Of Holocausts and Crucifixion

There hasn't been much time to reflect upon the sufferings of Jesus and the significance of his death and resurrection lately. But one thing that has struck me is a development of my Christmas revelation.

It occurred to me before Christmas that Jesus represents the inverse of the "gods" of this world. Those who can, use their powers to save themselves from pain, from suffering, from hard work. The powerful cushion themselves as far as possible by making others do the hard work on their behalf; by letting others suffer in their place.

And the Incarnation - the idea that God became human in Jesus - means that the God of the "New Testament" embraces a world of suffering, coming to serve rather than to make others serve. The crucifixion of Jesus brings this to its climax - or perhaps its nadir. The depth to which this God-Man will sink. Humiliation, nakedness, clubbed and torn open, dragged out to the city dump, Gehenna, the place of uncleanness of every sort. Treated as unworthy of any sort of dignity or even of life itself, God-in-Jesus not only identifies with, but joins the ranks of, the world's scum, those whose lives are not only of no value, but whose breath is considered an active waste of oxygen.


Earlier this month I visited the US Holocaust Memorial Museum. It was such a beautiful day, it seemed sinful to enter those dark doors to face those grim realities. Yet I knew I would be failing the next generation, if I failed to take the step of informing myself. And there, in the ashes of the human beings discarded whilst their hair and shoes were stored as of, at least some value, I breathed the words of Jesus:

"Insomuch as you did it to the least of these my brethren, you did it to me."
Matthew 25

Tonight, my brain made the connection. Our Holocaust is a Global one. The poorest of the poor deprived of their homes and subsistence by expanding deserts and torrential floods, increasingly powerful hurricanes and typhoons, and more of them; rising sealevels threatening vast expanses of inhabited land and the inevitable demographics of migration, economic refugees... Like most of us during the Third Reich, we can just go on assuming that it's not really as bad as they say...
Though it has to be said, there isn't going to be much left even for the rich if we don't act now to save the poor.

Another Word echoes: (The additions in brackets are my commentary.)

For whoever wants to save his life(style) will lose it,
but whoever loses his life(style) for me will save it.
What good is it for a man to gain the whole world,
and yet lose or forfeit his very self?
Luke 9: 24, 25

Water of Life

Hey, look at this! Thanks to http://jippy.typepad.com/ for the happiest news this century.

Water Pumps powered,
not by the virtual or literal enslavement of women,
but by children at play.

What an inspiration! Clean, eco-friendly, fun-powered renewable technology.
And the water is clean, drinkable, and without disease.
See Playpumps International for the dénouement.



There has to be more of this type of community development out there...
If you can better that, I want to hear about it!

Deepening Prayer

I sat with two other people, back straight, feet planted firmly on the floor,
and eyes closed, listening.
Alan said to imagine the gaze of God upon us.
So I did.
Although he said to sense the warmth of the light of God,
instead of sunshine,
what I felt was like water.
Cleansed, washed.

I remembered my little girl as a baby, loving her bath,
gazing into my face as she splashed and wriggled in the water.
Beautiful.
The most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
(Is this how God sees me?! THAT much love?)

And the day - maybe she'd been splashed -
she decided that wet hair was for her no more.
No matter how I coaxed, reassured, or carried on regardless,
that trusting gaze was lost, and the fun turned into a nightmare.

My delight in her now mixes with fury.
She makes herself so miserable, and for what?
(Is this anything like the "wrath" of God?)
So angry with her for pointlessly refusing
the love and joy and peace that is here for her,
if only she would choose trust, rather than her own way.

She's sleeping now, at last.
Finally given in to her body's clamouring for rest.
God's grace is greater even than
her capacity for fighting sleep - and that's saying something!

And Alan read of the man covered in leprosy, who came to Jesus,
threw himself down in front of him and said,
"Lord, if you want to, you can make me clean."
And Jesus touched the leper... and said,
"I do want to."
And the man was cleansed.
Me too, it seems!

Is THIS what Jesus told you guys to do? (again)

Made - or rather, received the gift of, a new friend today. Another American... and a delight.

She gave us the excuse to visit Fitzroy Presbyterian again, which was a blessing on lots of levels.
About seven people smiled and said hi before we even got in the front door - and they didn't ALL recognise me from previous visits, I'm sure.

I might have been the only ordained clergy in the building, and I was in a pew, holding a toddler. But the spirit of Ken Newell was there, even if he was away. That is, his faith in the Holy Spirit to empower the Church to be the Church, even without clergy present! My guess is that Roberta the Administrator played no small part in putting this together. That Blessed Gift of Administration, without which, ministers fall on our faces. They had a good range of different faces and voices contributing to a well-planned and well-led time of worship, reflection and family interaction. There was enough indication of engagement in making the world a better place to show this is a group of people for whom faith is bound in shoe-leather.

Even Littlun sang along - and stayed and listened to the whole service. Keith Lockart started and ended his "sermon" with a song - what a beautiful voice, guitar, and picture-painting story-telling songwriter! His day-job's architecture; but I like to think that using these gifts builds a cathedral of practical praise.

Afterwards, we met for bread, soup and cheese, enjoyed each other's company and raised money for Tearfund. Then our new friend came and inhabited our messy space with her earthed and joyful presence.

Is this what Jesus told us to do? Well not entirely. But it helps to meet and remind each other what he did tell us to be and do. I'm glad I went to Church today!

Washington DC

If I'd had a wireless connection on my laptop, and a less clunky, heavy one, perhaps I'd have taken it to the USA and blogged through my recent experiences of seeing faith-based community work, social action and political engagement around the Capitol... But I've noticed that Gordon McDade has blogged most of it (if not the childish hilarity of certain moments) with insight and passion, so I'll send you there.

Photos, though, are something else. You can find them at http://www.flickr.com/photos/cherylwonders/2319785414/


http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2230/2319785414_9af49745e0_m.jpg

"Is this really what Jesus told you guys to do?"

I went along to a North Belfast Presbytery service in Carnmoney Presbyterian last night. An eye-shaped building, combining a large (possibly a thousand-seater?) auditorium with the intimacy of a much smaller venue, by virtue of curved rows of seats, and curved, tiered balcony.
I arrived late, and they were already singing. Singing well, actually. The music was not too glitzy, but lively and enticing. I saw a ten-year-old-ish girl dancing along spontaneously.
Isn't this how church should be?
Well, maybe not, actually, though it is far, far better than many less enthusiastic, and unenthusing alternatives. Which leads me to the subject of my recent reading:

Jim & Casper Go To Church: Casper the Atheist is hired by Jim Henderson the White Male American Pastor, to come visit some different churches and receive $25 per visit, in return for his thoughts and impressions. It's an interesting cross-section of church experiences, and should be on the reading list for any seminary. But really the back of the fly-leaf tells the main point: "Is this really what Jesus told you guys to do?"

Now, if that line were to become the test by which church leadership meetings guided their decisions, I wonder what difference it would make...

Of Women, and children first

Juno. Loved this film. And hated it. Or rather, hated the fact that I cried my way through, in between the comedy. It's a fairy tale, really. You can tell by the artificially clever dialogue. These aren't characters, they are representatives. A teenage pregnant superhero, more together than the adults around her. Screwed up... gutsy, witty, unrealistically controlled and calculating in her sexuality, though her vulnerability shows through in the end.

It's a film about women and their bodies. Wanting babies and not having them. Not wanting them and having them. And hapless males with nothing of value to say on the subject. For all that can be said about the positive modelling of choosing life and choosing to give the child up for adoption, the real challenge would be a film which explored other options, which include choosing to save sex for a stable, committed (even married?) relationship. Now THAT would be radical.

Or, what about a film which shows MEN dealing with the desire for children, and their desire and proactive search for intimate relationship which isn't just about reproductive organs? Is this just too far beyond a filmmaker's imagination? Or beyond the imagination of the financial backers, perhaps? Fairy Tales shape our imagination - and thereby, our future.

Truth Commissioner

For reasons too complex to explain here, I found myself alone at David Park's book launch tonight, in Belfast's Linen Hall Library. (I love that venue! The glassy strip of staircase rising four, five stories high between Victorian shops).

I haven't read The Truth Commissioner. It arrived on my bedside table just before I fell asleep last night. So I was not only alone; I was ignorant. I've never read any of David Park's books. Criminally negligent-ly Ignorant.

I came home with an armful. All written out of the Troubles, it seems. What else is there, if you come from here? Well... I guess to write from here and not find the Troubles on the sleeve is to have neglected one permeating factor in all our lives.

Odd then, that so much preaching, sermon-writing, modern praise music emanating from the Northern part of this Island seems to ignore that claustrophobic elephant. The one we hope will go away if we don't talk about it. What sort of Truth is this, that castigates only our enemies, condemns only Others, and fails to empower Protestants to stay in an area when Roman Catholics move in?

Truth has been substantially decommissioned; laid aside in a dark space, out of sight, while we quietly go out of our minds. Fill them with makeovers, holidays, new kitchens and plasma tellies - and despise anyone who chooses greener, more neighbourly tv-free lifestyles. While sneering and superficiality are in vogue, what philanthropist will commission new works?

Artists of the World Unite. You have nothing to lose but your audience.

Going, Going...

Gone? Can anyone tell me, are Comfort Adefowoju and her children still in the UK? Or were they sent back to Nigeria?

Leaving on a Jet Plane?

Unbelievable. If Sinn Fein's website is correct, there are still plans to deport Comfort Adefowoju and her children tomorrow.
What will it take for the Home Office to realise that these are not the people to be removing from the UK!?

Speechless. And disgusted.

Changing airports

Instead of concerned bystanders watching weary parents tussling with three-year olds, we have oohs and aahs, as Littlun merrily rolls along astride her Trunki. The airport's atmosphere changes as we pass. I'm putting time in waiting for our flight. Normally at this stage, I'm torn between boredom with the millionth sedentary reread of Dora the Explorer, and the unpalatable attempt to trail a hefty Littlun and her entertainment bag (books, toys, crayons) around the airport. Today I'm walking about comfortably, with Trunki rolling easily (if a little erratically) behind.

He's not capacious, as suitcases go. But for travelling light, in both kilos and humour, our Green TowGo hit the spot.

All went well till my precious charge fell asleep unexpectedly on the return journey, just as we were arriving at the airport, and I wished I had brought my pushchair after all. But when she awoke, going through the security portal, one sight of Trunki was enough to dispel the grumbles.

The verdict: a pushchair/stroller kept until reaching the doors of the plane is the practical option for a smaller child (so long as the airline aren't charging it as extra baggage.) But Trunki certainly brightened and shortened the waiting.

Confession time: I have even used it as hand baggage when travelling without a child, as it is just the right size for the tiny hand baggage allowances on Aer Arann. It was a real squeeze to get my stuff in, but still trundled along like a puppy behind me! And no waiting for bags on arrival.

The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas

It's a wet Sunday afternoon. Too cold to be out and about. Perfect weather for reading this deceptively simple, profound, hopeful and disturbing ... what? novel? story?
more than that.
Parable.

I can't spoil it by telling anyone more than that you must read it.

The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas. John Boyne.

It won't take long.

It isn't difficult.

It's compelling.

As irritating as a nine-year-old boy can be.

And as deserving of attention.

Read it!