Prayer, Pride and Prejudice

As Jane Austen didn’t quite say, “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a man in possession of a good fortune … needs absolutely nothing from God.” ...

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In praise of chat

I have a couple weeks off, plus we finally have a separate website for the church: it's time to reclaim this site as my blog. And so I’m trying to remember what I like to write about when I don’t have sermons or essays due. As I rootled around the files, I found a Psalm I wrote awhile back which really resonated, perhaps because, with fewer friends and a husband away half the time, life in this new city can be a bit lonely. A slightly different version first appeared in Zadok Perspectives No. 129 (December 2015).

**

How right it is to sit with friend and cup of tea.

How precious to see a hint of glee in her eye, or glint of tears,

or small frown as she encounters new ideas.

How fine to hear voices joined in laughter!

How healing the gentle silence which falls,

grants grace, after story strange and sad.

How good to chat as children roam house, raid biscuit tin;

as teens and husbands wander in,

settle at table, join the exchange.

Praise the One who gives tongues to talk,

minds to think, wit to play!

Praise the One from whom stories flow,

blessings grow, and songs take flight!

Whose words wrought worlds,

whose love begets love,

who seeks conversation between us, and Above.

Angry judge, or the face of love? God revealed on the mountaintop

(You can listen to this reflection here.)

How we hear stories about Jesus depends very much on our image of God. I was thinking about this because, in our conversation last week about the prayers of confession, several people said that they felt, or had been taught, that God was just waiting to judge them. The image of God as a harsh and violent judge is pervasive, and it shapes us. Like the disciples who go with Jesus up the mountain, many of us hold onto this idea, even although it may not be quite right. For this image of God comes, in part, from an older story, a story which predates Jesus. A story that also involves a mountain. Let me tell it to you:

Pride and Prejudice

It is a truth almost universally acknowledged, that a man in possession of a good fortune … is in the good books with God. One of the problems with growing up comfortable and in the church is that it is too easy to think this. For we are the good guys: the right sort of people who never do anything seriously wrong. Insulated by our wealth and our privilege, we glance over at all those ghastly people whose lives are a mess, congratulate ourselves for our nice morals and clean living, and assure ourselves and everyone else that we belong in God’s house. For we are not sinners like them. We never rejected God; we belong in the kingdom. Yet, week after week, in God’s house we hear stories which should challenge our assumptions, and this week is no exception.

Cheeky Acts of Forgiveness

Dinner with fellow sinners can be delicious!

Once upon a time, the churches were commissioned to go out and participate in the mission of God: to bring good news to the poor, to free the captives, to heal the sick, to forgive debts, and to make disciples. Yet much of the church took this as a mandate to accrue wealth and wield power. Some preachers controlled their flocks through fear; some upheld violent nation-states to their own advantage; some wielded proof texts like a weapon. Some religious leaders took advantage of vulnerable people, while others used their power to cover up their colleagues’ acts of abuse. Churches hoarded riches, and locked them away; denominations invested in corporations that denuded the forests and poisoned the rivers. Some congregations became private clubs, and made anyone who was different feel deeply unwelcome; some became places of such vitriolic hatred that all who came into contact with them were burned.

All these goings-on in God’s name made God feel totally ripped off. So God decided to leave the churches, and let them fend for themselves.

A Gift Far Too Small

A friend of ours had been sick for a long, long time. He had multiple health problems; he had dementia; and he had been in a slow decline for years. After many dips and rallyings and further crises, it looked like the end. His wife called some very dear friends to let them know. They lived on the other side of the country, but they jumped on a plane and flew over to see him one last time. When they arrived, it was time to eat. Nobody felt like cooking, so they ordered Chinese takeaway.

To read more, click here.

Image from donaldkrause.com.

God or taxes?

So a friend told me a few things and began to weep, and another friend saw us and said, “Hey, are you alright?” “Not really,” said the first, “but I’ll have a coffee and a cigarette and pull myself together.”

“Shall I sit with you?” I asked.

“Whoa!” said the second friend, “watch out for those Baptist ministers! I’m going to the city to do my taxes, wanna come?”

“Sounds like it’s God or taxes…,” I said, laughing.

“Right now,” said the first, “I probably need a bit of God.”

***

We didn’t specifically talk about God. We talked about work and kids and exhaustion and suffering and hope and love and karma. We talked about the future, and some of our dreams. I didn’t fix anything. Mostly I just held the space and listened. My job is simple, but some people find it threatening, so maybe it’s time I tell you just what we ministers do: Often, it’s no more than being ready to listen when someone chooses God over taxes.

Greying, lined, direct, and doing the work of love

Some people I hadn’t seen in a long while came for dinner. “Wow,” said one, “You look so different from when I last saw you. You look so … so … old!”

“Maybe it’s my grey hair?” I suggested.

“Well, yes,” she said, cocking her head to scrutinize my face more closely, “but … it’s also the lines around your eyes.” And then the subject changed and we headed into the kitchen for a drink.

I’ve told the story a few times now, and the response is always the same. “God,” said one friend, “did you poison her dinner?” “What a bitch,” said another. Meanwhile I still think the exchange is hilarious. I do look older than when I last saw her. My hair is turning grey, I do have lines around my eyes. For that matter, I creak when I stand up, my back hurts, my skin is thinning, and hair is beginning to sprout in unfortunate places. So I tell the story because it makes me laugh, and I reckon it’s good to be reminded of my mortality.

I also reckon the story is a good gauge of hospitality. Were my guest’s words such a deadly insult that I should have met them with cold fury? Am I really so needy that everyone must forever pretend that I am young and beautiful? Am I really so important that I should be treated with infinite respect? Well, to all three questions: no, not at all, which is why, when it happened, I laughed. The words weren’t meant as an insult; we don’t need to pretend I am young and beautiful; and I’m not so important that anyone should ever pussyfoot around me and play nice.

Why is plain speaking so rarely acknowledged as a gift? This dinner guest is a dynamo, and has always been blunt. She has spent decades advocating for survivors of sexual abuse, and has regularly crossed swords with the most closed, patriarchal, unresponsive institutions in town. Over time, her words have shaken them up and made them more accountable, and have led to healing processes for survivors. But she has spent so many years talking back to stubborn powerful men on behalf of the marginalised that sometimes she forgets to sugar coat. If that is the price we pay for her to do a heap of thankless, costly, necessary work, then I for one am willing to take it on the chin.

I’m proud to know our dinner guest, glad of her work and plain words, grateful there are people like her in the world. And I’m proud of my grey hair and the lines around my eyes. They’re a record of years lived and babies born and stories told and laughter shared and good work, and she understands this. Like her, I’ve earned my grey hairs, I’ve earned my lines; I don’t need to hide them. And I don’t need my dinner guests to be nice. Instead, I like my guests to be big-hearted people, who are doing the work of love.

Holy Gossip

Unless we share stories about each other and about ourselves, we cannot know each other. In other words, without gossip, we cannot understand each other’s histories; we cannot forgive each other’s foibles; we cannot form community; we cannot learn to love ... Gossip done well is the glue that binds us...

To read more, click here.