The Hallowmas Triduum

A few months ago, I was on holiday during a time of particularly intense mental and emotional stress at work. One day, my husband and I went walking, and tackled a near vertical track leading over into a beautiful glen. Unfit, I struggled with the steep gradient. I pushed myself and pushed myself, yet the lactic acid built in my muscles compelling me to stop every few yards. Frustrated and beaten, I yelled "I cannot do this!" In a moment of insight, I recognized that I had vocalized not just my current physical state, but the state of my soul. For reasons I cannot quite articulate, this was a very healing experience. There is something powerful about our physical knowing reflecting our spiritual knowing.
 

At the moment, my social media feeds are full of church-going friends debating how, whether or why Christians should/shouldn't engage with Halloween. Yet this black and white argument fails to address the fact that this festival was once part of an important opportunity, when the nights drew in and nature slept, to physically and spiritually engage with the darkness of life, and reaffirm our belief in the Light. We live in a death-denying, sin-denying society - surely, this society needs the church not to ignore the Hallowmas Triduum (three day festival of All Hallows Eve, All Saints and All Souls) but to engage with it.
 

Below are excerpts from two writers who have helped me think differently about these festivals:
 

"Both spring and fall Triduums deal with that passage from death to life which is at the heart of the Christian mystical path, and in fact, all mystical paths. But they do so in very different modes, with a very different emotional and spiritual coloration. At Easter the days are lengthening, the earth is springing forth with new life, and resurrection energy is already coursing through everything in the physical universe, like Dylan Thomas’s celebrated “force that drives the green fuse through the flower.” Resurrection is sort of a no-brainer, if you want to think of it that way; all the currents of our being are already set in that direction.
 

In the Fall Triduum the movement is more inward, against the grain. The days are shortening, the leaves are fallen, and the earth draws once again into itself.  Everything in the natural world confronts us with reminders of our own mortality. The scriptural readings as the time just before Advent approaches are more and more preoccupied with the end, not only personally but cosmically: the last coming, the end of time. In this dark and inward season, there is little that encourages us to somersault over death right into resurrection; we must linger in the dark, allow the dawning recognition of how fragile we are.
 

And yet in the midst of this broody season of dark and inwardness, the days do offer themselves as a journey, a progression we can take. Halloween, that great druidic celebration is often lost in excess and revelry. But if you pay attention, it is actually asking us to acknowledge the false self (yes, head out trick-or-treating dressed as your false self!), let the “ghoulies and ghosties, long leggity beasties, and things that go bump in the night” cavort as they will without causing us alarm. “All shall be well, and all manner of long leggity thing shall be well.” The shadow faced, we are then free on November 1 to move into that most exquisite and subtle foretaste of the glory to come, the mystical communion of saints. From my own personal experience I can say that not Easter but All Saints is the thinnest of the thin places between heaven and earth, where the boundaries between ourselves and all we have loved but deemed lost, all we have grieved for, all the roads not taken in our lives, are met in the gentle solace of “yes.”
 

From there, having glimpsed on November 1 that  (in the words of a wonderful old children’s book) “all land is one land under the sea,” we are then invited on November 2 to return to our human condition and particularity; to acknowledge and grieve the ones we have lost (from the viewpoint of this world) and to prepare ourselves to live more deeply and courageously this strange dual walk that we humans seem cosmically appointed to traverse, poised “at the intersection of the timeless with time” as the poet T. S. Eliot depicts it.
 

In the quiet, brown time of the year, these fall Triduum days are an invitation to do the profound inner work: to face our shadows and deep fears (death being for most people the scariest of all), to taste that in ourselves which already lies beyond death, drink at its fountain, then to move back into our lives again, both humbled and steadied in that which lies beyond both light and dark, beyond both life and death.  What better tilling of the inner soil for the mystery of the Incarnation, which lies just ahead?

 

(Excerpts from Cynthia Bourgealt "The Fall Triduum - another twist of the spiral" originally published on The Contemplative Society blog.)

And, more concisely:
 

“All Saints' Day is the centerpiece of an autumn triduum. In the carnival celebrations of  our ancestors used the most powerful weapon in the human arsenal, the power of humor and ridicule, to confront the power of death. The following day, in the commemoration of , we gave witness to the victory of incarnate goodness embodied in the remarkable deeds and doers triumphing over the misanthropy of darkness and devils. And in the commemoration of  we proclaim the hope of common mortality expressed in our aspirations and expectation of a shared eternity.”
 

(Quoted from Sam Portaro from “Brightest and Best: A Companion to the Lesser Feasts and Fasts” 1998, Cowley Publications)

And so inspired by these sorts of reflections, I wonder how the church might "do" Hallowmas differently - and perhaps better?  How might we acknowledge our false selves which deny the image of God in self and other.  How might we offer opportunities to engage with our darkness and that of our world, before offering the opportunity of sainthood and the hope of eternity?
 

This year, I have been inspired by the example of Worldvision, who in their #NightofHope appear to have combined the reality of darkness with the hope of the light.  Supporters are encouraged to remember the children of Syria - currently facing their fourth year in a war zone - and decorate a pumpkin with a heart, displaying it as a sign of solidarity with those children.  The supporters are also encouraged to raise money for Worldvision projects which support those children and their families.  You can find out more about their work here: http://anightofhope.worldvision.org.uk/why-a-night-of-hope/

 

Surely there are few things in our world as dark as the violent conflict which dehumanizes so many.  Perhaps using this Halloween to look that darkness in the face, yet refusing to be paralyzed by its power, and by symbol and action proclaiming a resilient hope - perhaps, in that, we might reclaim Hallowmas as it was intended to be?

Rev Series 3 and Holy Week

"I'm really disappointed with this series of Rev..."

"...it's all a bit political"

"...it seems to have forgotten it is a comedy"

"...the writers have lost the plot!"

Apologies for the pun.

But actually the writers know exactly what they are doing, and have got it spot on.  The key to understanding what is going on, is to remember that series 3 of Rev is supposed to be the last series.  The last.  The final credits will roll tomorrow night, and this changes things. As any good story heads towards its climax, there is an increase of tension.  Things tends to get darker and more precarious.  The big questions which have lurked in the background come increasingly to the fore.  And this is all happening as we journey with our clerical everyman, Adam Smallbone, towards the end of his tale.

We approach the end of this story with Adam's job in jeopardy, his church facing closure and his relationship with his beloved Alex in tatters.  There is the very real possibility he could lose everything.  And as Adam wrestles with these issues, he must also tackle the question every clergyperson faces: what sort of priest am I called to be?  In previous series, Adam has faced and ultimately resisted the temptations to be what he is not: a trendy megachurch pastor or a media priest for example.  In this series, we find Adam discovering more of what he is: a priest who will stand with his gay friends and bless them, a priest who will treat a repentant child sex offender as a human being, a priest who is neither an uncritical product of his institution nor his society, but will hold up a mirror to them both.  In this series of undenied weakness, Adam has shown moments of heart-breaking strength.

But many devoted Rev fans are far from happy.  They watched the series to give them light relief, but now (most of) the slapstick humour has been displaced by a wry and painful humour which asks hard questions about what it means to be church.  "This wasn't what we signed up for!" they cry...

During Holy Week, we remembered another man approaching the end of his story.  In this story too the mood darkened, the stakes were raised, the questions got tougher - and those who enjoyed the healings and the stories, the banter with the authorities and the impromptu processions drifted away.  Following him when he was entertaining them - well that was one thing - but to stand by him while he loses everything?  Why did he have to spoil it by being too political; being too serious; being too uncompromising; being too controversial? They didn't sign up for that...  

Of couse, I am not the only one to draw parallels. Starting with Adam's prediction of St Saviour's demise and the birthday cake Last Supper, the fourth and fifth episodes have increasingly played on the events of Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. Colin denying his friend as the alarm sounds in the chicken bar; an embarrassed and impotent Bishop washing his hands as he discusses Adam's future; the emptied, dark church echoing like a cavernous tomb. The question for this last episode is surely: will there be a resurrection, and what will it look like?  

The good news is that I suspect Rev, will continue to echo the Easter story, and will be a comedy in the truest sense. No seriously - bear with me! Classical comedic drama was not defined by the laughs but by the ending - namely a happy ending - and you don't get much happier than the despised and rejected messiah defeating death, restoring his little community of disciples and sending them with a message of forgiveness and reconciliation between God and creation in which the whole world can share. The ending of this television series cannot attempt to match that, but as St Saviours closes its doors in episode 5, just remember episode 6 is coming...

A Mother's Memory of Petertide

The ethereal voices of a girls' choir begin to sing Veni Sanctus Spiritus. Eleven solemn ordinands, clothed in black and white, their diaconal stoles a slash of red, kneel with heads bowed in a semicircle around their bishop. The beauty of the music somehow amplifies the profound stillness of the holy moment. I wait. I wait for the Bishop to lay hands on me and ordain me as priest.

Suddenly the peace is torn by the wailing of a small child - and I am torn too. I know, with a peculiar maternal certainty, that of all the small people in the cathedral this evening, that particular wail belongs to my four-year-old daughter, Emma.

MUUUMMEEE! It is amazing how much focus you can give to two things at once. As I watch intently, my fellow curates walk forward and kneel before the bishop, and my heart is full of pride and joy at the wonder of these friends offering themselves to God and God's world. Yet another part of me is monitoring a very different situation:

The wail has abated. Someone is soothing, cuddling, cajoling - will it work? But no, the wail resumes with increased vigour. What do I do? She needs me, wants me, but of all the times in my life, I cannot go now.

My husband will cope.

My husband will cope.

And sure enough, the cries soften - Will scoops up Emma, carries her away from the ministrations of anxious grandparents and aunts, distracts her with all a Daddy's wiles.

And it's my turn to go forward...

After the service, Emma greets me with a reproof. "I don't want you to be a priest, Mummy. Why do you have to be a priest?" We are walking hand in hand down the stairs to collect my belongings from the cathedral chapter house. I am exhilarated and exhausted and in no way capable of understanding her questions at first.
"Jesus asked me to be a priest, darling."
"But why did Jesus ask you to be a priest. I don't want you to be a priest!" - is her robust reply.
The conversation circles for a few minutes more, and I am at a loss. The emotion of the day catches up with me, and I am weary, vulnerable, close to tears; childishly resentful of my daughter's complaint; desperate for someone wise to rescue us. But there is only me, and Emma needs me. And then, I get it.

I gather my little girl in my arms and tell her seriously:

"Emma, Jesus wants me to be a priest, but I am still your Mummy. I'll always be your Mummy. Nothing will change that."

And the questions are at an end - Emma is satisfied.

No Make-up Selfies

For the past two days my Facebook feed has been full of photos of women wearing no make-up. Teenagers, grandmas, tired young mothers, sophisticated professionals - all posting selfies of their unadorned faces. All looking beautiful.

It appears no one is sure quite how this phenomenon began, but somehow women are challenging their friends to post a make-up free photo and make a donation to a cancer charity. A good thing - yes? Of course, when any craze sweeps through social media, there is the backlash: "I don't get it. Are they saying going make-up free is like having cancer?"

Er... no! Going make-up free is not like having cancer. Neither is holding a cake sale, abseiling down a twenty-storey building, running 5k, shaving off your hair or even walking from John O'Groats to Lands End - but these are all things people do to raise money, raise awareness and show solidarity with their friends and family who live with cancer. This social media craze has generated an unexpected windfall for charities researching treatment for cancer - research which has transformed the survival and life expectancy rates for people who have cancer over the past few decades. Celebrate it!

But as a friend of mine says, there can be multiple good reasons for doing something, and there is another reason I support no make-up selfies. I know many of my friends who have posted a photo would rather abseil down a twenty-storey building than walk out of the house without their slap on. They have been fed the lie that they are only as valuable as they are youthful and beautiful. Seeing dozens of bare-faced women on social media being affirmed and cheered on by those who love them challenges that lie, and to me it is something life-giving.

In a month when I have lost two friends and colleagues to cancer and another variant of this disease threatens the life of a third, I am all for doing things that promote life and love. So I have posted a no-make-up selfie, and I have texted BEAT to 70007 to make a £3 donation to Cancer Research. Why not consider doing either or both too?

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.