Unto Us…

…a child is born, unto us a Son is given…

I don’t know about you but one thing I love about Christmas time is the awe of children at Carol Services, Nativities and Christingles like t he one we had on MediaCityUK last week.  The way their eyes followed the flickering candlelight in the lanterns at ours or the hope that they might be chosen to light the last advent candle in Church; the magical moment as the lights dim at Christingles everywhere and children hushed by the beauty as they quietly sing a carol, the many BBC Radio Manchester programmes that produced live from all across Salford and Manchester this Christmastime as children’s tiny voices get the chance to sing on air.

I also love their proud faces as they bring their charity candle-boxes to the collection plate full of coppers they’ve been saving and the way that the sweets of their Christingles seem to disappear without anyone ever having moved!

I love they way that they can listen to the story of the nativity and ask the most profound questions, unlike some of us!

We say, ‘uh! I hate this carol, do you?’

They say, ‘Did Jesus really not have a bed?’

‘So was he homeless then?’

‘What, like that man who sleeps in town, on the benches?’

‘Can he stay at our house?’

We say, ‘Have you still got to dash around the supermarket?  Yes, me, too, we’ve not got everything in yet…’

They say, ‘Do you want one of my sweets?’

“I’m full, why do we have to have tea as well?’

‘I can’t eat any more, I feel sick.’

We say, ‘Well, you’ve got to do it, for the kids, haven’t you?’

They say absolutely nothing as they digest the fact the God knows what its like to be them, to be vulnerable, unheard, ignored and yet is breathtakingly delivered with all the magic of a waking up to fresh snow on Christmas morning, every unique flake a mystery in that Who would take the time and trouble to make the weather as exquisitely beautiful?  Who would let the no-marks hear the good news first, and from heaven as they huddled together for warmth doing the night-shift?  Who would show Their love in such a way that even the smallest child can grasp that Love came down to reveal Love, to share Love, to fulfil Love?

Christmas is that time of year when we truly learn what it means to come to God’s kingdom as little children, because it’s the one time of year that they can show us the true meaning of awe.  So if you’re feeling a bit jaded, as if the whole thing just seems slightly, well, unbelievable and your faith needs jump-starting, get yourself to a Christingle or Midnight Mass or just imagine the whole thing through the eyes of a certain Child. You never know, you might just tune back in to the awe of Christmas.

For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Isaiah 9:6

Advent and Ego

I love Advent, possibly more than any other Christian Season.

We wait, with real anticipation and longing because – now let’s be honest – we are actually going to see our nearest and dearest, have a few days of relaxation, perhaps go out and do something for the sheer joy of it and maybe even receive the lovely present we’ve been anticipating – as well as going to Church in all it’s various forms be that carols on a piazza as children dressed as wise travellers grin self-consciously, right through to a Priory concelebrated sung Mass complete with orchestra and incense.

Joy, joy, and more joy potentially wait around the corner. (Wait for it.)

But during this purple season, like Lent before Eastertide, we are called to reflect on our fallenness, our failings, our ego and how they impact upon our relationship with God and with one another, hence our need for a Saviour (to take up the slack).

It’s a funny old thing but sin, if I may call it that meaningfully, can either cause people to run and hide or blurt and burst as their ego deflates with the pin-prick of truth about themselves.  Call me a cappuccino and pour boiling froth on me, but actually that’s the bit I like.  The bit where I get to say, ‘Oh Lord, if only I could be a better priest,’ acknowledging what many priests will tell you is the most painful part of vocation; our call only ever shines a light on the profound knowledge that alone, we cannot begin to fulfill it.  I was deeply moved by the staff Eucharist at the Cathedral today for just that reason: a) I got to pray for myself and other priests rather than focus on celebrating/praying for others here at MediaCityUK b) many of the priests and staff all around me gave me hope and inspiration in modelling that humility.

At MediaCityUK, ego has its place – but not a throne.  I don’t mind admitting I’d expected rather more tears, tantrums and tiaras than has been the case, and I’m sure that receptionists, waiting staff and floor managers will be quick to disavow me if I am wrong, but I’ve been surprised at the lack of ego kicking around a gaff like this.

Don’t get me wrong – plenty of ego is kicking about; just not from those from whom one might expect it – or who might even deserve to have a bit of self-inflation. Ironically, they tend to be the least ‘starry’ and most pleasant to work with.  Take Aled Jones, a child star still working on national radio, in the theatre and held in the hearts of many: ego?  Not a bit of it.  What a genuinely lovely person to spend time with.  Aled was so warm he made me feel really very welcome indeed.  And yes, I was surprised that somebody exposed to the pressures and vagaries of a public life at such an early age could be as level-headed and free of egotism.  I’d like to think that both his family and his faith had something to do with that.  Mike Shaft and his team are equally friendly – they are almost family to me now!  Simon Vivien and Diane Reid, Vicky Matthews and Margaret Burgin, Aziz Rashid, each one a star in their own right and yet egotistical?  Not a bit of it! And yes, they do deserve a mention although I know you could probably name others equally deserving.

And yet… there have been and are many attacks on those who, a bit like the Reader in Rev last week, think that they can do the job better than the person filling the role.  People who think that they might be able to sing better, play better, write better, broadcast better, manage better, make more money, become more famous, put x,y or z on the ethereal map. People whose ego is still driving them to better or more, come what may and who simply cannot be happy for anybody else as their star momentarily rises.

Still, Advent reminds me that even as I ask to be chiselled (for it does hurt) into a better likeness of Christ‘s love for all, that those from whom I receive the wounds of egotistical words and wily deeds aren’t the only egotistical ones.  For we cannot be hurt by others knocking us off our spot, or stealing our thunder or even setting out to kibosh our plans unless we too are being driven by our ego.  Remember that wonderful scene in Lord of the Rings where Galadriel sees the ring freely offered to her by Frodo saying,

‘I do not deny my heart has greatly desired this,’ going on to fantasize, ‘instead of a Dark Lord you would have a Queen, not dark but beautiful and terrible as the Dawn! Treacherous than the sea! Stronger than the foundations of the earth! All shall love me and despair!’

She exemplifies that even goodness can become corrupt, even light can become dangerously blinding when it demands to be fed by others in any way.  What strikes me most poignantly about Galadriel are her final words in that scene:

‘…I pass the test, I will diminish and go into the West and remain Galadriel.  I cannot do this alone.’

I cannot think of a sentence that more accurately sums up my faith or my calling to be Christ-like and follow my vocation than those poignant words.  I think when John the Baptist saw Jesus he put it like this, ‘He must increase while I must decrease.’

Our egos cannot be contained, constrained or even tamed on their own, and I truly believe that our faith and our calling to higher things as human beings is all about finding our roots in the Divine stream that allows those needs to be washed away even as we watch others take what seems to be rightfully ours, in order that we can give of ourselves, not just out of our surplus.  I guess, thinking about this as I write, I could say that if we truly kept Advent, we wouldn’t really care what we received for Christmas, or who did the washing up, nor who gained control of the remote control because we’d all be too busy making sure that others had what they needed, and felt warmly welcomed.

Which brings me back to the ’joy, joy joy, just around the corner’.  So many people have lost loved ones, jobs, children, broken relationships, health, wealth and happiness this year.  Many are still feeling utterly dislocated and without a sense of being safely anchored to ‘home’, just as the Holy Family must have.  But we could do something about that here and now, even if it was for just one person, couldn’t we?  So although it’s nearly over, I just want to say that I think Advent is more important than ever, if Christmas is to be truly Christmas, the celebration of Love come down into our chaos and our mess to say, ‘d’you know what?  You’re loved more than you could ever know.’   How then, can we not go and do likewise?

Imagine

Imagine spending your childhood thinking that you would grow up, fall in love and live happily ever after.

Imagine discovering that what everyone else is excited about not only leaves you cold but seems a bit, well, unnatural.  Put the kettle on.

Imagine falling head over heels in love and discovering that it isn’t to be shouted from the roof-tops, but brings an unimagined hatred and viciousness from people you thought knew and loved you. Friends. Relatives. People in your faith community.

Imagine being shunned.  Everywhere.

Imagine people debating whether or not you should or ought to love, as if the decision was not your own, or you were some specimen in a jar surrounded by Junior House Doctors.

Imagine being allowed to love, but not allowed to express it. Legally.

Imagine being refused your heart’s desire to love and be loved in a faithful, committed, openly celebrated relationship.

Imagine being silently told that you may so do, quietly, under the radar, because you’re OK even if your sexuality is a bit suspect. Besides, we need somebody to…

Imagine reading about people fighting in small congregations right through to white papers in parliament about your private life – or lack thereof.

Imagine hearing endless arguments about how and where and when you might celebrate your love, from those who take theirs for granted.

Imagine heading towards yet another ‘family’ holiday, tired and alone, for doing what is ‘right’.

Imagine longing for your holiday, but dreading bumping into anybody you know on it.

Imagine watching the world and it’s wife celebrating together, when they’ve forbidden you that self-same chance.

Just imagine.

Personal v Private

The public-private debate has upped the ante in Salford what with pensions strikes and privitaized piazza policing coinciding.

But is hasn’t always been such an uncomfortable fit – has it?

I am old enough to understand a sense of noblesse oblige recalled by that lovely ingenuous couple who having won the lottery large reminded us that, ‘With lots of money comes a lot of responsibility’ going on to talk about spending it wisely and helping others in their need.  It seemed a long time since I’d heard anything remotely like their words or cautious, caring wisdom from a lottery winner, or any other person raking in massive amounts of money for whatever reason.

The thing is, our sense of what is and what isn’t poverty, and what is and what isn’t expensive tends to expand to fit, a bit like our waistlines: the more we have, the larger our margin of what is affordable while conversely the less we have the richer everyone else appears to be (depsite most likely being mortgaged to the hilt).

In Salford there is considerable discontent about public money funding private space, and the public’s rightful – or is it simply permissive – access to their docklands, recreational space, a potential new public viewing screen, not to mention the University staff’s right (or not) to picket their own building.  The pay an enormous rent for the building but the land directly outside it’s front doors?  Tricky. 

Comunity events that could bring people together to celebrate the resurrection of what had been crushed from the vibrancy of an international port to a desolate wasteland could be a turning point in community cohesion and integration, or the lack of them – or being charged to enter land already publically invested in - might just tip the balance into entrenched resentment, and we all know where that leads.

As a priest with both a business (think profit, think corporate image) and public service (think public spending, best value, best practice) backgrounds I can see both sides of this coin and I guess as somebody who stands outside of both camps through the particular lens of faith, can see that the idea that they are mutually exclusive is erroneous in itself. 

Partnership and collaboration are clearly on the menu.  Social repsonsibility policies and profit margins/taxation can be equally productive on both sides.  Community cohesion, freindship and neighbourliness aught not to be replaced by a what appears to be a secure compound.

We are all learning to live and work together here at MediaCityUK, and some more than others are learning about the differing ethos of public service bodies, corporate responsibilities and the needs and expectations of the ordinary work-a-day person.  These sometimes uncomfortable tensions between public and private, coporate policy and collaboration must be wrestled with in order to create a win:win situation for all impacted by this brand new world.

It’s a tough call, and as I say, we are only just working out it’s implications and how these will manifest into the dreams of many, from a variety of perspectives.  I guess in the team-building world we’d call this the storming stage where we work out how things can or can’t work together for a settled and positive sense of the norms that will invite public and private bodies alike to enjoy living, working, studying and recreation at MediaCityUK.

 

I get that you’re a Chaplain but… you don’t REALLY believe in Jesus do you?

This quote erupted from somebody I was halfway through an hour of pastoral reflection with.  The person had talked in depth about something intensely personal and private, and had just had a break-through in their thinking when they suddenly fell quiet and looked at me quizzically.

I assumed that they were processing their lightbulb moment and stayed silent.

A very long minute or two slid quietly by.

So the question really did erupt into a profound silence in which I thought the focus was far from me or my faith.  I asked why the question had been framed.  After all, I’ve known worse distraction techniques when the going gets a bit too intense or uncomfortable and I was taken aback by the answer.

It went something along these lines (bulleted because that’s a) how my brain processes random events such as these and b) because I’m not quoting but summarising a rather long exchange)

  • I’ve just had a massive emotional breakthrough so you must be helping me (ie you ‘re not stupid)
  • Helping others must be really satisfying and lot of people are altruistic or charitable but not religious
  • Your work here is beyond ‘churchy’ stuff and some of it does not seem to be about God
  • the upshot is, how can you be switched on, making a real difference and YET believe in an unknown/seen deity?

It reminds me a bit of the attractive=sinful, plain=holy dichotomy, and I suppose it could be summed up as religious=mad or stupid, intelligent/streetwise=God? Don’t be so ridiculous!

I will have a little rant about the former in another blog, but for now I want to focus on my faith in Jesus.  I went on to share that yes, I do believe in Him, believe that He lived, died, taught, healed and was resurrected, and that I, you, we can all come into relationship with the Living God right here and now.  And that despite mountaintop experiences, no it is not an easy ride and it does not make everything alright like the fairy Godmother with her magic wand.  Jesus is there with us in our suffering, not with a time machine to remove us from it.  And there is yet another blog…

I was asked a lot of questions about what I think Jesus thinks about gays, about paedophiles, about church social events and about a number of political and social issues.  I was asked about heaven and hell.  And then just about hell. I answered as honestly and deeply and thoughtfully as I could.

The questions kept coming and I felt as if I were on Mastermind and my specialist subject was ‘Jesus Christ, Past, Present and Future.’  I was put through the ringer with some fairly profound and pointed questions. But there we are, if I do that to those who come to see me, why shouldn’t I get a dose of it myself?

Sadly, the Jesus I described was not the Jesus taught to a young child who grew up terrified of the God who watches every move and disapproves of most of them.  It was not a Christ who understood pain, sin, falling and the fallen, or who knelt in the gutter to wipe the hair from your dirty face and get you back up on your feet again.

Neither was it a faith that allowed for intelligent debate or the cut and thrust of science, psychology or genetic medicine.  Most importantly of all, the narrative of God (whether YWH, Jesus Christ, Allah or known by any other name or none) was some kind if tin-pot tea-towelled fairy-tale for children that bore absolutely no relationship to the compelling story of a child born to single mother, homeless, shivering in a stable complete not only with cattle but the stench of dung – and here I imagine – being kept warm in Joseph’s arms. TUT TUT!

A child that grew up to know what it was to be a refugee as the ran for safety from a despotic King, who grew up in a city that people sneered at, ‘Nazareth? Can anything good come out of Nazareth?’  Jesus, who never married in a culture renowned for its marital focus, who lived in a time of political oppression in occupied land and who then stood up to religious and state leaders until His unjust trial, brutal and illegal beating prior to His death row experience as He heard the crowd baying for His blood, the Blood that would turn out to be the ultimate and final sacrifice.  (Or so we Christians believe.)

So I explained that my God, or at least, what I know and understand of my God, is not that He is one step removed from the depravity and/or poverty that life throws at us, nor the snobbery, sickness, suffering and political, economic or religious oppression that we face on a day-to-day basis.  He understands being uprooted from your homeland to a place with people from another culture who really don’t want you there. He understands watching from the sidelines as those with the power, plenty and privilege plunder the penniless and those who earn a pittance, living hand to mouth.

But they didn’t know and hadn’t heard of that Jesus, they only knew about a baby, which wasn’t really a baby but somebody’s Tiny Tears and it was all a bit childish to believe in the white-bearded man in the sky who could do what you asked him if you were only good enough.

So I guess, given that, I can see why it would seem odd that most priests have higher degrees to help people sing songs about the Wizard of God, and why it might seem embarrassing to people without a faith to speak of to be confronted with those of us who give up everything to follow Him.

The person continued their sessions which were entirely refocused on them and them alone.  But when it was over  they came back to say hello and admitted that although they still didn’t believe for themselves, at least now they could see why I did, and that at least now they had something to think about for themselves, a possibility of God, of a God who can’t be discounted as a childish story or an unengaged mind.

A possibility of God.

I like that.

My First Civil Partnership

Two pumpkin lanterns shining with the message ‘Just Married’ adorned the bar of The Caves, Edinburgh, a truly atmospheric venue for all things medieval or gothic or metal or just plain romantic.

The arched red-brick roof of the room in which the ceremony took place was swathed in red, black and maroon fabrics, high over a white altar-like table bearing black candelabrum.  Plush chairs seated the guests while white candles filled and lit the room.  It was singularly the most romantic church-like setting I had ever seen.  It always surprises me that ‘civil’ venues try so very hard to represent religious overtones in the decor begging a number of blatantly obvious questions that are best left unanswered here.

I felt extremely nervous as - if I’m honest - I was dreading the ceremony.  I didn’t know what to expect and I didn’t know how I would feel about it on a number of levels.  I was there to support two of my friends, and support them wholeheartedly in their decision to make a life-long commitment to one another. 

All I did know was that two years ago I was a guest at a civil wedding in what appeared to be a side-room of a hotel that was so awful that I vowed that no navy-suited civil servant with a larger than average dose of officialitis and jobs-worthiness would ever marry any of my relatives again, if I had anything to do with it.  Suffice to say it involved a portable CD player with ensuing jobs-worthiness over what might be played on it, and more recounting of what was not allowed during the process than actual ceremony, and NO photography!!

But back to the here and now.  As we waited, a teeny-tiny flower girl ran towards candles, stomped her foot on the wonderfully resonant wooden floor and delighted guests with her antics as she explored this rather exciting new environment full of untouchable objects that were making her parents a touch anxious.

Suitably bridal music began to play as each woman, wearing a traditional bridal gown, entered the ‘chapel’.  One is a metal-head who is never out of either black or jeans, so we were all surprised at how very traditionally beautiful they (she) looked, dressed in white and holding deepest red and white rose bouquets.

There were bridemaids, too, and there were male escorts to bring them to the Registrar.  It could not have been more wedding-like. (I said ‘wedding’, not ‘marriage’.)

These things took me by surprise, but not as much as the vows they made to one another.  I had not realised that a  number of sets of promises are to be chosen from when planning one’s civil partnership.  Some emphasise companionship and trust, others fidelity and love, still others mutuality and partnership, and are chosen by the people depending upon the nature of the relationship between those undertaking the process.

This couple went the whole hog, and the vows were very close to those that a man and a woman make to one another whilst they marry one another.  In fact, one section was so moving that it brought a tear to my eye – and one or two others’.  The registrar was absolutely lovely; sensitive, profound, I might be bold enough to say that she ‘ministered’ to this couple as she enabled their partnership to take place.  She had recently attended her own son’s civil partnership and had then returned to work to request that she might lead one, having never before.  She too, was on her own  journey.

There was the signing of the legal documents, the photographs, the presentation of the couple, the applause and the recession.  This was followed by a canape and champagne reception during which we were greeted by the happy couple, followed by a formal dinner to which the couple entered to cheers.  Later there was even a cutting of the cake – just no ‘first dance’ as such.  Otherwise, it was just like any other wedding.

Most of the guests were straight couples or families, many were relatives, children were present and it was as ‘family’ an occassion as any wedding I have ever attended before.   It was, to use the dreaded word, utterly ‘normal’ despite the nod to halloween made by the pumpkins.

It shook up all of my own perceptions about what I  did and do think about civil partnerships, weddings and how gay and lesbian couples celebrate their partnerships, and I’m still not sure what I think about some of those things, I shall have to mull them over for a little while, yet.

But one thing I can say with certainty, is that this was no lightweight social event, it was a committed, fully thought through, joining of two families through the deep love and promise of life-long fidelity between two women followed by a celebration fitting the depth of that commitment.  It was moving, it was genuine and it was fun, and I’m really glad it kicked my cynicism into touch.

WWouldn’tJD

A week or so ago some media bods from within the Christian faith wanted to start a new twitter trend.  As is always the case, nothing bombs faster than *trying* to start a trend, but in the meantime we were asked for our ideas about what to trend.

I suggested #WhatWouldntJesusDo #WWtJD as #WWJD (what would Jesus do) is a long-standing Christian catch-phrase meant to challenge our behaviour and possibly inspire more Christ-like activities.  The adjudicator felt that it might tempt naughty non-Christians to be rude, but I have a higher opinion of tweeps in general, and if somebody is daft, then that doesn’t undo the trend, it simply makes them look, well *daft*.  I do have an issue with that form of Christian thinking though, but there’s another blog in the queue…

So back on track: if I read most of Jesus’ teaching, indeed, most faith teachings, apart from love the Lord your God with all of your heart, soul, strength and mind, and love your neighbour as yourself, the majority of the teachings are about what not to do.

Now I don’t mean this in the kill-joy sense, as anyone who knows me will vouch.  I am not legalistic, I look for the good in things, I try to find the positive motive even for not-ideal actions and words.  I truly believe in searching for and fanning into flame the Christ-light in all people (oops, off on one again…).  I also like to play, laugh and enjoy all of the wonderful opportunities life on this planet with such diverse people presents, including trying things that might be beyond narrow paradigms of ‘this is what we do’. Especially if the reason is ‘because this is what we have always done’. 

I tend to think of us as

a) still evolving (God help us if we’re not)

b) still experiencing revelation from the Holy Spirit ‘who will teach us all things’ some of which we are ‘not strong enough to bear’ just yet. (And historically, it strikes me that the relatively recent end of slavery, challenge to racism, apartheid, gender discrimination and sexism speak volubly to that debatable point…)

But then I am an ENTP, so I would, wouldn’t I?

But my point is this, and Giles Fraser illustrates it beautifully:

Jesus WOULDN’T support unjust systems, structural thought they may be.

Jesus WOULDN’T deny His faith tradition’s teachings in order to maintain power and privilege: wasn’t He the one the ruling classes (religious and otherwise) crucified because He wouldn’t shut up?

Jesus WOULDN’T ever advocate using force to deny anyone anything; we have one example of Him losing his rag, and lo if that wasn’t Him turning over the tables of the market place within the synagogue because His people were being economically ripped off as His Father’s House turned from a House of Prayer to a ‘den of thieves’.  And yes, I am paraphrasing scripture there, our Saviour’s attributed words.

As a tweep (MitchBenn) pointed out this morning

‘I think if I were a cleric and I were ordered to cast people out of the temple because they were annoying the money lenders, I’d quit too.’ 
 
 

All Change!

MediaCityUK Chaplain with The Digital Nun

Well, there I am today,  a year into being Chaplain at MediaCityUK, writing up the annual report and wondering if the sun will hold out for the weekend so that I can razz up to Langdale and spent a night in my tent.  I go downstairs for some lunch and to drop in and welcome the new dentists on the first floor of the car-park building and say hello to the folk working in Costa.

Suddenly, I’m met with the computer generated view I used in the wee intro film for my interview presentation twelve months ago, except that it’s for real.  There are people striding across the piazza smiling, as others drop down on the lawns with their sandwiches, saying in disbelief, ‘wow, it’s virtually tropical up here!’  Students are touring around their state of the art facilities, and a new batch of BBC employees are having their guided tour and are standing in the piazza as their guide explains which building is which and where each of their departments are.

The atmosphere is fantastic, and everyone I have spoken to is thrilled with their new working environment but even as we celebrate all that is happening here, and all that has been achieved this past year, I think it’s really important at this time to remember that it’s not without great cost.

On Wednesday, six of us came together to share in Holy Communion at The Anchor here at MediaCityUK and the scriptures couldn’t have been more pertinent.  First Nehemiah gaining favour with the King and setting out to go and rebuild a desolate city with the resources, diplomatic immunity and political favour he had gained from his state position.  He clearly executed his work very well and cheerfully, given the King’s noting his sad demeanour as extraordinary while the Queen’s only concern is when he will be back.  Off he goes and begins a building project as ambitious as MediaCityUK, relatively speaking.  You don’t need to be a rocket scientist to draw the parallels.

The gospel reading was slightly more challenging: it was Jesus’ call to leave all behind, including family if need be, in order to follow Christ – or for those of other faiths and none read, to follow one’s vocation.  I’m an Anglican priest, so it goes with the territory.  It is unlikely that I shall ever live anywhere for longer than a decade again, and in many cases for between just 5-8 years as we move towards contractual posts.

Of course, I was aware of this as I began to explore my vocation, and it is true to say that the first years are the most difficult, with just two or three years at college, then three or four as a curate and then up-sticks again for your first independent post – and this one is just another three year stint.  Knowing that you will be moving on regularly doesn’t make it any easier when almost as soon as a sense of home and community begin to develop you are thinking about uprooting yourself again.  And as I recall my initial move North from Worcester to Blackpool 22 years ago aged just 21, I recall that it never occurred to me that there would be such a difference in cultural norms, and I really did experience culture shock.  When I lived in Cambridge to train for priestly ministry, the contrast was all too evident yet again.

The thing is, I chose this, with all my heart, and to be fair, I do have some say in where I might be posted next now that the early stages have passed.  I can’t begin to imagine what it must feel like to have to follow your vocation to a place you didn’t choose, when you had imagined you were joining an organisation that rooted it would be akin to imagining a continent floating to another hemisphere, to guess that at some point you’d be making the transition from London to Salford.

So although the sun has shone down on us these last two weeks, and the buildings are beautiful, and the people are friendly, at The Anchor we are keeping in our prayers all who have and are making this journey in following their own vocation.  The majority if whom are leaving people and places behind they love dearly and may even have grown up with, to embrace a whole new culture in a brand new community.  And we want to say, welcome, and we want you to know that we understand.

Ooh I’m going start calling you GANDHI!

Last evening a friend was getting all irate about an ongoing situation in my life where somebody is intent on nausing me with a continuing campaign of irritation and undermining tactics which don’t actually change any outcomes but do mean that my poor little brain has to stay one step ahead instead of being as chilled as any ageing hippy really wishes to be.

Suffice to say that as they built up a head of steam, I replied something along the lines of, ‘I’m not really sure that’s the way forward: don’t you think that seeing me carrying on as normal and not being derailed is punishment enough, seeing that all their efforts come to nothing?’

At which point, Frustrated blurted, ‘Ooh I’m going to start calling you GANDHI!’ (Anyone who knows me will know that this is very funny because I am not remotely like Gandhi – or Jesus for that matter).

We laughed, but it points to something much deeper that I’ve been ruminating on since I came to Thailand (48hrs ago).  The gentleness of these people hit me between the eyes.  So far I’ve been directed the right trains, trams, tuk-tuks and had people steer me away from racketeers, pick up my dropped items, help me with the right size and colour of a t-shirt with a truly excellent image of Jesus on it (‘The Dude’).

People greet and say farewell with ‘prayer’ hands, nodding respectfully.  Shoes are left outside, feet point away from all that is good and sacred, peace is the optimum state of being despite the business of the city (I am currently in Bangkok soon to head for the sticks).  And yes, this is Buddhism at it’s best.

And the truth of the matter is that too often my own faith, Christianity, is not only perceived as judgmental and combative, it IS!  Gandhi famously studied the scriptures we know and love and came to a deep love and reverence of Jesus as Divine, but famously rejected the faith having been met with the bullying disdain of the Christian Missionaries intent on Anglicising the indigenous Indians they were ‘ministering’ to, although his words were a little more circumspect:

I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.

And, ‘If Christians would really live according to the teachings of Christ, as found in the Bible, all of India would be Christian today.’

I can understand this entirely, because if it wasn’t for my own personal revelation of Jesus Christ (having ploughed my way through a number of religions on the search for connection with the Divine Source) offering salvation as a gift of grace and faith – and that in itself an unearned gift from God, then I would be included to conclude that these people have found The Way.

Spending my time with these people, watching how they live and worship in just two short days has set into stark relief some of the attitudes, anger, hatred and power-mongering that has slipped into the faith that claims to follow our Lord, Jesus Christ, where people who claim to follow Him deliberately set out to ‘get one up’, prove themselves ‘right’ and otherwise reject or hurt others in order to polish their own halos.

This stands in stark contrast to Jesus’ message of love, peace, patience, self-control, turning the other cheek, foot-washing and laying down one’s life in preference of the other, the message that Gandhi taught as a living testament in the same way that Jesus was incarnate to show us The Way in living, breathing, hot and dusty humanity, dealing with the same spiritual and political ideologies that we do today, and yet in such a different way.

I sometimes fear that we have lost the art and the understanding of passive, peaceful resistance leading to true liberation, but ‘where sin abounds, grace abounds more’ and there I rest my hope.

Salford Riots

I’m just in from work – it’s taken me five hours to travel a mile and half.  I’d been in Salford City just four hours before to pick up my new glasses.  Old ladies were buying groceries, young mums topping up on hair products, the precinct the usual busy, sociable hub it always is.  Somebody always stops and says hello, ‘Are you really a vicar…?’  Today we had a laugh in the opticians because they have a £5 eye test promotion and the woman on the phone could be heard to respond to her caller, ‘No not £5 for one eye, it’s £5 for BOTH eyes…’ and we all fell about laughing.

There were rumours of riots then and I knew it was false, but by the time I drove home, I was pulling up behind the BBC van that was later torched (not ten minutes after I’d decided to park mine in a car park a little way away as we were on double yellows).

Lots of riot police, lots of vans, thousands of spectators, and a handful of teenage hoodies with bricks and stones, more mouth than action.  The police did a really good job of dispersing them over an hour and a half and it seemed that all was quiet.

But just a couple of lads and one drunk elderly man began pulling at bargain Booze’s shutters, as another kicked cracks into the bank’s door.  He was drunk and angry and clearly hated the police, and judging by the first name terms he was no stranger to them either.

To cut a long story short some of us ended up ‘kettled’ while the police at either end of the precincts kept control of the lads with the stones.  I was wearing my dog collar being on my way home which made this experience all the more surreal.

As some men picked up half bricks and got in line to lob them at police vans, the action shifted from one place to another so no matter where you stood you ended up in the thick of it at some point.  Bizarrely, whenever it came near me, one or other of them (yes, the brick throwers) would basically halt fire and ensure I was somewhere safe (even to escorting and physically shielding me from rocks) before giving the OKay for more missile throwing.

I was being protected by the people instigating the violence!

More bizarrely still, during the lulls many men came and spoke with me.  Young, old, missile throwers, spectators, residents, the employed and the unemployed.

They all had a story, they all had a theory.  We’ve heard them all so I wont recount them.  And there was a grain of truth in every one.  Then some of the youths set fire to Salix: a place that enables people to find somewhere to live.  People began to get really pissed off with the ‘bored young lads destroying our community’ as one bloke put it.

I spoke with the reporter whose car was set on fire just moments before.  He seemed really shaken and later some residents told me that the lads had set on him for filming/recording/photographing them – after all it would count as ‘evidence’.  And there I was with hundreds of others with my iPhone out seemingly completely immune.

Oddly, one man put down his golf club (being used to smash shop windows) when he saw my collar.  He went red and nodded at me.  Others put down stolen goods, and still others walked up to proclaim their disgust at what was happening.  But as the drinking (‘free beer!’ (stolen from the aforementioned Bargain Booze)) got underway, cars screeched into the area that clearly were the organised element of the criminal culture and I thought it wise to cover up.

As I watched from the thick of black smoke billowing from a burned out car, talking to residents of the blocks of flats in direct line of the fire, I watched teenagers loot an electrical good sole trader’s shop.  Don’t get me wrong when I say this, but if they’d nicked the TVs and laptops I could almost understand it, but they simply brought them outside and smashed them to bits in the street.

Young girls on alcopops ‘dared’ each other to go and nick something.  Lads tried to break onto Lidl and set fire to it, and mothers sent small children in to fill shopping bags with food and beer because they are too young to be arrested.  I wasn’t the only one challenging some of this – other residents were trying to talk sense into those who had somehow lost all sense of their normal boundaries but it seemed like one big joke to a mass of hysterical people laughing all the way to the bank.  How could anyone putt their children in such a dangerous position, never mind ask them to commit crimes?

Suddenly a mass exodus: the precint had been compromised and there were shouts of ‘iPhones! Xboxes! Everything!  You can get whatever you want!’ Hoodies went up and scarfs went over faces, in they went and more ‘respectable’ cars started arriving to collect the goods.  Youths started arriving with hammers and the women and girls backed off.  What appalled me most were the amount of families, and I mean kids in the back seat, involved in all of this.  Like some kind of surreal supermarket sweep, winner takes all, what a larrrff! Children hung out of their car windows video-ing it all on their mobiles.

I could smell cannabis on the street, big time, and of course everyone had beer and wine bottles in hand from the looting.  The police were just a focus for all of the aggressive energy, and watching what was going on, I felt that letting them loot themselves out would be preferable to seeing them turn back on the police and smash all of the allegedly bullet proof windows in yet again – and take another pummeling with potentially lethal missiles.

I left just half an hour ago, as I was able to leave once the police vans were smashed up and they retreated temporarily.  Amazingly, just a few hundred yards away all is at peace and the riot is ‘on TV‘.  My clothes stink of smoke and I want to weep with rage at a society that has disenfranchised so many for so long whilst brainwashing two/three generations of children to want, want, want!  I can still hear the sheer joy in that lads voice, ‘X-boxes! iPhones! You can get whatever you want!’  All of his empty dreams being fulfilled – well temporarily anyway.

I also feel a kind of empty, shocked sorrow that I heard young children being taught to hate the police as they arrived, that parents would send them into dark, dangerous buildings to loot to feed their own greed, happy to teach them that stealing and looting and robbing and mindless waste and destruction are ‘funny’, because if I heard that once I heard it a thousand times tonight.  ’I just think it’s funny!’

I saw the faces of police personnel, hardened with concentration for the task at hand, while people laughed at the potential damage they would inflict on somebody else’s wife, son, daughter, mother.

The trouble is, we do have a two tier society without a doubt, and while bankers have been allowed their bonuses having stitched us up every which way, we will continue to pay for this in more ways than one, and tonight is just one of them.  With the cuts aimed primarily at the poor and the needy and the disenfranchised, things can only get worse.

And what will we do?  Continue to promulgate the values that have created this deadly cocktail of haves and have-nots, faithless, hopeless people who have been taught that consumerism is a recreational right and all moral and religious education completely nonsensical?  Surely THIS is nonsensical?!

Please God that we wake up and smell the coffee, before we condemn yet another generation (no pun intended).