Tuesday, 28 June 2016

This is where our scars meet

I hadn't expected Orlando.

Stupid to say. Of course no one expected it. We hadn't expected Paris, or Brussels, or Charlie Hebdo either. But it wasn't just that I hadn't expected the attack, either on American soil or in an LGBT nightclub. I also hadn't expected my response.

The night after the news from the attacks filtered through our news channels, I lay awake for hours. I sweated and wept and when I finally did slip into dreaming I found myself in a concentration camp, the gaunt, hollowed faces of friends and acquaintances staring up at me, their clothes ragged H&M t-shirts, their bodies 21st century skeletons. I woke, startled, too afraid to sleep again, and walked through the next day in a daze, interrupted by unexpected bursts of tears and shock. Somehow this grief was personal. I felt as though my own friends had been attacked, and I feared for their safety, for my safety, for the safety of our cities and parades and nightclubs.

On Saturday, I was privileged to take part in the Pride Communion Service hosted by Christians at Pride in Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church. As I searched for songs appropriate to play during the Eucharist, I looked for songs which could communicate not only the intimate embrace of Christ found in the sacrament, not just the solidarity of splitting bread and wine with brothers and sisters in Christ, but also the specific grief of those who have been persecuted and hounded by, at times, the church itself, and who are struggling to find a way to channel that pain, fear and grief in a holy and godly way. Where was Christ in Orlando? Where is he in our fear, now?

Perhaps unsurprisingly, I couldn't find a song encapsulating all that...so I wrote one:

I was there, I was there when they stormed your streets,
I was there, I was there when the bricks flew. 
I was there, I was there when the shots rang out, 
I was there when they silenced you.

I was there when they forced you from your homes, 
When they tore your clothes in two; 
I was there when they taunted and scorned your love, 
I was there when they crucified you. 

 Come, all who are weary,
All who are wounded and worn from the road; 
Come, you who still reel from rejection, 
You with the shame-ridden souls.
Come, eat;
Drink deep.
This is where our scars meet.

I was there when your closest friends betrayed, 
When your loved ones turned away;
I was there, I was there in the darkest night,
I was there when you tried to pray.

I was there when you found the strength to rise, 
When you stood up tall and proud.
I was there when you looked them in the eyes 
And proclaimed your name out loud. 

Come, all who are lonely and heartached,
Here is a place for your grief; 
Come, if you're burned by religion, 
Lay down your burdens, and breathe.
Come, eat;
Drink deep. 
This is where our scars meet.

This is my body; you are my body, broken and bruised. 
We are shared for the many; hope lies in these wounds. 
Nothing is wasted; each scars tells a story of grace. 
Poured out as an offering, none of this suffering falls to waste. 
Come, eat;
Drink deep.
This is where our scars meet. 

Tuesday, 31 May 2016

In Defence of the Devil

When I was little, I knew that demons existed.

I also believed in Robin Hood and secret societies and Father Christmas until I was 10 years old, when I sat my parents down and very seriously asked them whether or not he really did come down the chimney.

Demons, though; they were different. I knew demons existed because every Sunday I went to church where we sang about Jesus and long-skirted women waved flags and then a different man would get up and exhort us for an hour from behind a lectern – if we were lucky with shouting and fist-banging or maybe even crying. Some people didn't like it when the men shouted, but I thought it was exciting. The men all believed in demons. Nobody mentioned them much outside of those hour-long slots; certainly nobody claimed to cast any out, or suffer from an infestation. But demons were to be taken seriously, as was everything the Bible talked about. No one ever spoke about Father Christmas like they did about demons.

The devil was also mentioned, quite a lot in fact, and people did talk about him outside the sermons. The devil was responsible for most of what went wrong in the world; natural disasters, laws we didn't like getting passed, the elder who had an affair with a married woman. The devil was the one who tempted you by trailing sticky, tantalising thoughts through your brain to lead you off the path of righteousness; the one who thrust that red hot poker of rage into your ribcage so you wanted to swear at your brother; the one who trickled warm, dizzying excitement down your spine when you saw that hot actress on TV. The devil was real, personal and right up in your face, panting sizzling smoke into your lungs to get you hooked. The easiest way to get rid of him was to tell him to get lost in Jesus' name. I did a lot of that as a kid; even more as a teenager (admittedly, sometimes after a lengthy hesitation while I sampled the delicious temptations on display).

I've grown up a lot since then. I go to a different church where no one shouts and flag-waving is strictly prohibited. No one talks about the devil in this church. No one talks about demons much either, or temptation, and the 's' word is pretty much banned.

A few weeks ago, I went to the pub with my friend from church, Straight Claire. Straight Claire is the opposite of me in pretty much every way: she's a petite, blonde, hippy-shaped vegan, with two teenagers and a penchant for grey-haired men. Claire came to faith through her kids, a thirty-something Buddhist artist with a contemplative soul and a shitload of incense sticks. Straight Claire thinks almost everything I think is completely nuts, and I return the compliment. That's what makes drinking pints with her so excellent; we spend hours investigating the others' preposterous theological ideas, while I drown my incredulity with Cornish fish-gut ale and she rescues drowning flies from her vegan lager.

Straight Claire, when I first mentioned the devil in passing, literally laughed out loud and then stopped halfway through because she realised I was serious. "The devil?" she groaned. "You seriously believe in the devil?" She did a little half-hop pitchfork dance with pokey-up finger horns. "Tail, hooves, hellfire?"

I had to laugh at that. Even my hellfire-preaching fundamentalist church back home didn't believe the devil came in a red catsuit with cloven heels. But yes. Yes, the devil.

The devil's got real unpopular recently. Now society's all grown up and worked out how to use penicillin, we've got no use for myths like Satan. We know that if you practice for 10, 000 hours, you too can play like Robert Johnson, no soul-selling required. Even the church ducks its head apologetically at his mention, and mutters about medieval symbols and ancient cultural superstitions and the language of divine accommodation.

I've got no problem with divine accommodation: the idea that God communicates with us through the Bible as an adult to a small child, using simplistic concepts to communicate complex realities. I don't read the Bible literally; I'm with Calvin on this (if nothing else).

What fascinates me is that even though we acknowledge that spiritual reality is complex, far beyond our finite human comprehension, even though we read Biblical texts aware of their mythological purpose and the necessity of invoking simple imagery to give readers a handle on an incomprehensible spiritual dimension, we then stretch and say, "But obviously all that devil stuff was back then for those ignorant human societies. Now we've got combustion engines and can split the atom, we know the devil was just a metaphor for forces beyond human control." As if, now we can describe precisely what it looks like at a cellular level when cancer swarms your body and eats it alive from the inside, we have got a handle on all the perennial metaphysical agony humanity has wrestled with for years.

I don't know if the devil is real, in the sense of a dancing pitchforked hysterical twisted angel, screwing up every bit of good he can get his hooves on. I don't know if he's an impersonal force, the inevitable shadow side of creation. I do know what evil tastes like, when it brushes up against you and leaves a metallic sting of blood in your mouth. I know what it feels like to have depression suffocate you like a thick black fog of violence, so your own wrist twists the knife blade towards you against your will. I know what it feels like to slump against a brick wall, sluggish under the weight of living death, while Jesus screams in your ear, "Fight! Fight for your life!"

Does it feel better if you imagine the devil isn't real? Not really. On the days I lay shattered, twisted and cramped in the bottom of a deep, deep canyon of despair, it felt easier to see the devil dancing round me. The slurs ripping from his lips were then the cursing of hell. The blood-soaked thoughts seeping behind my eyes were the devil's work, not mine. All the violence, all the agony, all the cloud were Satan's work, the fumes of hell, not me, not my soul, not my mind. The depression was a battle to be fought, between the forces of light - me, a child of God, made in the image of Love, formed by a deliberate Creator - and the forces of darkness: something outside, external, a parasite trying to take me over. I was not the darkness. The darkness was someone else.

I don't think we've grown up much, in the past few hundred years. Sure, we can blow shit up. We can prolong the dying. We can make dazzling colours and lightning conversation and fly to the moon and back. But we don't know a damn thing more - if you'll excuse the pun - about evil. If anything, we've sanitised ourselves so much that we know less. The evil we know (here in the west) comes to us through television screens, hyped up and retold by film makers or sprayed with objectivity and recited by newsreaders. But you can't stop it. Now and again it rears its ugly head, like the parasite it is. Now and again the devil dances through our streets and leaves a hanging teenage boy or a battered child in his wake.

It strikes me as breathtakingly arrogant to assume that we have achieved such spiritual and emotional virtuosity as an entire generation that we no longer need any simple images to understand evil. That we, a nation who still drop bombs on delicate, middle-eastern villages, who stare straight in the face of terror-wracked refugee children and refuse them shelter, who spin webs of political deceit to avoid facing our mistakes, have fathomed the essence of good and evil beyond any of our predecessors. Are we really so advanced? It has the same ring of the accusation that faith in God is a crutch. Well sure; you're the one still stumbling around with your twisted kneecaps. At least I know I'm limping.

I'm not smart enough to know whether the devil really exists. I'm not wise enough to know what spiritual 'existence' even really means. But I know that the best way to fight against the sick evil that invades our world, that shatters children's skulls and rapes pregnant women and snaps the necks of husbands, is to declare war against it, and fight with all our breath against it when it threatens to poison our own souls too. Or in other words: to give him a name – and then tell him to get the hell out in Jesus'.

Wednesday, 25 May 2016

On Winning, Strutting, and Crowing: or how Jesus uses competitive, ambitious jerks

'This God will use you, this God will use all of you, and not just your strengths, but your failures and your failings. Your weakness is fertile ground for a forgiving God to make something new and to make something beautiful, so don't ever think that all you have to offer are your gifts.'
- Nadia Bolz-Weber, 'Accidental Saints'

Don't ever think that all you have to offer are your gifts.

Two nights ago, on our 'community night', the other members of Stithians Community House and I sat down to play Risk. One girl had only ever played it once before in her life - the week before, when I'd swept the board by my second turn, completely hammering her and our opponent, an avid Risk enthusiast, into the ground. Naturally, I had been a gracious winner - while smirking and doing a little gleeful dance. I'm very good at graciously winning.

This night, we were going to have a proper game. I'd explained to her how unlikely the previous win had been; how Risk usually drags on for three hours; how it was probably just fluke (or my incredible, unmatched talent! I added silently). This time it would be a more normal game.

It started evenly. I settled in for the long haul, tried my luck a few times, won a few, lost a few. The others took their turns, knocked off a few of my territories, lost a few battles themselves. So far so average. And then, as I counted up my reinforcements and began planning my final campaign, I realised it was going to happen again. I realised that once more, on my second turn, I was going to completely wipe the board. Now, I'd like to tell you that, knowing it was her second time playing ever, knowing that our other opponent was also competitive and wanted a chance to win, I let it slide and let the game continue. That I evened the odds and allowed the others a chance. But nope. The taste of supremacy was in my mouth! Cackling with joy and bloodlust, I gleefully destroyed my other community members, one by one.

You can probably tell from the blow-by-blow account I've given how much I relished that victory. I mean, I sent a tweet out in case the whole world hadn't noticed that I WAS THE WINNER.

The next day, a recruitment project I've been working on for the diocese came to a close, and to my absolute relish, we were hugely oversubscribed. My main focus this year has been to promote and recruit volunteers for the project lest it close, and as the emails rolled in yesterday confirming we had doubled the numbers, I felt the same sweet victorious smugness spread warmly through my limbs. "I AM THE CHAMPION!" my inner dancing victory-bot yelled out. "ALL HAIL ROSE, QUEEN OF MAKING THE THINGS WORK!"

Now as I've explained, I'm a terribly gracious winner, and so naturally I thanked God at this point. In fact I prayed several times over the next hour or so as I basked in my own wonderfulness. "Thank you God," I mumbled earnestly, "for making me so talented, and so good at my job. Thank you that I've done such brilliant work. I've been such a blessing to other people. I've really done the best stuff here..." Occasionally I would trail off, as one is want to do, into my own thoughts, remembering past triumphs and basking in the distant light of those also. I really am excellent at doing the things.

It wasn't until perhaps forty five minutes of this fairly continuous self-congratulatory spewage that, mid-prayer, God tapped me on the forehead and pointed out that my prayer was 10% God-related, 90% ego-masturbation. And how maybe 'thank you God for how amazing I am at everything' isn't a terribly honest prayer.

*   *   *

In case you hadn't noticed, I'm quite competitive. In fact, I'm a potent combination of competitiveness, ambition and perfectionism. The Belbin team-roles I automatically gravitate to are monitor evaluator, which means I am continuously analysing current activities and critiquing them for constant improvement, and shaper, which means I am super-focused on getting to the goal and conquering everything in my our path. I want to win, I want a perfect win, and when I do win, the sheer pleasure rolls through my body like a warm syrup, leaving glistening crystals of sugar satisfaction in its wake.

The trouble is, 'winning' doesn't just mean doing a good job; it means someone else losing. In order to be the best, someone has to be worse. And the Kingdom we live in, as disciples of Christ, is weighted to exactly the opposite attitude.

In Mark 10, James and John ('Sons of Thunder!'*) sneak up to Jesus while the other disciples are busy, and ask him to make them his Deputy Emperors after the revolution, over the rest of his subjects. Jesus, mind worryingly full of the excruciating torture awaiting him, tells them flatly, "You don't know what you're asking. Can you drink the cup I drink, or be baptised with the baptism with which I am baptised?" "We can," they state, and we can imagine their eyes firm and confident, their strong hands resting on their swords, ready to plunge them into the nearest Roman breast in the upcoming battle. "You will," he promises, "but the positions of honour are not mine to grant."

Naturally, the other disciples get wind of this and completely lose their tempers at the prospect of having to bow down and serve James and John when they've spent just as much time with Jesus, sacrificed just as many luxuries, suffered just as many hardships. So Jesus, the weight of the crucifixion still crushing his thoughts, has to wade in and break up the bickering, laying down the realities before them. How he must have wished they'd understand. Here it is, the cross looming over him, death imminent, and his closest friends still think that 'glory' means thrones and gold and dancing girls. "No!" he says, exasperated. "You're thinking backwards. The gentile rulers lord it over their subjects, throwing their authority around. But it's not like that here. Not with us. With us, whoever is the leader is the servant. Whoever wants to be at the top, he'll find it in the dust at the bottom. This is what I have come for: not to have my every need waited upon by others, but to sweat and bleed to grant the needs of the many."

The Bible doesn't record the disciples' response. We don't know whether it sank it then, whether they began to realise at that point that the suffering servanthood of Christ really was opposite to the world they lived in. For me, I still can't wrap my head around this. It still tastes utterly counter-cultural and, to be honest, a bit sour.

What makes you a lord, in this world? Your subjects. You're not a ruler unless you have people to rule - and the more people, the more important a ruler you are. What makes you a lord, in Jesus' kingdom? Your subjects. You are there to serve the people. The more people you lead, the more people you owe servanthood to. The more you are slave to the needs of the many.

What if being the 'best' isn't about exercising your superior skill? 

What if being the best means going at the pace of the slowest? What if your role as the best at something is to help, support, encourage and nurture the skills of those who are least able? 

What if, instead of showing how quickly and completely I could win at Risk, I'd spent my efforts enabling the game of the worst player? If I'd spent my time helping the least good player get better, in a few games' time we'd all be more equally matched. And that's gonna make for a much better game! What if instead of basking in my own brilliance in my role for this project, I focused on the project itself, and put my efforts towards helping all those involved benefit as deeply as possible?

What if instead of thinking of myself, I channel all that drive and energy of my own ambition into the whole group of those I instinctively compete with, so that we all improve our game, all get closer to God, and all get better experience?

*   *   *

The trouble with needing to be the best is that when you're not good at something, you write it off completely. You start valuing what you can achieve over who you are and you rate your personality traits in order of 'great' to 'rubbish'. But as Nadia Bolz-Weber writes in the above quote, our weakness is fertile ground for God. Our 'soft' areas are places where grace can flourish, where we don't storm in and slide behind the steering wheel saying, "It's okay God. I got this." We have to throw our hands in the air and cry, "God, if you don't work in this, nothing's going to work!" We have to rely on others, make space for others, operate as a body.

It looks like praying before a sermon for God to use the words I don't say as much as the ones I do. It looks like asking for people who meet me to have an encounter with God, even if that happens by them noticing me getting it wrong. It looks like acknowledging to someone I don't like, "I can't do this. I need your help." Those places are the fertile ground for forgiveness, for being vulnerable, for learning to trust others. Those are the places unity takes root.

Lord, may I grow by shrinking. Would you channel that powerful drive to succeed towards the good of others; and would you help me to value the small, weak, and pathetic parts of myself and others as the beautiful humanity they are. Thank you for bearing with me, little strutting cockerel that I sometimes am. Amen.

* Does anyone else really hope Jesus gave them that nickname because they farted so much?

Tuesday, 8 December 2015

Dear Church of England: from a gay ordinand.

NB: This was written prior to my selection conference in November. I've since heard back and I've received a positive recommendation to train for ordination.

Dear Church of England,

It's me. I'm one of yours - one of the very small cells way out on your western limb. You don't know me very well, but I'm part of you, even if you don't notice me most of the time.

It's been a long journey, CoE. From finding in you a warmth and embrace I'd never known, and the unlikely friendship we struck up, to that strange moment two years ago when we looked at each other and suddenly realised we were both thinking the same thing about priesthood. The past two years have taken us on quite a rollercoaster, haven't they? You've been busy grappling with grumpy synods and a restless global communion, I've been busy grappling with the bells at eucharist and how to girdle an alb.

And now it's all coming to a head. In seven days time I will arrive in Cambridgeshire for three days of intense, gruelling assessment. I'll meet a panel of strangers who will poke and prod into each darkened corner of my personality, penetrate me with questions, observe and note my reactions. Then they'll sit and pray and come up with a report deciding whether or not to recommend me for ordination training.

This is it, CoE. This is the moment that decides the rest of my life. 

So I have something to say, just before I go. I want you to know what it is you're asking of me.

I'm gay, Church of England. I'm gay and I want to give you me.

I'm offering you myself: my hands and feet, my energy, my time, my intellect, my career. And I'm doing it gladly, because I believe in you. You're asking me to give you my entire life in service, to lay it down on behalf of the poor, needy, vulnerable, wounded and lost. You're asking me to work six days a week, sometimes for fourteen hour days, to live on the job, and to bring my family with me. I understand that. That's the call.

But, apparently, for me the call is more.

For me, I'm only allowed to serve you if I'm celibate for the rest of my life. I'm never allowed to marry the woman I love – or I'll be sacked (you've made that clear). I can never bless a marriage of friends who share a gender. And according to this transcript released last week, I can never become a bishop unless I am silent about my sexuality.

I love you. I love your bumbling, old-fashioned, slightly pompous traditions. I love your terribly English lack of cool. I love your willingness to roll up your sleeves and get stuck into the very ordinary mess of life, from foodbanks to Wonga to school assemblies.

But this – this is wrong.

You tell me that the reason I have to be silent is because bishops are a focus of unity. You tell me the conservatives will leave if you change the rules. You tell me the African churches will kick up a raucous tantrum if I'm seen to be accepted by you. You tell me I have to be silent, to be patient, to put up with the abuse. You tell me it's my cross to bear.

Well here's the thing. I love you. I love my conservative brothers and sisters. I love my African family. But I am exhausted with you sacrificing the LGBT community on the altar of a false unity.

We have borne the brunt of your fear of conflict for decades. We have hidden ourselves away, tucked our loved ones out of sight, for fear of upsetting our delicate counterparts. What is the cost of your strained harmony? It is our lives, our families, our happiness, our wellbeing.

Did you know that I ended a two year relationship to pursue ordination? Did you know that I wrestled with this call until I bled from the pain and the anguish of it? Did you know that I spent months weeping because I had to follow where God was calling, but how could I, when you demand I be celibate forever, and I don't have that gift? Did you know that deep in the depression this triggered, I came to the conclusion that suicide was preferable, because my only other options were to deny God's call (impossible) or to force my sexuality into repression and go without love and companionship?

And your communion is fraying. You confuse unity with agreement. You allow yourself to be held to ransom by selfish, loud voices who demand we disappear or they'll walk. You sacrifice your LGBT children so that those who refuse to live with difference get their own way. And you barely acknowledge the sacrifice you make of us.

Like I said – I love you. I even respect you. In seven days time, I will walk into a room full of strangers and tell them why I want to offer you a lifetime of service. But while I make this sacrifice, I want you to be honest about all the other, secret sacrifices you demand I make - and why, and for whom.

With love, prayers, and a dusty, stubborn hope,

Monday, 5 October 2015

Being human: our best gift

Today I got to help out at the hospital chaplaincy. Before I go in, I always dread it: striking up conversations with sick, elderly people I don't know is my worst nightmare. And I'm not allowed to wear jeans. Ugh.

But then every time I leave with a huge smile on my face, feeling on top of the world. This morning was full of chance encounters, brief yet meaningful: an elderly lady who had lost her only child at a week old; a woman whose son was murdered a decade ago; a gentleman who gripped my arm with tears stark in his eyes, wracked by the loneliness of age and hospitalisation.

I was directed to one very elderly gentleman by a nurse. At ninety six years old he was as sharp as ever, wearied and aged but full of fire and passion. He had been a preacher in these parts for over fifty years, and boy, could he still preach. He told me of a vision he'd had as a young soldier lying wounded in France in 1939. Dying, he saw a vision of Jesus before him; thinking of his wife and two young children, he begged Jesus not to take him. He'd survived. Seventy six years later, he lay dying again, this time in a hospital bed. Now, it was enough. Now, he was ready to go. But still, as I prayed with him, he clutched my hand and prayed too, with all the strength he had, and urged me to use his story, to tell as many people as I could about this Jesus whom he knew, whom he'd been preaching of all his life. Maybe there was still one person his story could touch.

It touched me. I left that ward feeling unbelievably privileged to have been invited into the most vulnerable moments of these people's lives. Who was I to sit with them and hold such treasure?

The thought of any one of those encounters would have crippled me a few months ago: the idea of having to come up with a prayer, of trying to meet the spiritual needs of someone who is trapped in a circumstance I can't begin to comprehend. But that's where the beauty lies: there is no professional way to love. I am not there as the person with the answers. I'm not there as a professional fixer. I haven't got a clue what the right thing is to say, or the correct prayers to use. You know what I do, mostly? I sit beside them and I listen. I ask them who they are, and who they care about, and what matters to them. I invite them to share themselves.

It's as simple (and profound) as that. Slowly, beautifully, one person unfurls to another. In that pale hospital ward, I have no answers: all I can do is be human, and share in their humanity, and hope that somehow in that space, something holy is discovered.

It's just listening, holding a hand, blessing. Just being human. But I'm beginning to learn - being human is all we are ever asked to do. And there is a joyful mystery in this: for it seems to be when we are most human that we come closest to the divine.

Monday, 20 July 2015

Amateur Lovers: Finding Christ in the Hospital Ward

My latest placement, following on from St Petroc’s homeless charity, is with the hospital chaplaincy in Treliske Royal Cornwall Hospital.
I have to be honest, I was dreading this placement. I am not drawn to sick people (!), and I’m not great at striking up conversations with strangers, let alone ill, elderly or (understandably) grumpy strangers in hospital gowns, who may or may not be experiencing the worst moment of their life. I feel overwhelmingly unqualified to offer pastoral care to people who are wrestling with such serious physical, emotional, mental and spiritual pressures. Who am I to hold the hand of a dying woman, or comfort a mother at the loss of her firstborn baby?
I still feel unqualified to do these things, but since joining the team at Treliske my understanding of chaplaincy has shifted dramatically. Firstly, as Margaret Whipp writes in her study guide to Pastoral Theology, there are no professionals here. We are all (as Switchfoot put it) ‘amateur lovers’. However much you study, however many tricks and tools and theories you know, ultimately no formula can ever cover the complexities and nuances of human interaction. The most important thing is your presence: just being there can make a huge difference. You’re called primarily to be a comforting, grounded presence, a channel for the peace and the love of God, when all else is chaos and confusion and frightening. Of course, the more you do it, the more you talk to people, the more you open yourself to conversations, the more you hold hands and bless and pray and bring the presence of God in small ways to that sickly hospital ward, the better you get at it. I watch the experienced chaplains with awe as they move from grieving with children to rejoicing with new parents, to encouraging the frazzled nurses with their gentle humour and understanding. They are utterly focused on the person in front of them, effortlessly communicating compassion and patience, as if they had all the time in the world and no one was more important at this moment than you.
I also love how boundaried it is. All ministry requires strict boundaries of time and relationships and energy so that you don’t burn out; often in parish ministry this is hard to manage, and too often clergy find themselves struggling to wall off their all-important rest and relaxation. But in the hospital, this is a priority. You simply cannot burn yourself out at lunchtime ticking all the boxes off your to-do list because you need to be rested and ready to spring into action at any moment. Who knows whether at 3 pm, just as you’re hitting your caffeine-deficient slump, your bleeper will buzz with a dying child and emotionally wrecked grandparents, or a young bloke in A&E who’s just received the news he’s going to lose his leg and his whole world is tilting on its axis; you have to be ready for the utterly unexpected because anything can happen and you need to be the grounded, soothing presence by that manic bedside.
This is ministry at its rawest. It is liminal, meeting people in their moments of transition, the slithers of life which shift, turn, and dazzlingly refocus their entire future. You are with people as they are born, as they die, as they lose the most precious thing to them. You are the person who helps them navigate these new, uncharted waters.
I love it. Every day I leave with a huge smile on my face. It is a privilege to meet such a range of diverse, vibrant people, to hear their life stories and to be invited into their most private worries. It is a privilege to help smooth their journey forwards into the unknown future. And so as hard as it is, as stretching as it is and as terrifying as it is (as soon as you stop doing and start thinking about it), I cannot think of any other aspect of ministry as rewarding or worthwhile as hospital chaplaincy.

Friday, 5 June 2015

Priests are weird, dull & unfashionable: why I want to be one anyway

People ask me a lot why I want to be a priest. My hairdresser. The nurse sticking the needle in my arm. The RAC recovery driver fixing my bike. The friend of a friend who met me over the dorritos and dip and stares at me like I'm some sort of alien being because she thought her friends were normal people and here is somebody clearly from the Strange:Avoid category.

Partly it's because I'm young and I'm female and I drive a motorcycle and I play the drums and I hang out in gay bars and people can't quite put that together in their heads with 'priest'. 'Priest' mostly means Father Ted, Dawn French or old, decrepit, potentially-a-paedophile.

And I pretty much suck at answering why, if I'm honest. I laugh a little self-consciously and say how it's weird isn't it and rush to reassure them that I used to be a normal person, honestly, before I started this whole priest thing - I used to play guitar and go to gigs for a living, and I was cool and normal, really I was. And then we get into a conversation about how churches are all right, good for a wedding, but cold and full of old people and, well, if you're honest, mind-numbingly boring. And I can't seem to get the words together to explain that it's got nothing to do with petting pensioners and school fetes and jumble sales and pottering about raising money for the roof, and everything to do with laying down your life for the bleeding and bruised, breathing life into the dry dust of the depressed and hopeless, reaching out and touching skin to skin with the shivering lonely, and stepping into the awful liminal space of death when the grieved are staring, shocked, wordless, into the echoing emptiness. It's screwing up your courage and fighting for the freedom of the poor and the oppressed, shouting for the voiceless til your lungs are hoarse.

But it's quite hard to say that with your hairdresser snipping round your ears and falling over her words trying not to offend your weird lifestyle choice.

I have a new option. In future, I'm just going to refer everyone to this poem by Andrea Gibson:

This. This is why. This is what priesthood is. And this is why no matter how uncool it is, no matter how frustrating it is, no matter how long and arduous the process of discernment, I can’t walk away from responding to this sense of call, even if it turns out I’m wrong.

'This is for those...
Who know we can sound the music in the people around us
Simply by playing our own strings
For the ones who sing life into broken wings
Open their chests and offer their breath...
For the time you mastered the art of giving yourself for the sake of someone else
For the ones who have felt what it is to crush the lies
And lift truth so high the steeples bow to the sky...

This is for the man who showed me
The hardest thing about having nothing
Is having nothing to give
Who said the only reason to live is to give ourselves away...
This is for the people who rattle the cage that slave wage built
And...right now are beginning songs that sound something like
People turning their porch lights on and calling the homeless back home...

This is for saying - yes.'