Christian faith in the here and now
Lorraine Cavanagh's Blog
Thursday 6 December 2018
Saturday 3 March 2018
By Duty Bound
Source: nme.com |
We are now well into the Netflix series, The Crown. It is compulsive viewing, not
just because of its brilliant performances and direction but because, for me at
any rate, it speaks of things relating to the idea of duty. We seldom hear of duty
these days, or think of it in the way the monarchy must think of it, as a binding
relationship between love for a people and what must be done for the
preservation of an institution. Neither do we think of how duty makes victims
of those who are bound by it in the exercising of power, of the choices they
must make and of the terrible failures which these choices can bring in their
wake.
You could say that when duty is bound by love it
ceases to damage those it serves, but from the moment duty hurts or blights
another life love has taken leave of duty. No matter what the powerful person’s
subjective feelings may be, they are, in this respect, the victims of their own
power. This was the situation which Pontius Pilate found himself in.
The idea of duty has gone from being out of fashion
to downright embarrassing. It’s not something you talk about. Faithfulness to duty
seems like a cold, almost inhuman virtue, having nothing to do with love. Kant
would have approved of this uncoupling of love with duty. But we, as a compassionate society, like to
think that we would never countenance doing something out of duty which would
knowingly hurt another person.
In that case, what of honour, and ‘honour’ killing?
What of FGM? For some, these terrible actions are a matter of duty. But are we
responsible for such actions when those who do them have an entirely different
understanding of duty, of its place and purpose in society, than we do? Of
course we are responsible, not only because the law of our country forbids such
things, but because we are all responsible for everyone’s wellbeing and safety.
Duty and responsibility go together. It follows that we are all accountable to
the highest power for the extent that we do or do not exercise what we now call
a ‘duty of care’ to others.
Those with the most power and influence bear the
greatest responsibility for the duty of care for those whose lives they affect.
They are therefore the first to be held accountable to that highest power. They
are accountable for the lives which their decisions will affect, inasmuch as
they have the power to influence them for better or for worse. Doing the right
thing out of love may cost them their position. Pontius Pilate knew this only
too well, but Jesus reminds him of who he is ultimately accountable to. At the
same time, Pilate is not a free agent. Unlike the betrayer, he is bound by his duty
to a system, the Roman Empire. It is Judas who, in reality, held the greater power.
He was a free agent, compared to Pontius Pilate.
For the powerful, doing one’s duty is not always commensurate with
doing the right thing. Duty bound by love is constrained. Love places a
constraint on ill considered actions which arise from a sense of the dominant
power of duty, in all positions of leadership. Love makes requirements of
duty, not the other way round. But the good news is that love ‘unbinds’. It
unbinds leaders who are prepared to take the risk of going beyond duty for the
sake of love, when they are in a position to do so.
The
Crown reminds us that powerful people are not free
agents. They are not always in a position to make decisions in which love has
the last say, even if they would like to be. We tend to judge the actions of
powerful people from the safe distance of hindsight, forgetting the
constraints, mores, and even lack of communication which may have complicated
matters still further at the time. We have a duty to these powerful people, a
duty coupled with the love we ourselves receive from the highest power and for which
we must allow safe passage to whoever has wronged us either recently or in the
past. The prayer taught by Jesus obliges us to take responsibility for them in
our memories, to forgive, as we have been forgiven, to allow God’s love safe
passage.
This is not about whitewashing over the past and
pretending that wrongs were never done. Neither is it about forcing ourselves
to feel lovingly towards people who have wronged us, when we do not. That is
simply to prolong a lie, and the lie may be part of the ongoing pain and damage
we are still having to endure. Taking responsibility for those who have wronged
us is about owning those fragile human beings, even if they are dead, along
with the pain they caused, and may still be causing – even if they are dead. This
is as true for nations as it is for the individual. Love dictates duty when it
comes to doing what is needed for salvation to happen among us.
Monday 19 February 2018
Wilderness Times
Re-visiting the blog after a 2 month absence (I’ve been
working on a new book) is a fast forward exercise, lurching from pre-Christmas
to one week into Lent. It feels like a pale replica of how I have always
imagined travelling at the speed of light, compressed and outside time. This
year’s transition from the post-Christmas season to the beginning of Lent makes
life feel compressed, as it might be in inter-galactic space travel. It has
left little room for mental or emotional adjustment. We are travelling at the
speed of light towards light.
Easter being early this year, there has been very little
time to re-adjust to the season of Lent. Epiphanytide ended rather abruptly
less than 10 days ago and Lent has suddenly arrived with the first snowdrops. The
wilderness season is upon us wrapped into the season of gestation and first
growth. In this particular wilderness season, the one which presages ultimate
and eternal life, we are obliged to think about what must come first, which is death.
This week’s Observer
Magazine features an article about death (‘Memento Mori’ by Emma Beddington).
It is a brave article. It also invites Christians to
distance themselves momentarily from what we believe about death and re-engage
with this unpopular subject from another perspective, the one which many people
are most used to, which is simply the fact that ‘WeCroak’.
‘WeCroak’ is now a phone app which reminds its user of
the truth about their own mortality several times during a single day. Lent is
a season for dealing with truths that most of us would rather not face, especially
the ultimate truth that we must all die. You could say that it is a rehearsal
period for death itself.
The only really frightening aspect of death is that, when
the moment comes, we may not be quite ready for it, so it is essential to come
to terms with this fact if we are not to be taken unawares by death. The purpose
of Lent is to provide a space for facing the
reality of our own mortality and of the passing of all things, both good and
evil. The phone app is useful here because
it simply says, as it pipes up in its random way (there is no set time-table), that whatever you are doing or thinking or saying right now, this precise
moment could be your last. What, therefore, would you really like to be doing,
thinking or saying?
Facing into death is also essential for knowing how to
live. We face into death by facing into the reality, or truth, about the present
moment, or of our present set of circumstances. Am I at this moment bored? Or hungry?
Or short of sleep? How do these feelings and states of health colour my
responses to the needs of others? The last question is the one that matters
most because our lives are bound up with other lives, especially those we deal
with on a day to day basis.
This is not to suggest that Lent is a time for repression
and arduous discipline aimed at some kind of mind enhancement or dubious self
improvement. It is a time for defeating the kind of death which destroys the
individual from within and then goes on to destroy society and the world we
inhabit. Every individual is responsible for the greater whole.
We begin to address the questions which pertain to the
present moment by throwing out old habits of mind which have passed their ‘sell
by’ date, so to speak. What we thought yesterday about any given issue or person
pertains to memory, and after a while memory can become skewed. Memories need to
be revisited, and this may not always change them for the better. The truth of
a memory sometimes has to be revealed as worse than we had thought it was.
Facing into this truth is also a kind of dying, dying to the lies we have grown
accustomed to living with.
Lent is wilderness time, patterned on the forty days
endured by Christ in the desert when he would have faced into the truth about
himself and his life’s purpose – and questioned it. Lent is a time for
questioning and for facing into doubt. The biggest questions are invariably
presaged with the word ‘if’.
For Jesus, temptation also came as doubt: “If you are the Son of God, turn these
stones into bread (you know you can do anything and you must, of course, take sensible
measures when it comes to your own comfort and wellbeing)”. It came as “If you are the Son of God, jump off this
great height (and show them all who you really are. You know you won’t die – or
do you?”)
Lent invites doubt. But we need doubt if we are to know
the truth about ourselves, and hence about the purpose of our life and of our
own mortality. Lent obliges us to seek out and face into doubt, as we
return to our own particular wilderness, to our compressed memories and to the
truth about what we are doing, thinking or saying in the present moment. The
good news about Lent is that we are never alone in our memories or in any of our doubts.
Saturday 16 December 2017
More Than 'Ho, Ho, Ho'
Source: Alamy.com |
Another Big Issue seller in our town has grandchildren in Romania. She has to get on a bus and travel for an hour or so to get to her ‘patch’. It is not the only bus she has taken in recent years and we have often talked about this, and about what it feels like to have children and grandchildren living far away. We occasionally give each other a hug on parting.
Our Father Christmas seller is also from Romania. He is
trying very hard to convince passersby of the festive nature of this season,
but his “Ho, Ho, Ho” sounds a little tired and uncertain. He is imitating another
people’s language, after all, rather than speaking it. He finds it difficult to
speak their language because he does not quite understand their mindset, especially
in regard to him and to other Romanians. Also, I do not think that a jocund
Father Christmas, or the real reason for the festivities, are at the forefront
of the minds of many of those who pass him by, whether or not they pick up a
copy of the Big Issue. If they do
pick one up, they are more likely to do so out of a mingled sense of helplessness
and guilt, rather than as a result of having paused for the kind of exchange
which brings joy to all parties involved.
There is a transparency about this whole scenario, in
regard to the seller dressed as Father Christmas, as if we all know that it is
a rather tired game. But when I stop to talk with him, or even as I think of
him, I see through the Santa disguise to his frailty. I also sense the
uncertainties and anxieties of others in the street, and their frailty too. One or
two of them are wearing Santa hats. Another wears a bright pink coat, an early
Christmas present, perhaps.
There is a certain pathos about it all. This being said,
I would not describe the situation as an unhappy one. It is just normality
trying to enter into the spirit of the season. Everyone is trying very hard, but
most are unsure of its purpose, or of the meaning of the festival itself.
Perhaps they would rather it was called something else, as it sometimes is. In
the US you wish people ‘happy holidays’, rather than happy Christmas.
But in Romania, Christ is still at the heart of it all.
It is still Christ-mas. Presents are exchanged on December 6th, St.
Nicholas Day, and the season extends into early January with an emphasis on family
and community and with much carol singing and different kinds of festive foods.
My Big Issue seller, dressed as Santa
Claus, must be feeling quite disorientated as he stands alone outside a
clothing retail chain next to a chemist. The shops have somehow obliterated the
saintliness of Nicholas.
Perhaps he senses that many of the people in the street
are wondering what they are doing there too, and he feels a kind of affinity
with their anxiety and uncertainty about the meaning and purpose of all this
shopping. There is an underlying greeting, and even something of prayer, in his
rather tremulous “Ho, Ho, Ho”. For a moment, the pedestrian precinct is a quite
different place. It is transfigured. We sense the words ‘Holy, Holy, Holy’ penetrating
the banality of the words being called out by the Big Issue seller. They seem to be spoken from within human history,
projected by the Romanian from his own culture and religion. I think he is also
picking up on something in our collective subconscious, the need to say ‘Holy, Holy, Holy’ in response to a divine greeting sensed in rare moments of
stillness during this season.
The Christ of Christmas is waiting to greet us. He knows
us well and greets us in his vulnerability, in the risk he takes in coming into
the obscurity of his own circumstances, of having to be born in someone’s
garage. In the years to come, he will know more rejection and disappointment.
He will know pain and failure, as we do, but he will embrace our pain and
failure with a child’s joy. He experiences the same joy in encountering us, as
he did that first odd assortment of visitors, a couple of farm labourers and
three foreign dignitaries.
Joy runs deeper than happiness. It is mined in a far
deeper seam. Joy endures and withstands all manner of suffering because it is
of the very nature of God who is love itself, love Incarnate, love become one
of us. I sense that the Romanian Big
Issue seller knows this. It will keep him going in the bleak months ahead.
Sunday 3 December 2017
Season of Hope
This week a man was given his life back. He has been in
prison for 20 years for crimes he did not commit. It is said that he will get
compensation, although it is hard to see what will compensate for the loss of
20 years of a person’s life and with it, presumably, friends, family, career
and reputation.
What do people who are wrongfully imprisoned dream of
during their years of mental, physical and emotional deprivation? It must take
a while to even get to the stage of dreaming. Perhaps you give up in the end
and simply try to survive on what little you have in the way of personal
resources – the resources which enable you to believe in yourself and in the possibility
that justice will be done. Perhaps you dare not hope, because hope embodies a
kind of certainty. It is about looking forward to something that you are
certain is going to happen, in the way only children know how to do. Years of
captivity can grind away such innocence.
If we retain enough of our childhood innocence we will
not have quite forgotten how to hope. There is an excitement about hope which
moves us forward and teaches us to see the goodness in others. Hope, and the
certainty it promises, derives from the love which is its source. Looking
forward to something good is a quite different feeling to what is experienced
when, sadly, we relish the moment in the future when someone will get their
just deserts, or when we will be finally vindicated at someone else’s expense.
These things may well happen, but the moment, when it comes, will feel hollow.
The difficulty about hope is that the things we look
forward to with eagerness, joy and even a degree of trepidation, do not always
happen, or work out in the way we had thought they would. So there is always
the risk of pain. Daring to hope is also being willing to accept pain and even disappointment.
Dealing with disappointment is the risk we take when we dare to hope in the
fullest sense of the word.
For many children Advent is a season of eager
expectation, having mainly to do with looking forward to receiving Christmas
presents. For others it is not. The presents are spoiled by circumstances;
fighting parents, the death of someone they love, the looming cloud of debt
which is part of the reason that their parents are fighting. The looking
forward ends in anxiety and sometimes fear.
Advent is the season for a ‘looking forward’ which never
disappoints. If we engage with it as the beginning of God’s fulfilled promise,
we will not be left stranded on the rock of disappointment, or returned to
ourselves as we were before we began to look forward to the fulfillment of the
promise.
The best of our usual expectations often return us to
ourselves, not because we are selfish or unimaginative, but because so often
there is nothing much beyond whatever it is we are looking forward to. Hope
embodies the promise that there is something greater and better than what we
know of ourselves, something that can make a positive difference to the lives
of others. Hope embodies the idea that we are valued and capable of immense
goodness.
The Christian story is good news because it allows for
the possibility that our expectations can be transfigured, including the often
limited expectations we have of ourselves. So the good news of the coming of
God’s Christ obliges us to live in such a way as to be bearers of hope. As hope-bearers
we give others permission to act and think from the goodness within them, even
if that goodness is not at all apparent. The hope which is given to us in the season
of Advent requires that we shine a light into their darkness and into the
darkness which surrounds us, so that goodness, or ‘righteousness’ may be
released into it.
This is one aspect of the activity of prayer – holding the
world and our neighbour in their darkness until they emerge into the light. Anyone
who has traveled by air will know the feeling of emerging into bright sunlight
when the plane, as it takes off, finally penetrates the grey of the place they
left behind. The hope promised us in Christ takes us, and all for whom we pray,
through the dark realities which surround us and into that place of light.
Wednesday 18 October 2017
#MeToo - What of Forgiveness?
Source:hellogiggles.com |
The easiest way to deal with the wounds of abuse – any abuse
– is to think nothing, (never mind say nothing), either of the past or of the
present. You just ‘deal with it’, a very apt expression, but one which, if
acted upon, can be toxic. For one thing, it is a lie. You never ‘deal with it’,
so why, at any point in history, do we pretend that this is possible?
The
#MeToo movement is epoch changing, not only because it goes some way towards
validating the suffering of the victims of abuse, but because it gives us all
permission to re-connect with and, in some measure, own, our pain. We do this privately,
in our own dark corridors of remembrance, and in solidarity with others in the
#MeToo movement. We also do it in solidarity with other generations.
Abuse, as we well know, is not an emerging phenomenon. It
has been around for centuries, so it helps, I find, to try to place one’s own
pain in the continuum of the abuse suffered by the perpetrators and by those
who preceded them. This does not exonerate the abusers. Neither does it oblige,
still less enable, me to forgive them. As if forgiveness was purely a matter of
understanding contextuality, cause and effect, and thereby accepting the abuse
as inevitable. But this is how women, and I think many men who may have been
physically abused in childhood, try to come to terms with what a generally
abusive childhood or youth still does to them.
There are two serious flaws in thinking that we can ‘deal
with’ abuse and the effects of abuse. First, it tends to ignore the fact that
abuse is not limited to the sexual and physical. Sexual abuse, for women, is
more often reinforced by what seems at the time a natural and ‘deserved’
shaming of the person concerned. Perhaps it is the same for men. If an adult
implies that we are ugly, stupid and to be laughed at rather than with, we
accept it as a given. ‘Put downs’, the many chance remarks deemed as OK, but
deeply wounding, enforced compliance with how we should look or behave, all in
the context of dishonest and manipulative relationships, build a toxic mix of
shame, anger, fear and self-loathing.
Very few sexual predators will genuinely want their
victim to feel that they are beautiful, intelligent, unique and loved. On the
whole, they will either intuit, or possibly know, that their victim has been
conditioned to believe none of these things. This makes them fair game. It gives
the abuser ‘permission’ to behave as he or she does towards them. Furthermore,
and as we all know, abuse is not limited to the sexual. Emotional abuse will,
often as not, occur between members of the same sex, first in family contexts
and later in social and professional life. By then, it is more commonly known
as bullying.
As Christians, each time we say the Lord’s Prayer, we ask
to be forgiven as we forgive those who have sinned against us. To be honest, I
find it almost impossible to pray these words when I think of my own abusers,
as well as of the hundreds of women coming forward in the #MeToo solidarity
movement. What does forgiving actually entail for us? As I have never really
found an answer to this question, I tend to mentally ‘bracket’ the words Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive
those who trespass against us as I am saying them, and hope God understands,
but I don’t just leave the people concerned in a kind of limbo. Later, I ask
God what he thinks those of us who have been sinned against are supposed to do
with our recurring memories, with our feelings about these people, and with our
own anger and shame.
There seems to be no answer to such questions. But I do
believe that we pray to a God who not only understands but shares the
feelings which prompt them. There are many ways we could visualise this
sharing. Being present to the words Why
have you abandoned me? spoken from the Cross is one of the most obvious,
although not always the most efficacious when it comes to having our negative
feelings about forgiveness validated in the moment.
Perhaps a better way is to see the wounds we still carry,
because they are far from healed, as part of our transfigured inheritance. They
become what makes us worthy of honour in the presence of the Lamb (Rev.14:1). In
them we share in Christ’s glory, beginning with the shame and agony of his
dying and death, but moving with him to his embracing of us in his risen life.
This is not a pious metaphor, or some kind of mental cop-out. It is something
which can take a life-time to learn, or it can be learned in a single
revelatory moment of understanding.
Such an understanding gives us the greatest freedom. This
does not mean that we are given permission to indulge, even momentarily, in
gratuitous hatred and desire for revenge. It means that we too are forgiven for
finding it impossible to ‘forgive’. But such freedom brings responsibility. We
are now ‘responsible’ for our abusers, lest they fall into the abyss. This
means that we must be willing to receive what is needed for us to have a
transfigured way of seeing them, so that we can ‘hold’ them. It does not mean
persevering with, or reviving, destructive relationships. It means allowing
ourselves to have deep compassion for those who abuse us, or for their memory. We
‘hold’ what we know of them, as best we can, in the ‘safe space’ of the mercy
and forgiveness of God, a space which we ourselves are also occupying. Even if the
feeling of compassion only lasts for a moment, it will never completely go away,
for His mercy endureth for ever.
Monday 2 October 2017
Are We There Yet?
Within half an hour of setting off on a long car journey –
from Wales to the South of France, for example, a small voice from the back
seat would be heard asking the question we parents dreaded. “Are we there yet?”
I’ve often wondered if this is more of a
philosophical question than one which has to do with mileage and the hours yet to
be endured. For a child, a twelve hour car journey is a significant chunk of
her remembered life. I also wonder if it’s not a question we are all asking in
regard to all kinds of things – politics, the economy, a solution to
environmental melt down, or even in regard to the end of our own lives – the latter,
especially. Are we there yet?
Children are particularly interested in things pertaining
to life and death. So 'Are we there yet' leads quickly to other questions. What happens when you die? Where do you go? And does such a
place or dimension permit you to pick up where you left off in regard to
relationships, human or animal, which were suddenly terminated by death? Happily
for most children, death is, in a sense, a kind of continuation of life as they know
it, but better.
If they are right, it is still quite difficult to gauge
what the meaning and purpose of life now might be, especially given the very vague
demarcation line which exists between life and death as children often perceive it. Life
is still open-ended for them, less finite, more infinite, so they can see far
greater distances, on the eternity spectrum, than most of us can until, perhaps,
we reach a very old age. Then, we are returned to the conceptual space remembered
from childhood, perhaps without realising that this is what is happening.
In the later mid-life years, before we reach this stage,
a picture starts to emerge from what until now might seem an incoherent, and
often disconnected, series of life events. The questions now being asked are
not so much to do with what happens when you die, as what is the meaning of
life? What is its purpose? Looking back over the years, it seems that on the
whole, we have been far more anxious about purpose than we have about meaning.
Purpose has concrete implications. It has to do with ‘making something’ of
oneself or even, in today’s parlance, of ‘getting’ a life. But unlike purpose,
meaning is something that simply has to be allowed to happen to us. It is a
given.
Underlying our aspiring for purpose lies a considerable
amount of anxiety. Anxiety is another word for fear. So when it comes to the
purpose of life, we are afraid that we might have ‘failed’. The people we fear
most in this regard are usually parents, then our own peer group and all those
significant others who in some way exact standards of achievement, even if
these expectations only live in our imagination. Furthermore, we often imagine
that these particular fears will vanish once those who have instilled them in
us die, but this rarely happens.
On the other hand, insofar as we live and die in Christ,
we are already on the other side of the demarcation line between life and
death, meaning and purpose, and between time and eternity. We are already partly
in the other dimension. Far from being frightening, this dual-time state of ‘existence’
ought to be a sign of hope for us in the present. For one thing, it cuts into
our ideas of linear time, especially in regard to our earthly life-span. When
it comes to eternity, we are in the ‘already’ and the ‘not yet’. We depart from
linear time into a time-frame in which the meaning of life as we know it, has
nothing to do with purpose in the ordinary sense of the word.
In Christ, and in
the context of eternity, meaning and achievement bear no relation to each
other. We do not need to achieve, or to purpose our life now with a view to
fulfilling someone’s expectations, or our own. In God’s economy, the meaning
and purpose of our life comes in any given moment when a thought or action is purposed
for the good of others and for the good of the earth God created. But, as I
said earlier, it is the allowing which is important. Allowing is not the same
as striving for something.
Allowing God’s purpose for our life is a little like the
biblical concept of Wisdom. Wisdom, the living Spirit of God, has been around
for eternity, ‘dancing’ with God. We are invited to enter into that dance. But
we have to listen carefully for its measure, for the things which allow Wisdom to
be danced through us in our earthly life time. When it comes to what happens
when we die, the person who is wise, and who has taught others wisdom, will, as
scripture promises ‘shine for all eternity’. (Dan. 12:3) We’re nearly there.
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