Why Can't The English...

Would you like to hear about some exciting things I have seen as a key worker this week?  They may cast some light on the English.

One exciting part of my job while the lockdown continues is delivering food parcels.  Both the Bread and Butter Thing and the Wythenshawe Food Bank are still running, exercising every care and much social distancing to provide the poorest families and people with enough to get by on.

A dramatic reconstruction 

So I set out on my bike for a delivery or two yesterday, and the trip into Baguley confirmed some of my deepest suspicions about the English.  Chiefly that we don't wish to be found.  English house numbers are perhaps the sparsest and smallest and hardest-to-find numbers in the world.  Cycling down a street trying to stay balanced and to catch a glimpse of a house number is quite a feat.  House numbers in this country are very often camouflaged by being the same colour as the door.  Or they're very small indeed.  Or they're simply not present.  

Well-lit.  Clear.  Please.

The other hassle is that you need two house numbers.  Even when I've figured out which side of the street is odd and which is even (there are loose postal rules), spotting number 87 when I'm looking for number 189 won't tell me whether I'm going in the right direction, just that I'm 51 houses adrift of my target.  It can be ten or twenty houses in either direction before I realise that the numbers are going down instead of up.

When I find the right house, the next exciting task is to unfasten the gate.  Baguley was reasonably straightforward on this count, but in my time delivering flyers and food I have been baffled by bungee ropes and karabiners, not to mention the endless varieties of rusty pull-bolts and drop-bolts and push-bolts.  It can take a boy a while to unlock these Crystal Maze-style defences.

Please let me in your front gate...

And then there are the letterboxes.  Don't get me started.  Letterboxes should be for the ease and convenience of the postal delivery worker.  You only have a letterbox to receive goods and messages, so why would you deliberately instal one with spring-loaded teeth, or that was so narrow and tight it's like feeding a coloscopy camera up a patient?  Why would you have one so low down that we have to crouch to deliver?  Or a letterbox that creases and shreds with such resistance that I might as well not have kept things pristine en route?

This would be nice.

Maybe, on top of not wanting to be found, we don't actually want people giving us things either?

Anyway, I only broke one letterbox, but it was probably already broken and I didn't feel I could socially distance myself and apologise at the same time (but I will one day return).  And on my way home I realised that there were some numbers writ large that might guide me to houses...

...except they were written on bins.  Or they were huge stickers, firmly and proprietorially adhered to wheelie bins.  And the message of the huge numbers was clear: "Don't steal my bin.  Just don't flippin' dare.  Don't even think of it.  Get your thieving hands off my wheelie bin.  That means you!"

Probably don't steal these...

What a curious nation.  Hiding our houses but being properly jealous (in the correct etymological way) of our bins.  What does it say?  Who are we, sticking 42 out of sight on our front doors but two feet high on a bin?

What do you think?  Gotta love the English. 

But the other thing I noticed as I cycled (and recycled when the numbers went the wrong way) was the number of rainbows in windows, drawn by children (or childlike adults) to encourage others.  Some observed the strict order of the visible spectrum (well done), others felt obliged to differentiate between indigo and violet (don't get me started: this is Isaac Newton's misconception that there should be seven colours in the rainbow when patently there are only six!) and I've heard of one young man who stuck religiously to the song and coloured in red and yellow and pink and green... 

Somewhere amid hiding our houses and guarding our bins, we encourage each other.  We - ironically - deliver.  We stand on our balconies and doorsteps clapping.  We blu-tac rainbows in solidarity.

I love the human race.  We can stockpile bog roll and cut people up on the road, but we can fill trolleys for food banks and we can flash our headlights to say, "No, you go."  We can close our doors and we can throw open our arms (and keep safe distancing).  Being driven apart might lead us closer together...

What effect do you think all this will have on the human race?  Will we change for good?  Will we snap back to how we were?  How can we strive to see good emerge from all this tragedy and all this loss of life?  And what does God make of us - the English or the whole human race?

Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad?

The answer to Today's Big Question Of Life is 42.  Psalm 42.  Now we only need to figure out the question.

When I say Psalm 42, I also mean Psalm 43.  The two of them come together and were probably one big Psalm in the original hymnbook we call Psalms.  Have a read of them (go on) and you'll see that the chorus - at 42:5 and 42:11 and 43:5 is:

Why, my soul, are you downcast?

    Why so disturbed within me?

It's a song about someone talking to their soul.  Or their heart.  Or themselves.  And asking that question - Today's Big Question Of Life - "Why so downcast?  Why so disturbed?"

If anyone asks me today why I'm a little bit anxious, more than a little bit unsettled and really quite antsy, I'd raise my eyebrows and wonder if they'd missed all the news for the last months about this flippin' coronavirus.  That's why I'm a little bit anxious.  Friends and family far away, more than a bit isolated and not exactly sure what tomorrow will bring.

And that's why Psalms 42 and 43 are two of my favourites.  They show us someone asking themself, why so unhappy? why so downcast?  And asking the question leads them to identify the problems, which they can then go a certain distance to addressing.  Once they've outlined the reasons for their unease, they come to the conclusion that they will put their hope in God, and praise him in spite of everything, for being their Saviour and their God, even though they haven't spotted much blessing in the recent past.  There's a modern equivalent when Moby sings that old gospel track Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad?

Psalms 42 and 43 encourage me to self-diagnose my spiritual malaise, or, in proper terms, spot what's bugging me.  

All of us are assailed at present by a clinging uncertainty and anxiety, at least a wisp of fear, alongside missing the people we can't be with and quite often feeling powerless to do very much about any of it.

The first step to dealing with it a little is to spot it and acknowledge it.  "Why so downcast, O my soul?"  Then we can go on in the sight of God to say exactly why, and to separate out the half-dozen things that are eating us.  Naming them might cut them down to size.  Naming them might mean that I have six smaller problems to address rather than one massive mess of alarm.  I can make steps with six problems where I'd be paralysed looking to deal with one mahoosive tangled ball of troubles.

Some of my big/small troubles

Getting through all our lockdowns and isolations and separations will be easier if we can stop regularly - mindfully if you like - and take a leaf out of Psalm 42 (and 43!) and talk to ourselves.  That way we won't be so tetchy with the children we're home-schooling or fractious and brittle with our partner, and those of us alone in a strange month won't be overwhelmed by a tidal wave of mixed emotions.

It's good for others too, to ask them at the right time how they feel and whether they can unpack the layers of things that contribute to the downcast-ness.  Children need some space to say how they feel, even if it's just a smiley face and a sad face - and then you can start to imagine with them what would help - quiet times or a hug or a story or an hour when they can snuggle in a rug.

And don't be afraid to air all the little things before God if they're getting you down.  I'm sure many ears are on the verge of needing a good syringe, but that's not going to happen.  And thinking that makes me feel guilty because that's such a first world problem, but I can 'fess up to God about that too. 

 Finally, right at the heart of the 16 verses that make up these Psalms is Psalm 42:8 which says, simply:

By day the Lord directs his love,

    at night his song is with me –

    a prayer to the God of my life.

Right at the heart is a reminder that God is here day and night in prayer and song (sad songs and silly songs included).  So whether you're sleeping badly, sleeping in because you can't quite face the world, sleeping odd hours or not sleeping at all, we can stabilise ourselves for tomorrow by having this brilliant honest conversation with ourselves.  Our heart.  Our soul.  Whatever.

And we can know that whatever our sleeping habits and patterns, whatever ails us, whatever is actually adding to the weight of things that bug us, there's a God who never slumbers nor sleeps.

But that's a whole different psalm...

The Seat Of My Pants, Literally

So today I found this on the seat of my pants:

It's a tiny little cross and the letter g.  I've been wearing these for ages and never noticed that my derriere was advocating Christianity.  You on the other hand may have spotted it weeks ago... in which case, stop ogling!

In the same way that I've never seen the back of my own head except when my barber Alan shows me (and I'm a bit shruggy on those occasions because haircuts are about feeling comfortable underneath them, not impressing anyone else), I've never actually taken notice of the seat of my pants.

I finally noticed it because I had a bit longer to get dressed today - less deadlines, even if there are more people to stay in touch with.

And it threw my mind back to Sunday, when St Luke's was open for the last time for quite a while.  It was an odd feeling.  Half a dozen people came in to pray, and when everyone had gone, I took out my phone and took some photos.

Here, then, to tide us over until we can reopen, are some of my pictures of St Luke's.

St Luke's is a great space, and from my perspective it's always full of deadlines and pressures: is the organist here?  do we have a reader?  have I sorted the sound system?  is the baptism water the right temperature?  have I remembered all the notices?  is the collect bookmarked?

On Sunday it wasn't rushed or pressured.  Everyone went home and I started exploring it from other perspectives: sunlight on the parquet, a fly on a pew, daylight turning the sanctuary light into a gyroscope of brilliant curves of chromatic colour.  Jesus from below, and best of all the underside of the pews.  What a space!  What alternative viewpoints had I missed by being a busy vicar!

Even dust is sensational.

That brings me back to our present circumstances, locked down to help preserve the vulnerable.  It's a noble task, staying in (unless you're a key worker, in which case it's a noble task, going out).  So far I'm feeling it as an anxious event but with sunshine and neighbours I can wave to (hello Betty!).  It has something of the Sabbath about it - that's less good when you're not being paid for anything.

It has the possibilities of cabin fever and climbing the walls, or simple loneliness.

But if a close examination of my trousers and a fresh exploration of church have taught me anything, it's that there are new ways to see even the most familiar.  There are simple things to love, simple things that I've been waaaaaay too busy to notice.  Sunlight through bedroom curtains, trees and birds, beads of water on the glass in the shower, the way the sinews in my forearm play below the skin, the movement of clouds and - at some point - the thrumming of mighty rain on our window panes.

Beautiful.

Basically, have a go at looking at things differently.  This whole lockdown thing is - let's admit it - a mighty faff and a lot of worry about loved ones and huge concern about the lives of the self-employed.  Let's never diminish that.  It's also a bit of a blow for those of us whose mental health isn't the pinnacle of perfection.  

But God still works in all things, and if he works in all those motes of dust in a ray of sunlight, or in the clouds over the moon, or tonight's sunset (looking good), in marvelling at things we've seen a thousand times but never really seen properly, then he can see us through this curious Sabbath (curious seven-day week) with reasonable mental health and eyes opened to new things.

Hamlet, suitably amazed by life.

Hamlet (indecisive Dane) declared that he "could be bounded in a nutshell and yet count himself a king of infinite space" - and okay, that was the Bard of Shakespeare (or something).  But God made this world more beautiful, more intricate than we can ever guess, and one thing we can do is to find wonder in everything, and also in closing our eyes and letting the invisible God show us things about him/herself that we hadn't had time to spot.

So hold on.  And expect new insights as you ask God to brighten and amaze you every day...

Paul and Pilates

Question: what does the apostle Paul have in common with Pilates?

Me, doing pilates.

Pilates was invented and refined by Joseph Pilates, a German gentleman who moved to England only to be interned by the authorities during the Great War.  He was imprisoned variously at Lancaster Prison - the castle - and later at Knockaloe on the Isle of Man.

He was already a wrestler and fascinated by fitness and yoga and how to stop people slouching.  In Lancaster Prison, in a very confined space, he was intent on not losing his physique or agility, and so in the tiny space of his cell he developed exercises to remain supple and lithe.  No equipment, no gym, no wide open space, and yet he prospered and introduced Pilates to the world.  

Not many people these days realise that Pilates is a German surname, but there you go.  Joseph Pilates did some of his best work in a very confined space.

And so did Paul the apostle.  When he was done tramping across Asia and being rioted at and caused of all sorts (go and read Acts 13-20 now!) he spent a long time in prison himself.  And it was there that Paul wrote a good portion of the New Testament.  Under close arrest, he would appear to have written those four stomping letters: Ephesians, Galatians, Colossians and Philemon.

Have you read them?  

• Ephesians - where Paul lets his theology fly and gives us that stunning image of the armour of God.
• Galatians - where his passion about the new life of Christians leads him to name nine fruits of the Spirit.
• Colossians - where he reminds us that Jesus Christ is the visible image of the invisible Father God and invites us to put on Christ like a cloak.
• Philemon - a short letter where he imitates Jesus by paying the price for a saved lost soul, and invites one man beyond his comfort zone.

To be fair, they're more exciting than that middle portion of Acts (which is riveting enough in itself).

Like Pilates, Paul created some of his best stuff behind bars, under house arrest, stuck inside.

Can you see where this is going?

I don't know how much social distancing you're doing just now.  I don't know whether you're effectively on lockdown, and I don't know whether or when I will be either.  There is a sense of horizons narrowing and possibilities diminishing.  I won't pretend it's not challenging.  I was stuck at home with post-viral fatigue and a month of rain after Christmas, and I can get very down about that.  

But there are possibilities.  While Paul wasn't in prison he declared that "God works in all things for the good of those who love him."  So when he found himself stuck within four walls, he must have had listless days, but he basically knuckled down to making sure those days weren't wasted.  He mined and thought until he figured out how God wanted him to use his days when he couldn't do exactly what he wanted.  And we trust that God moved him to write, and we have those words here to keep us faithful in our straitened times:

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, 

who has blessed us in the heavenly realm 

with every spiritual blessing in Christ!" 

- Ephesians 1:3, written behind bars...

"It is for freedom that Christ has set us free.  

Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves 

be burdened by a yoke of slavery." 

- Galatians 5:1, written when Paul seemed anything but free...

"I am confident of this, 

that God who began a good work in you 

will carry it on to completion 

until the day of Jesus Christ." 

- Colossians 1:6, even though he knew he would probably never see these people again...

"I pray that you may be active in sharing your faith, 

so that you will have a full understanding 

of every good thing we have in Christ." 

- Philemon 6, still under guard.

Times aren't always what they seem.  God works in even the hardest days to grow us.  Nothing is wasted in God's wise wise economy.  He may not have sent coronavirus our way, but he will make sure that some great good comes out of it.

So what might we - you - do while we are on lockdown? This is the best opportunity in a generation to learn to pray, to try something new from our armchairs, to open up the Bible and make some progress through it.  My friend is learning to play the trumpet while his schooling is off.  More spiritual pastimes are available.

God help his mother.

Other people have written Don Quixote, De Profundis, Pilgrim's Progress, One Day In The Life Of Ivan Denisovich and Orange Is The New Black, all while deprived of the liberties and horizons they had previously enjoyed.

So yes.  Pick up a pen or turn off Tipping Point and write a poem.  Try pilates.  Find a new way to pray so that when coronavirus restrictions are lifted, we don't just go back to how we were but instead emerge with something new to show for it: a novel or a newfound passion for Ignatian prayer...

God cannot be limited, and God will not see time wasted.  Shall we join him in doing something new?