other form of injustice as being "not Christian"?  I sincerely hope not.

Secondly, it shows a biblical illiteracy that is frankly quite frightening.  Go and read the Psalms, the prophets, the gospels - see how God's messengers and then Godself deal with pain and brokenness.  Read the psalmist's anger and despair, hear the prophets wild accusations and threats, watch the Son of God rage at the religious systems and throw over tables in the Temple.

Now tell me that my pain, anger and truth-telling aren't Christian or priestly.

I am sorry if my emotions make you feel uncomfortable.  (They aren't much fun for me either!)  However, I am called to be a Christian, and that is not - and will never be - a call to be "nice".  My calling is to be truthful and to be loving so that in truth and in love I may convey the good news of Jesus Christ.  Sometimes, the loving bit needs to outweigh the truth bit - and, let it be known, I do that a lot.  But sometimes the truth takes precedence.  Sometimes it is loving to be truthful. 

This is one of these times.