Through Lent with Jesus: temptation and the wilderness

Getting our journey through Lent right takes some doing, but if we make the effort it is just possible that we will discover the secret to transforming the world in which we live. This has nothing to do with giving up chocolate, or anything else for that matter, but everything to do with facing up to our deepest desires and psychological drivers. It is about a difficult and demanding journey into the wild places of just who and how we are. Before his public ministry begins Jesus goes away into the desert wilderness. More than this, we are told that he is compelled by the Spirit of God to undertake this hazardous 40 day retreat. This part of the Judaean landscape near Jericho was inhospitable, dangerous and an unsettling place to be. As such, it was an appropriate setting for what God intended and a near perfect metaphor for what ensued.  There in the physical wilderness Jesus confronts the wild-place of life and self and discovers three things: he discovers himself, the reality of God's enfolding and uplifting presence, and trust in the living truths of that relationship as recounted in scripture.

In his book "Invitation to Love: The Way of Christian Contemplation", Fr.Thomas Keating explores how we can face up to, live with and grow through our own hidden motivations. In Keating's view, failure to come to terms with "our false self - our injured, compensatory sense of who we are" is one the biggest impediments to our spiritual growth. Referring to Jesus struggle in the wilderness he says that "Lent is our battle with the same temptations. The biblical desert symbolizes the confrontation with the false self and interior purification. Jesus was tempted regarding each one of the instinctual needs. He did not consent to them while yet experiencing them in their utmost intensity." These instinctual drivers are our need for survival/security, affection/esteem, and power/control, and they are mirrored in the three temptations which Jesus endures as he discovers his authentic self. In each instance Jesus turns to the deep, personal truths of scripture upon which his faith community has relied down the centuries. There in the desert, beset by the wildness and desolation of what it is to be a human person like you and me, he discovers them as his own truth. And as he does he suddenly knows the presence of God cradling, enfolding and uplifting him.

Walking around the shore of Derwentwater last year we suddenly came upon this huge carving of a pair of cupped hands. Nestling in the landscape, it is a very gentle piece, one which invites you to stay and ponder its meaning.  Especially, perhaps, the unspoken invitation is to reflect upon just what in one's own life one would wish to place into the safe welcoming space of these offered hands. In my mind I link this image with the temptation narrative. Far from the clenched fist of a punitive God, as we see with Jesus in the desert, God's response to our all too human struggles with ourselves is to offer strong yet gentle hands to hold us and our hurting whilst we become in love who we truly are in God's sight.

In the journey of faith this is something we have to experience for ourselves, as the Spirit compels us to discover truth in our wild places. And if it is true that we change the world by first changing ourselves, then this journey into Lent is hugely significant, because human need for survival/security, affection/esteem, and power/control can so easily lead to the behaviours which bedevil our world. The tempestuous reaction to the typically detailed and elaborate musings of Archbishop Rowan Williams on Sharia Law and the rights of religious groups to express their identities in an increasingly secular state, is a case in point. Where is all this anger rooted? Of what, and more pointedly, of whom are we afraid and why, and is this rational? Deep and powerful forces were so easily unleashed by his words: the real fear is how such reactions have so often been manipulated to scapegoat groups, races and nations and to dehumanise individuals.

During Lent our calling is to engage afresh with the struggle to be real, authentic disciples; this leads us inevitably to the wilderness of the false self and the power of God to make us whole. Maybe in his own struggle in the desert Jesus was encouraged by the story of Moses and the burning bush. We recall how Moses was a man on the run, a murderer whose life was an utter mess. In the desert, beset by a wild place of his own making, he was surprised by God.  Moses realised that far from being alienated from God, the place where he stood in all his mess and muddle was truly holy ground. God was there. And there in love for him.

As we face up to our own false self this Lent God is there for us too. Not with a clenched fist, but with open hands. The burning bush of unconditional love is our truth, yours and mine. We need not be afraid, for as Julian of Norwich knew, in our wilderness experience God's truth says to us: "

You will not be overcome.
God did not say you will not be troubled,
You will not be belaboured,
You will not be disquieted;
But God said, You will not be overcome

Social Capital: Doing justice, loving kindness, and walking humbly with God

Yet another thoughtful and thought-provoking piece in The Guardian is buzzing around in my head, especially in the context of last Sunday's Holocaust Memorial Day. Madeleine Bunting's argument is this: a pathological individualism is poisoning public life. Starting from seeing a mad scramble to get on board a school bus, her subsequent reflection leads her to voice a deep disquiet about the very nature of public life itself: "Amid such cacophony of attention-seeking "me, me, me", two things are in danger of being lost: first, the ability really to listen - rather than just wait with varying degrees of patience for your chance to spout off; and second, that grand old etiquette of liberal debate, the option to agree to differ. Both are vital ingredients of public debate as a process of learning and negotiation, both are much needed if the unprecedented diversity of our public spaces now is to produce civility or even conviviality." Christians should be profoundly disturbed by this. The ability and willingness to listen deeply to another person seems to me to be an absolutely crucial hallmark of anyone who claims to be a Christian because it entails a Christ-like disposition of mind and heart towards the other, which takes them seriously as a person who is precious to God. As Richard Gillard's modern hymn puts it: "Brother, sister, let me serve you, let me be as Christ to you."

In St John's gospel (John 13:34; John 15:12), Jesus cuts to the chase as to how his disciples are to behave: "I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another........This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you."  Loving as Jesus loves; its as simple and as daunting as that. Jesus is the human face of God, whom the Bible declares is Love. If we turn to the Book of Micah (6:8) with this in mind we find a simply stunning answer to the question, "what does God require of us?", an answer later embodied in the life and ministry of Jesus:

"He has told you, O mortal, what is good;
   and what does the Lord require of you
but to do justice, and to love kindness,
   and to walk humbly with your God? "

Two extended quotes from the writing of the American feminist theologian Carter Heyward celebrate the truly radical nature of such godly love, within a theology of mutuality:

"To say I love you is to say that you are not mine, but rather your own. To love you is to advocate your rights, your space, your self, and to struggle with you, rather than against you, in our learning to claim our power in the world. To love you is to make love to you, and with you, whether in an exchange of glances heavy with existence, in the passing of a peace we mean, in our common work or play, in our struggle for social justice, or in the ecstasy and tenderness of intimate embrace that we believe is just and right for us - and for others in the world. To love you is to be pushed by a power/God both terrifying and comforting, to touch and be touched by you...To love you is to sing with you, cry with you, pray with you, and act with you to re-create the world. To say ‘I love you’ means - let the revolution begin!"

"Love is not fundamentally a sweet feeling; not, at heart, a matter of sentiment, attachment, or being "drawn toward". Love is active, effective, a matter of making reciprocal and mutually beneficial relation with one's friends and enemies. Love creates righteousness, or justice, here on earth. To make love is to make justice. As advocates and activists for justice know, loving involves struggle, resistance, risk. People working today on behalf of women, blacks, lesbians and gay men, the aging, the poor in this country and elsewhere know that making justice is not a warm, fuzzy experience. I think also that sexual lovers and good friends know that the most compelling relationships demand hard work, patience, and a willingness to endure tensions and anxiety in creating mutually empowering bonds. For this reason loving involves commitment. We are not automatic lovers of self, others, world, or God. Love does not just happen. We are not love machines, puppets on the strings of a deity called "love". Love is a choice — not simply, or necessarily, a rational choice, but rather a willingness to be present to others without pretence or guile. Love is a conversion to humanity — a willingness to participate with others in the healing of a broken world and broken lives. Love is the choice to experience life as a member of the human family, a partner in the dance of life."

Loving such as this is about building social capital; it is all about doing justice and loving kindness. Such a theology of mutuality is the counter to the me, me, me malaise about which Madeleine Bunting speaks so passionately, because loving like this confers and fosters dignity, which she says is something "as essential to human wellbeing as food and shelter, but in the public spaces of our lives it is in increasingly short supply. That prompts frustration and disillusionment and a retreat into our private worlds as we disengage even further from the brutal bear pit that so many aspects of our public life have become. The danger is that we withdraw into bunkers of the like-minded, vacating the territory of solidarity and common purpose. That's a brutally bleak picture, and that is exactly what the children in Edmonton bus station were being taught last week."

Loving such as this subverts the corrosive attitudes in society which do not see, do not listen to, do not value and do not cherish others. Lets make no mistake; such attitudes when taken to extremes have led to Genocide, be it the Holocaust, Rwanda, Bosnia or Darfur.  In his superb book "the dignity of difference", Rabbi Dr Jonathan Sacks asks these powerful questions: Can we make space for difference? Can we hear the voice of God in a language, a sensibility, a culture not our own? Can we see the presence of God in the face of a stranger? It seems to me that unless and until we can, we will really struggle to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with God.

Epiphany

Type the word 'Epiphany' into a search engine and its meaning becomes obvious.  Its all to do with suddenly seeing, comprehending and knowing the essence or meaning of something.  Google aside, an epiphany is most often used to describe that instant when intuitively we suddenly realise that we understand a particular bit of our reality in a fresh way. In Christian understanding Epiphany refers to the season after Christmas, when we celebrate, variously, the visit of the Magi and the revelation of God-self in the birth of Jesus, and the baptism of Jesus by John the Baptist. In different ways both of these are epiphanies, with the manifestation of divine reality coupled with the sudden insight by others of that reality.

This mix of divine encounter and human insight is very much the authentic texture of the Psalms and is readily apparent in these extracts from Psalm 40, which is set for next Sunday.

I waited patiently for the Lord; he inclined to me and heard my cry. He drew me up from the desolate pit, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure. He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God. Many will see and fear, and put their trust in the Lord. Happy are those who make the Lord their trust, who do not turn to the proud, to those who go astray after false gods.

I have not hidden your saving help within my heart, I have spoken of your faithfulness and your salvation; I have not concealed your steadfast love and your faithfulness from the great congregation.

Be pleased, O Lord, to deliver me; O Lord, make haste to help me.

Here too we find that in the Bible epiphany leads to action and that it entails change on our part. The Psalmist's experience of God leads him to share it with others. The honest telling of his story, his reality, his epiphany, is integral to the whole epidemic process of epiphany and hence of evangelism.

Consider the pictures of the dandelion. The seed head is a quite remarkable structure; each seed is itself an exquisite evolutionary piece of biological engineering. The fine filaments provide sufficient lift to carry each seed along on the breeze. The seed itself contains the biochemical and genetic machinery necessary for the seed to germinate in the right conditions. Either without the other would be pretty much useless.

The story of the baptism of Jesus in John chapter 1, the gospel for this Sunday, weaves together all these themes. The reality of God's love breaks through with the first appearance of Jesus. John the Baptist experiences an epiphany and he shares it with those close to him, his own disciples. Within the seed of this revelation lies the hope of new life. The story continues: The two disciples heard him say this, and they followed Jesus. When Jesus turned and saw them following, he said to them, “What are you looking for?” They said to him, “Rabbi” (which translated means Teacher), “where are you staying?” He said to them, “Come and see.”

John shares his understanding of the significance of Jesus, and it is this seed which germinates in the consciousness of the disciples. In the text I feel that it is the question "what are you looking for?" which is the key to their personal epiphany. It is a question which goes deep; a hidden question of longing which drew each of them to follow after Jesus in the first place, perhaps without either of them knowing quite why they were doing it. And the answer to the question will only truly become apparent when they go and see for themselves. Just looking at the dandelion - what is said about Jesus - isn't enough; just like the Psalmist, the seed of truth has to grow within the soil of their inner self.

For me this is the test of faith; not that the intellectual propositions stack up - or don't, but that having followed I have discovered and seen for myself the truth of what is said about Jesus as the human face of God. This epiphany is hard won and costly; it has all to do with the question "what are you looking for?" and the sense of emptiness and incompleteness out of which it arises. Inevitably this leads to the searing self-honesty of which the Psalmist speaks, and to the God whose love is revealed in Jesus. "He drew me up from the desolate pit, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure."

covenant with confidence

What a treat it was to pick up yesterday's Guardian and see that the regular  'in praise of' section of the Leader page was all about the Methodist Covenant service. What had caught the editor's imagination were the words of the 'old' covenant service: "Put me to what you will, rank me with whom you will; put me to doing, put me to suffering; let me be employed for you, or laid aside for you, exalted for you, or brought low for you." The counter-cultural implications of such a radical attitude were affirmed as the Leader went on to write of the Covenant service that "Its nobility is the recognition of the accretion of great good through small deeds."

This chimes in with so much that is being written and said regarding climate change; that each of us is part of the solution, as we can each make a significant difference through changes in our behaviour. Margot Wallström, a Vice President of the European Commission, reflects on this truth when she speaks about 'absurd optimism', hope, climate change and our common destiny. It seems to me that our Covenant service is all about hope too; the irresistible hope which the gospel gives us that we can together make a difference.

Just before Christmas my attention was held by a piece on the historian David Starkey's series on Monarchy, which quoted him as finishing the final episode with these words:"Now there is a moral vacuum left by the sellout of the state to business interests, will King Charles step into the breach? ... Something new is required. Altruism, neighbourliness, the fruits of the spirit, are as important as ever. Who will speak up for them, if not the crown?"

As the reviewer noted, "You may not agree with his conclusion, but it's a serious question to ask." Quite so. That Starkey fails to look to the churches for leadership is not surprising in secular Britain; it would be tragic,  however, if we do not rise to the challenge with renewed vigour. Altruism, neighbourliness, the fruits of the spirit , these are core values, behaviours and experiences of the heart-warmed people called Methodist  who dare to say the words of the covenant each January. Changing the world, changing our society, begins with changing ourselves. In this it seems to me that our Covenant service sits well with much contemporary thinking about happiness and well-being. Richard Layard's book on happiness makes salutary reading for western societies who have bought into the mantra of prosperity and ever-increasing standards of living. As we have got richer, we have become no happier. The point is made even more sharply by Oliver James in his writing on 'Affluenza' - when he asserts that Selfish capitalism is bad for our mental health. What is required if we are to move towards sustainable, healthier and happier societies is a mind-shift. Writing in the current issue of Resurgence, Ray Anderson explores this. He says: "A sustainable society will depend on (among other things) a vast, ethically driven redesign of the industrial system, triggered by an equally vast mind-shift. This shift in values is the hard part, but it will happen, it must happen, one mind at a time, one technology at a time, one community at a time, until we live within sustainable systems...a sustainable society will seek higher levels of awareness and transcendent meaning in life - more true happiness with less stuff." One mind at a time. This is surely the genius of our Covenant service: one mind at a time, many lives commit together to make a difference and find new life, renewed life, for the benefit of all.

In this covenant God promises us new life in Christ. For our part we promise to live no longer for ourselves but for God.

Christ has many services to be done: some are easy, others are difficult; some bring honour, others bring reproach; some are suitable to our natural inclinations and material interests, others are contrary to both;
in some we may please Christ and please ourselves; in others we cannot please Christ except by denying ourselves. Yet the power to do all these things is given to us in Christ, who strengthens us.

I am no longer my own but yours. Your will, not mine, be done in all things, wherever you may place me, in all that I do and in all that I may endure; when there is work for me and when there is none; when I am troubled and when I am at peace.Your will be done when I am valued and when I am disregarded; when I find fulfilment and when it is lacking; when I have all things, and when I have nothing. I willingly offer all I have and am to serve you, as and where you choose.

If Methodism takes this seriously we can be in the vanguard of leading the changes the world so desperately needs. We will then truly deserve the appreciation the editor of the Guardian has given to us when he describes us as a  "small but hugely influential church".

Banking on Bethlehem

It seems that Christmas has come early for the global banking sector. Billions of pounds, gift-wrapped by the central banking Santa, will bring much-needed cheer to the poor and needy in the boardrooms of the City of London and beyond this Christmas. Why this generosity? Because the collapse of the sub-prime mortgage market has blown Capitalism's cosy, exploitative and greedy mechanisms sky high, that's why. Cast your mind back to the £8 billion pounds worth of bonuses awarded in the City this year; reflect on what this annual greed-fest has done over recent years to the property market. Then consider the anguish of those whose homes have been repossessed, or those who see no way of ever being anything other than a tenant of a buy-to-let landlord. Ponder for a moment the real human cost of the sub-prime collapse; stories of eviction, depression, poverty and despair. A system which has wilfully exploited the vulnerable is now being bailed out by governments and central banks. The rich and wealthy clamour for an economic safety blanket, whilst the poor huddle in the cold. Reading Polly Toynbee's excellent article brings the point home sharply, as does some of the correspondence it sparked. It seems that to the corporate greed-mongers none of this matters. The true human cost does not appear on any balance sheet nor does it detract from any bonus. Whilst the progenitors of this nightmare, and their hedge-fund ilk, queue up to buy the latest £35,000 cocktail in a London nightclub, what of those who wonder where the next meal is coming from? For it is amongst them that the Christ-child was born.

According to our infancy narratives, the love and purpose of God is revealed in poverty, is birthed amongst the excluded and threatened ones and stands over and against the oppressor. The cosiness of most Christmas carols gets nowhere near the radical cutting edge of what God was up to in Bethlehem. At Bethlehem the clarion call of the Old Testament - set my people free - is embodied in the one who grows up to challenge and subvert all that diminishes our humanity. In the way he lived his life and through the way in which he died we see that true wealth lies not in power, money or celebrity; that true happiness cannot be bought; that a good life is defined not by what we have but by how we are with each other. These themes have always attracted me to the work of the Iona Community. About ten years ago now I first met Peter Millar, the then Warden of Iona Abbey. Peter's openness, vulnerabilty, humour and passionate faith made a great impression on me. He is a great guy who writes well. Every year Peter sends out a reflection for Christmas, and this year I share it with you. As Peter himself says:

We are connected across the world in these days of Advent and of Christmas. It is many years since Dorothy and I first started to send out a REFLECTION AT CHRISTMAS. They began when our home was in South India. This year, in the midst of much global uncertainty, I have tried to remind ourselves of that hope which is embedded in the very structures of the universe.

A REFLECTION AT CHRISTMAS

Is it not strange to believe in a “spring-time of the spirit” in such uncertain times? To believe that within the possibilities of God goodness can be liberated and our weary hearts restored? Are we foolish to think that the wounded can be healed and that those in the shadows are blessed? Do we stand alone when we assert that meaningless is never the last word, or that a single life can sow God’s seeds for the morrow? Yet even in our questioning the Word becomes real - for against all the odds Christ’s hope remains earthed in our shared and global fragility. Gathered or scattered, we are not abandoned to our hesitations, but invited to that spring-time of the spirit bedded deep in our souls and seen in our faces. For the road is marked by a Love that is stronger than hate, and the songs of life often spring from our suffering.

Peter Millar, Edinburgh, Scotland. December 2007

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light

If you are prepared to read a book which will plunge you unremittingly and unsparingly into the physical and spiritual darkness which envelops and frames Advent, get your hands on a copy of Cormac McCarthy's prize winning The Road. His spare, bleak prose matches perfectly the horror of the post-apocalyptic nightmare he unfolds. The symbolism of darkness and light is searingly present as we walk with the principal characters through American landscapes which have been utterly devastated in a long past nuclear war. McCarthy's depiction of nuclear winter, of a hope-less world shrouded in ash where sunshine is but a dim memory, turns our warm Advent platitudes on their head. The people who walked in light are trapped in darkness and gloom is nearer the mark. Alan Warner's review of the novel will help you decide whether this book is for you. He writes that "The Road affirms belief in the tender pricelessness of the here and now. In creating an exquisite nightmare, it does not add to the cruelty and ugliness of our times; it warns us now how much we have to lose." It is exactly this theme which George Monbiot explores in his appreciation of McCarthy's book: "A few weeks ago I read what I believe is the most important environmental book ever written. It is not Silent Spring, Small is Beautiful or even Walden. It contains no graphs, no tables, no facts, figures, warnings, predictions or even arguments. Nor does it carry a single dreary sentence, which, sadly, distinguishes it from most environmental literature. It is a novel, first published a year ago, and it will change the way you see the world."

What The Road does is stop us in our tracks and force us to think deeply about what matters most to us. Encountering the unsparing loss of all that we take for granted, each of us is challenged to become part of the solution to ensuring a collective, sustainable and just future for the whole human family. As such we truly become Advent people, for whom the text of Isaiah 35, set for the third Sunday of Advent on 16th December,is especially poignant. Read The Road and you will know why. And at the heart of our Advent journey is this other well-loved text from Isaiah:

The people who walked in darkness
have seen a great light;
those who lived in a land of deep darkness—
on them light has shined.

Isaiah 9:2

The two principal characters in The Road struggle with what it means to be 'good people' in the darkest of times. Within them the light of goodness still flickers, a fragile light in a land of deepest darkness. The people who walked in darkness; that means you and me too. To see the light of God's love in the life of Jesus is to be challenged to respond in such a way that we become lights of hope in a dark world. Advent challenges us to costly commitment, to take our stand as others have done throughout history with John The Baptist, for the sake of the most vulnerable and exploited people on the planet, and indeed for the planet itself.

The voice of one crying out in the wilderness:
"Prepare the way of the Lord,
make his paths straight"

With the likes of Wilberforce, Mandela and Tutu, we shall be in good company as lights in the darkness, unceasingly striving to prepare for the dawn.

The Summit of the Year

The photo shows Scafell and Scafell Pike, taken from the beginning of the magnificent ridge walk between The Old Man of Coniston and Wetherlam. As you can see the panorama was fantastic and was well worth the climb. This Sunday we finally reach the summit of the liturgical year as we celebrate Christ the King. Within the church our challenging twelve month long trek through Year C of the Revised Common Lectionary is almost over. Back down at the foot of the mountain Advent Sunday beckons (December 2nd), so for a brief moment we can pause to get our breath back, take in the stupendous view and reflect upon the way we have come.

The New Testament reading from Colossians has this same sense of being confronted by a breathtaking vista, in this case the fullness of God as seen in the life and death of Jesus, the risen Christ, as experienced by the early Jesus movement, who were themselves a living fresh expression of the power of the Holy Spirit. What we read is not second-hand dry doctrinal musing but a passionately motivated cry of joy from the very heart and soul of those who know this truth deep down within their own experience.

The accompanying gospel reading from Luke is The Benedictus. Here the confidence of this view from mountain top is recast from present joy to future hope: By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace. These beautiful words are amongst my favourites in the whole of the Bible. There is a promise here which means much when the way ahead is uncertain, messy and difficult, when the summit is shrouded by dark clouds and seems an impossibly long way off. This confident promise takes us through to Advent Sunday, when the climb begins again. It is like the first cairn marking the start of the the ascent; a small pile of stones left by those who have travelled this way before. It is appropriate, then, that our journey through RCL Year A begins with these words: Isaiah 2:3 Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob; that he may teach us his ways and that we may walk in his paths.