New Year Reflections

It's not long past midnight on 1 January 2016. I can still hear the fireworks disrupting the calm of night outside the window. The dog is restless, listening to the unusual sounds with the occasional growl, but thankfully she has taken her cue from me and remains calm. My husband is asleep in bed after a long day - week - month - year. He deserves his rest, yet so often it seems to elude him In the wee small hours. I sit in my rocking chair, waiting and wondering if it is time to go to bed myself. The source of my uncertainty is lying in a cot beside me. 

My son sleeps, but not deeply, squirming and moving his arms occasionally with small squeaks and grunts. Is this a long sleep or will he be asking for more food in a few minutes? My son is lying in a cot beside me. My Danny boy. My child who did not exist a year ago, who I had come to believe would never be born, sleeps beside me as the new year rolls in. How much has changed!

For the last five years I have wondered every New Years if this would be the year I would finally have a child. I would think to myself that it was possible that "this time next year" we could be parents, but every year that hope faded a little more, until it was more a painful reminder of what was not than of what could be. And yet . . .

Here I am, as the new year rolls in, sitting in a quiet bedroom, listening to the fireworks and my husband's even breathing, and my son sleeps beside me. 

We have suffered much this year, rejection, stress, job loss, uncertainty. In six months we will be facing homelessness, if we can't find work and accommodation by then. We are skint, tired and often overwhelmed by life. 

But my beautiful son sleeps beside me. So ends a hard year in peace. So begins a fresh year with hope. 

Blessings for your 2016

The narrative of barrenness

The other week I attended a joint church service where the guest Ghanaian preacher took for his theme "Be fruitful." I confess to not attending much to the style and content of his message beyond this theme. Over the years, and particularly over the last 12 months, I have been developing the ability to sit in a service, appear to participate, and actually hear or internalise very little of what is actually said or done. Instead I connect with what I can and use the space to reflect on those nuggets. On this particular morning it was the phrase "be fruitful."

My gut reaction to this instruction is quite bitter. In the context of the creation narratives, out of which the preacher lifted the phrase, "be fruitful" is followed by "and multiply, fill the earth." Fruitfulness is directly connected to fertility - the ability to bear children. Perhaps it is not a surprise then that more 4.5 years of infertility has bred in me an instinctive response of bitterness at the injunction to "be fruitful" - as if I had a choice! I have wept, begged, asked only that the desire be taken away, ached in silence every time I saw a pregnant woman or a baby. I have closed my eyes and turned away, swallowing the bitter resentment. How dare you instruct me to be fruitful! I have no choice in the matter.

This familiar, instinctive reaction of swelling bitterness was already beginning to swamp me, when I realised something very important. However much I might still feel this indignation on the behalf of countless couples who are at this moment struggling with infertility, I am no longer doing so. As I sat in the pew, I felt my baby move, and I realised that the time has come to contradict the narrative of barrenness out of which I have lived for so many years. To refuse to do so is to deny the existence of my child, that child who, in 10-12 weeks will be a present reality, shattering life as I know it and daily changing before my very eyes.

I can no longer think of myself as barren. I tested this new thought in my mind as I sat in the pew. What does that mean? How long has this identity coloured and controlled every thought of myself, my life, my future, if only in my vain attempts to banish it from my mind. For years the spectre of barrenness has been a constant presence in my mind, gnawing at my heartstrings, poisoning my joy, mocking my plans. I finally began to see how the simple fact of infertility had subtly worked its way into my own identity, or perhaps dovetailed with a defeatist identity that I was already carrying.

How long have I thought of myself this way? Nothing I do prospers. None of my efforts are good enough. I am loath to try for I am always, in some unacknowledged way, convinced of my eventual failure. Have I, unwittingly, been enacting a self-fulfilling prophecy?

For years I have been unable to conceive a child, but for nearly a decade before that I was unable to attract a mate, and then there was the man I nearly married at 21, what a mistake that would have been! There were my years in College when I made virtually no true friends, and what do I remember of my time there? That I almost failed the English Lit class.

And so I can trace the narrative of barrenness, of failure, back and back into my youth and childhood, as the stand out memories are of what I didn't do, what I couldn't cope with, how I failed, and the many things at which I succeeded did little to counter that defeatist narrative. Whatever I accomplished I was always short of perfection.

This spring, when the reality of my pregnancy began to sink in, I realised that something inside me had finally slotted into place. Without my knowledge or consent a significant tear in the fabric of my being was suddenly made whole, and with it my priorities and identity altered instantly and irrevocably. The shock has almost worn off now, but I am still adjusting to these radical changes. Perhaps the adjustment will be made when baby arrives - or perhaps it will have only just begun.

But what does all this say to the narrative of barrenness, a narrative I now feel it is imperative I reject, for the sake of my husband, for the sake of my child, for the sake of myself. I mustn't believe this any longer. I must not sabotage all that is positive in my life for the sake of the certain dread of failure. I must not agonise, procrastinate, live in fear.

But how to construct a narrative of fertility?

Helpless

I am angry. So very angry. Ignoble, unhelpful, destructive emotion that it is. Stephen always tells me to start from where I am, and this is where I am. I am angry.

I am angry that tens and hundreds of thousands of people - millions - have been displaced from their homes and are forced to live in refugee camps near war zones or risk a dangerous journey across hundreds of miles of deadly seas or hostile lands only to be met by hegemony and nationalistic politics. No sympathy. No humanity. Just an overwhelming attitude of "you aren't my problem."

I am angry that an emotive picture of a dead toddler provokes a backlash of social media outrage and a (slight) change in UK government policy when the reality is that hundreds if not thousands have already drowned in the Med - but just because no one showed us a photograph of a child's dead body, our outrage was not stirred?

I am angry that I feel helpless, helpless to influence government policy in the UK or Europe, helpless to offer refuge or sanctuary to the vulnerable fleeing from a life destroyed, seeking only for a safe place to build a new life, helpless to counter the language of hate such as "swarms of migrants" or allegations that migrants are coming to Europe for "an easy life" or "benefits" or reasons of "greed." We call it greed when people seek a life that we are born to, when people who have lost everything seek only the basic rights we take for granted. Why do we merit them and these people don't? an accident of birth? It disgusts me.

But the reality is that this feeling of helplessness is to do with much more than the crisis of refugees that dominates the national and international news. The crisis has merely become the focus of my frustration and sense of impotence. It takes my attention away from the two tasks in front of me that I also feel helpless to do, but somehow I must do them. My life has become a dilemma, and irreconcilable difficulty, and impossible problem. I must rewrite my PhD thesis. I must continue as minister-in-training to a congregation that has already rejected me and my ministry. I must do both these painful and almost impossible things at the same time, what heavily pregnant and preparing to move my family in 10 months time, and I simply can't.

I have tried. God knows I have tried. I have kept my spirits up. I have sought to be positive. I have made start after start, attempt after attempt, but still I get nowhere, and all this time my spirit slowly dries up and dries out. How can I give to others what I do not have myself? How can I minister with no sense of calling? How can I lead a congregation that I know will not follow? How can I write what I do not believe in? How can I focus my mind on what only causes me to feel pain or frustration or rejection.

And both the church and the thesis are tied to one and the same thing - to each I gave my heart and soul in good earnest, seeking to do my best, to communicate clearly, to share with vulnerability, to contribute what is unique to me, and in each I was rejected, my natural bents called incorrect and in need of changing, my contribution insufficient, my communications and intentions misunderstood and rejected. In short I have been rejected in my vulnerability twice in less than a year, and I want nothing more than simply to walk away from it all. Damn responsibility and all my deeply held beliefs about keeping my commitments. Why should I give any more to those who have rejected the best I have to offer? Damn the rewrite and the cursed PhD, why should I sell my soul for a piece of paper and bend over backwards to please an establishment that steamrolled my ideas and my intellectual contribution without a thought to what I intended or how I might feel about the whole thing?

Why do I keep trying? Why do I put myself through this grinding torture of trying and failing every day? It is as if this is a set-up, a forgone conclusion, a trap from which I cannot escape.

I try to believe that I can find a fresh perspective, that the things I need to do are possible, even that I want to do them. I try a fresh approach tomorrow, thinking I'm simply looking at my problems in the wrong light. I desperately seek a way out of the trap, a way to transcend the inevitable ending that is coming, anything to change my sense of helplessness and redress the imbalance of power, but I cannot find it. The anger turns to tears, and I am left alone with my helplessness.

I can do nothing. Nothing I do succeeds.

I am myself

I am myself. I am not my mother, though in some ways I am like her, both good and bad ways. I am now a mother too, but I can make my own choices, with my own husband, about what that means, and how to fulfil this new role. I have the freedom to love my own child, to teach that child what I and my husband think best, to raise that child in the best way I know how, with outside advice, surely, but it is my child, my choice, my family.

I am myself. I am not Linda. I cannot 'do' ministry as she did. I should not be expected to, nor can I 'do' ministry as Gareth did, for I am not him either. Somehow I must find the best and most positive way to 'do' ministry as myself. Doing so requires me to challenge the expectations and desires of others, find my own path and figure out a way to communicate what that is to people who appear to think that 'ministry' is a clearly defined role that a person must fit into rather than a calling that is adapted to the gifts and personality of each person who receives and responds to it.

I am myself. I am not Craig or Morwenna or Simon or Peter or Josef. I must be my own academic, write my own words and construct my own arguments. I cannot do this while I am dogged by fear and resentment. I cannot do this while I do not believe and value my own insights and abilities. I cannot do this while I allow the critiques and criticisms others give on my work to have an impact on the value I give myself. I am myself. I am not my work. I must define this line and build a safer life, knowing my value cannot be diminished no matter what responses my written work might garner.

I am myself. I am not my father or my sister or my brother. I am a member of a new and growing family with new traditions, different ideas and beliefs, particular behaviours and attitudes, special values and independent integrity. Myself, my husband, my child - we are our own family. We make our own decisions and our own mistakes. We will create our own memories and grow our on special kind of love and belonging. This family needs no outside validation. We are an independent unit. Although we value the love of our families and friends, we stand alone on our decisions, take the consequences, good or bad, and continue through life as a family, our own, special family. This is unspeakably precious to me.

I am myself. I am not subject to the expectations of others, nor to the will of others. I am subject only to the call of God, the love of Jesus and the sacred relationship of my own marriage. Within these confines there is great freedom, for each of them desires only that I more fully fulfil the best that is in myself and grow past all that is destructive in my heart, soul and mind. Within these confines, I can flourish, as flower in spring, extravagantly giving of fragrance and colour to the world around me, from this safe place, this nurturing garden, this patch of ground where it is not only safe to be myself, but it is also the best and most beautiful thing I can be.

Reflections on Father's Day

Perhaps I should just accept it. Accept that Father's day is still hard for me. Accept that time doesn't make grief go away, and instead every new experience, every change, and growth shows grief in a fresh light.

I remember being a tiny girl, but old enough to answer the phone. Daddy called the house because he was filling out paperwork at work. He couldn't remember our birthdays and he needed to put them on the form. I was so proud and happy that I was able to help my daddy by telling him everyone's birthday. He was so big and important, he could do everything, it was wonderful that there was some little thing that I could do for him.

When I was growing up, my birthday always fell within four days or so of Father's day, and we always had a joint party. One year we went to the beach for the weekend to celebrate and he bought me little earrings - tiny pearls in tiny shells - that I cherish to this day. Each year that special day was a mix of what we each would want, burgers and mom's homemade potato salad, blueberry pie or chiffon cake. Laughter and fun and games. I loved sharing my special day with my dad. Somehow now, my birthday doesn't feel right without him, and Father's Day is a kind of gaping black hole. I think it won't matter - it's just another day - but it does matter, living without my dad does matter.

In about five months, my husband and I will welcome our first child into the world. The child we had given up hoping for, the baby we never dared to dream about. That child will enter my life three years after my father left it, possibly within days of that third anniversary, certainly within weeks. Every day that brings me nearer to that moment of becoming a parent, seems to cut more deeply the wounds of my grief. Wounds I thought I was at peace with at least. Somehow it seems I am carrying the love of a life now gone and a life not yet here at one and the same time. They are related. In the birth of my child I will mourn the loss of that child's grandfather - and what a grandfather he would have been! - a rich heritage of love, patience and knowledge that I feel so inadequate to pass on. Through every crisis of my life, my father stood beside me, and then, one day, he was gone forever.

But I am grateful my child will have a father who will love and sacrifice for that child every bit as much as my father did for me and my siblings. I am grateful that I have a husband to walk through life with, to help me bear the pain, to share with me the joy. I am grateful that we are a family ourselves now in a way we haven't been up to this point. I both long for and dread the moment I officially become 'mother,' a name I will bear for the rest of my life, no matter what becomes of my child.

When I discovered love and began to build a marriage, it was painful, difficult, hard work, but it was, in a way, what I had expected it would be. Although surprising and challenging in ways I had not anticipated, love and marriage carried with it the basic content I had always expected it would. This doesn't appear to be the case with expectant parenthood. This experience carries with it a spectrum of emotion and a shift in being that I never anticipated or understood in the smallest way. I expected it to change my life. I didn't expect it to change my identity, my priorities, myself.

It seems as if everything about who I am and why I am has become fluid and changeable, and I am bewildered by this lack of stability. This, of course, is not unrelated to how much I am currently missing my father.

It is time for me to find that stability somewhere else: in myself, in my husband, in God. But I know now, that the grief will never really go away, so I live wounded. Knowing, even when I cannot feel it, that it is truly better to have loved and lost than to live without love.

I wish

I wish it was true that women can't be ministers, that we are too weak or emotional or irrational to cope with it. Then I wouldn't have to try, I wouldn't have to wonder if this is the thing, if I am called, if what I am doing is right.

I wish it was true that a woman's place is in the home, to cook and clean and raise children. If I knew that was all I was good for, I could settle. I might not be happy, but I wouldn't be afraid either, I wouldn't be second guessing every thought, every decision. There would be no point in wondering, in picking a career, in developing my mind or other abilities. Every day would have simple allotted tasks that might bore me, but they would rarely cause me pain or reject me. It would be a narrow life, but a safer life.

I wish it was true that a woman is formed and given to a man to help him on his path in life. It is so much simpler to invest in the dreams, goals and desires of one partner rather than two. I could lose myself in him, his life and his work. I could support him and inspire him and encourage him to strive in the world, and I could stay safe at home. I might be jealous sometimes, but I would know my place, and I would love, serve and help my husband.

I wish it were true that the Bible has 'clear' meaning. That the church is THE place to meet God. That the "plan of salvation" can be easily explained through the Romans Road or a witness bracelet, colours on a leather thong to help you tell the story. I wish I could say that I understand it, that I believe it, that it all makes sense and is organised in a file in my mind where I could go and meet with God and never know doubt or fear or the confusion of faith fought for, lost, regained, experienced, but never understood.

I wish I could believe in "the church," invest in its future, fight for its existence. If I believed it was right, a good place, a healthy thing, I could serve and love and live and build, but I can't believe, and so church strangles me. Daily. My faith suffers constantly in the face of the realities of 'what is church.' How can I go on?

I wish I could worship in song without second guessing the words, without wishing to rewrite 9 in 10 praise songs and 7 in 10 hymns. I wish I could close my eyes, be immersed in the feeling, but instead I feel forced, coerced, indoctrinated, tricked into giving voice to words and ideas I only half believe - or even outrightly reject, but church demands and uniformity demands, and I am weak and frightened.

I wish I could believe that prayer 'works,' that it is worth while to meet, to pray, to seek God together. I wish I believe that prayer could change things, that it might be a true connection to God. I wish I had the courage to be honest in prayer where others can hear me. May I never lie in my prayers again.

If all these things were true, life would be so much safer. I would be hemmed in by rules and beliefs that would control me, shut down my doubts and questions, sedate my restless nature, and quietly compel me to live in a given way, regardless of my personality, needs, desires or doubts. In short, I would be back in the world where I grew up, a safe nurturing world, it's true, but a world I have come to recognise does not actually exist.
Now it is my turn to create a world for a new young life to enter, experience, and learn from, but how can I? My own life is so unstable, what safety can I possible offer my child?

ministerial conflict of interest?

The day is grey. After barely two weeks living in the Northeast of England, I recognise this as one of the regional moods. Grey sky. Grey air. Wet greenery, dull brownish houses and grey pavements. Only the cars and a few late flowers challenge the prevailing grey, green and brown greyness with brash bright blues or whites or pinks. Is there rain falling, or is that mist?

Yet life goes on outside my window. Neighbours come and go. Pedestrians pass regularly, striding past in jackets, rarely a hat, the misty rain doesn't seem to bother them. Some have backpacks or shopping bags or dogs on a lead/leash or even small children in pushchairs/strollers. Through the greenery of next door's garden I can glimpse the flashes of the constant stream of passing cars on the nearby main road. Life passes this house, every day.

This is the view from my desk in the bay window of the upstairs bedroom. I sit here on Saturday as the clock counts down the last minutes of the morning, and my sermon word count is still 700. By this point it was going to be at least twice that. I need to get to at least 2500 by tomorrow morning's service. Throughout my academic career this has been my problem with writing assignments: I can draft my complete idea in a word count that is no more than one third the amount I need for the final assignment, sometimes more like a fifth. Thus I spend the rest of the time pumping extra words into my core idea, developing incipient theme after implied idea until the meaning of my piece of writing is clear to anyone, not just to myself.

I expect this problem is partially connected to my personality and my natural desire to be as concise and direct as possible, but I think it is also related to my latent conviction that no one actually wants to listen (in the case of a sermon) to what I have to say. After all, sermons are just those things we suffer through on Sunday because somewhere along the way we were convinced they were good for us, rather like swallowing that Ibuprofen tablet in order to get rid of a headache. It seems to help, but sometimes I can't help but wonder if its really a placebo effect.

And now I am in the position of administering the medicine. Trying to make each weekly dose of scriptural insight interesting and palatable, rather like Mary Poppins' magic castor oil with its adaptive flavour for each drinker - lime cordial, strawberry, rum punch, what would be your favourite flavour? Yet I'm under no illusions about my ability to draft a message for a diverse group of people that, as yet, I barely know, in such a way as to feed, satisfy or effectively medicate each person in his or her own personal life.

It seems that my struggle to write tomorrow's sermon is actually tied into my larger struggles with the whole concept of 'ministry' as a vocation, and my own identity as 'student minister' in the midst of that struggle.

As part of my settlement here during my two year training and formation for ministry, the church provides half a stipend and a house. This house is now my home. The first home my husband and I have moved into and set up together. I love the house and its geographic location. Even endless grey days can't damp my enthusiasm to be living in the Northeast and no longer the midlands. In fact, I like the house better than I like the new role and the new responsibilities. This leads to the strange dynamic in which I am driven to do my 'work' out of guilt, because I owe it to the church in exchange for my awesome new home. Instead of working out of a paradigm of community, relationship and mutual support, I have defaulted to a transactional system where I'm constantly afraid I will not do or say enough, or will do or say the wrong thing, and suddenly lose this beautiful new home and the chance for a new life.

From where I am sitting, I have less and less understanding of ministry and everything attached to it every day. Sometimes I wonder if I will last the two years, but I know I'll stick it out. Two years in this house is a gift, and, after all, I owe it to the church.

Early Spring

Spring comes early here. Every year it surprises me to hear bird song in January and see the green shoots of daffodils be the first of February. The days that, a month ago, seemed impossibly short, dark and wet suddenly open up into the chill, bright sunlight and mud of early spring. This is my sixth spring in this climate, but still it surprises me every year. 

For the next four months the spring will slowly quicken around me as the sun grows warmer and lingers longer. Lexi will once more spend hours a day basking in shifting patches of light on the carpet. Gareth will begin planing Lent and Holy Week. In four months my world will completely change. 

Actually, it is less than four months now. Finally, after five years of tears and struggles I am nearing the moment of victory. The end is in sight. A few more weeks of writing, a month or so of editing and proof reading, and it will be done, sent to the printers, submitted, released. 

For the last three or four months I have thought of myself as finishing in the spring, around Easter, but I forgot how early the spring comes here. Suddenly it is close. So much is set to happen this year. My whole life will change. When I am no longer 'doing a PhD' what will I be?

There was a time that question filled me with dread. Now the fear is greatly mitigated by excitement, dreams and, above all, hope. 

The spring comes early here, and I still have work to do before Easter. 

In memorium

About a month ago my husband, displaying great sensitivity, informed me that he would be taking the 31 October off in order to spend it with me in whatever way I chose. He had anticipated the need for me to mark the first anniversary of my father's death in some special way, and set me thinking about it in plenty of time to make plans for the day.

As I thought about the question of how I would like to spend the day, I found myself remembering years gone by, and the activities we used to enjoy as a family, principally in relation to pumpkins.

Even as adults, when I have gone home at this time of year, we have played with pumpkins, carving them in more intricate patterns than we would have had the patience for as children.

But in relation to my dad, what I found myself thinking about most, was the making of his own special version of pumpkin pie.

Every year at the pumpkin patch (an American tradition I have found no parallel for in the UK) we selected a few carving pumpkins and at least one cooking pumpkin, and the process of preparing the cooking pumpkin and turning it into Papa's delicious pumpkin pies took much longer than the carving of triangle eyes and a crooked mouth.


Memories of chunks of pumpkin boiling on the stove, the steady scrape of the metal food mill as it mashed the cooked pumpkin into pulp and dad carefully balancing a pastry filled to the brim with liquid pie ingredients as he slid it into the oven filled my head. So I decided that, in memory of dad, I would find a big pumpkin and turn it into pies, but who would eat the pies? This led to the idea of having an autumnal themed meal with friends on the 31st. I was responsible for the pies, patient husband arranged everything else.

Finding a pumpkin of the required size was the first challenge, but eventually we brought home this one:

I cut it, cleaned it, and began the process of chopping it into chunks for boiling:

From noon until past 5 o'clock, successive pans full of pumpkin chunks simmered away, while I scooped the hot pumpkin out of the skins and ground it through the food mill:

In the midst of the pumpkin processing I took the time to prepare pastry for four pies: two normal, two gluten free; two pumpkin, two pecan:

About 5:30pm, I took out of the oven my two special pumpkin pies:

By that time I had finished processing all of the pumpkin. I somewhat over estimated the amount of pumpkin needed. I think I have enough for about six more pies!

When I had finished with the pumpkin, I quickly put together the pecan pies, using dad's favourite: blackstrap molasses.

When our guests had eaten enough of the food they had brought themselves, I brought out my four special pies with sweet whipped cream, and set them on the table to share in remembrance of my father.

So it was that Thursday night our house was filled with the smells of pie and hot mulled apple juice, the sounds of laughter and chatting and the sight of a table laden with special autumnal foods prepared and brought by our friends to complement my pies.
At one point I sat in the living room, listening to our guests laughing and chatting in the dinning room. The sounds of fellowship, love, affection. I couldn't think of any better way to remember my father - using my body to prepare for others his special dish, appropriate to the time of year, serving others as he had done his entire life. As my mind wandered in weariness, I thought how I loved and missed him, and I knew he would always be with me, in the legacy of his love and care that is in me that I can pass on to others.

Freedom?

"It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery." Gal 6:1

Yesterday I attended a conversation on the subject of Baptists (in GB) and the 'issue' of homosexuality. It was hosted by the BMF (Baptist Ministers' Fellowship) in an attempt to foster conversation and, I surmise, combat uncertainty and misinformation. There is great concern by some ministers in the Baptist Union of Great Britain that the impending legalisation of homosexual marriage in the UK may lead to ministers being 'forced' to perform such ceremonies. This fear was quite decidedly put to rest yesterday. Far from being forced to carry out 'gay marriage' ceremonies, churches will have to 'opt-in' to the system to be able to do so. Indeed, the legal definition of marriage (requiring consummation of the relationship) does not apply in the same way to homosexual relationships, so the law, after a fashion, will be creating a new category allowing same-sex couples to marry, but that marriage will be defined legally in a different way to heterosexual marriage.

So much for the legal and practical bits of the conversation. After lunch, things got a bit more interesting. We were given a paper with five scenarios and asked to discuss the issues involved in small groups. Later the groups fed back in a 'plenary' session involving the whole room of some 70 or more ministers (I estimate 10 or so were women). The opinions shared in this session were many and often at odds with one another. The moderator was careful to see that a good cross-section of those present had a chance to speak, and he ably prevented possible arguments from developing into full-blown debate. I assume the point of the session was for as many individuals as possible to feel 'heard.'

As I sat in my pew listening, I confess a deep sadness began to grow inside me. Such animosity, such fear, filled the voices of some who spoke. There was no consensus in the room, and no sense of closure at the close of the session, but all of us who attended left knowing that there were others in the room we did not understand and with whom we could not agree. It felt as if the body of Christ was broken. Surely a house divided against itself cannot stand.

At the core of Baptist identity is the concept of freedom of conscious, the priesthood of all believers. We hold these things in tension, you may hold to what I do not believe, but we have Christ in common and we protect each other's rights to think differently.

But what happens when one believer condemns a section of society as participating in sin and another looks at the same people and sees no wrong-doing? The first person wishes to admonish, preach repentance, disciple or even discipline. The second person wishes to love, affirm and welcome, seeing no difference between these people and others. Have we now arrived at a parting of the ways?

Growing up in the USA, listening to Christian radio, I learned that 'gay rights activists' were out to take over our country, take away the rights of all who disagree with them, destroy families and, by implication, destroy our great nation. This rhetoric was such that I had no understanding of any 'gay' person that was not militant, anti-family, anti-God, anti-freedom (for anyone but themselves). The message was also accompanied by assurances that the Bible roundly condemns homosexuality. No question. It's wrong. These people are evil. They're out to destroy us.

Coming to the UK I encountered a different narrative. I met people with a deep knowledge and understanding of scripture who categorically disagreed that the Bible clearly condemns homosexuality. I learned alternative narratives focusing on love, commitment, faithfulness, acceptance of all including sinners and marginalised. I began to understand that it was possible for conscientious Christians to accept homosexuals.

I don't intend to detail such alternative readings here. I don't want to get into an argument. As a Baptist, I hold that others may read and interpret scripture differently than I do, and I do not intend to abuse or revile those who cannot in good conscious accept homosexuality as anything other than sinful. Indeed, I once counted myself among them.

But yesterday, for the first time, I clearly understood that I no longer do.

Towards the close of the afternoon a man put his hand up, asking to speak for the first time. In a soft, Welsh voice he spoke the words that set the seal to my sadness.

It is not favour to gay people to say "we will accept you, but you have to change," it is no act of love to say "we will affirm your civil partnership, but you must remain celibate." That is not acceptance. That does nothing for people like me.

As the next person spoke, this man got up and quietly left the building.

Going to College. . . Again?

Earlier this month I attended interviews at the Baptist College in Manchester. I have been offered a place and will begin two years of ministerial training with them in September 2014. In sharing this news it occurs to me that some who lack the context in which I have been living for several years may be unsure why I need to attend yet another institution of higher Christian learning. I have already been a student at two seminaries in the States and have spent almost six years as a student at the Baptist College in Cardiff.

This post is for those of my readers who might like to better understand the journey I am on, and why it requires more years in College. For those of you who understand this, you have already got the bit of news, and may now stop reading with my blessing.

As a young adult in Northern Virginia, I began to explore my sense of calling to ministry. I was given opportunities to preach and to work in a church context, and I was interviewed by my church's deacons, who approved me for licensing. I was told that being licensed was the first step toward ordained ministry and trusted the advice given me. To this day, I am not sure if I was ever properly licensed or just approved by the church to be licensed. I think it was the second.

As a seminary student, I studied counselling and theology, but avoided the 'practical' track. Each of my fellow students seemed to be pursuing such a different journey, I could discern no over-arching path into ministry or church work. Before I could figure it out, I went to Cardiff. In the Baptist College there, it took me only a year to understand the journey into ministry that is practiced within the Baptist Union of Great Britain (BUGB).

In principal the process goes as follows:

• Firstly, an individual, usually a member of a Baptist congregation begins to sense a call toward ministry. This individual has a conversation with his/her local minister. The minister, hopefully, helps the individual to further discern or understand the sense of calling through conversation and practical opportunities within the church (preaching, pastoral visiting, leading worship, etc. as appropriate in the specific church context).
• The individual, ideally with the support of the minister, decides to pursue ministerial calling, and initiates the ministerial recognition process. Initially, this process consists of a conversation with the regional minister of the local association who supplies (or can withhold) the ministerial recognition application. 
• The church of which this individual is a member are asked, in the context of the Church Meeting, whether they too identify the gifts/calling of ministry on the individual's life. Ideally, the Church Meeting commends the individual to the local association as a suitable ministerial candidate.
• The candidate takes (usually) two services at which qualified individuals are asked to assess his/her ability to lead worship/preach.
• The candidate submits the application form and associated paperwork. The church secretary sends a supportive notice that the candidate is commended by the church to train for ministry, and the two assessors submit their reports on the candidate's preaching ability. Subsequently, four personal and/or professional references are requested and submitted on the candidate's behalf.
• When all the paperwork is collected, the candidate is invited to attend an interview with the Ministerial Recognition Committee of the local association. The length and content of the interview varies greatly from association to association, but the basic aim is for the MinRec Committee to discern the suitability of the candidate for ministry and confirm his/her sense of calling.
• If the MinRec Committee is satisfied of the suitability and calling of the candidate, they then recommend him/her to one of the six Baptist Colleges to train for ministry. The candidate may select one or more of the colleges, arrange visits, discuss training options and apply to the college(s) of his/her choice.
• Upon the candidate's application, the College(s) is sent all the paperwork previously read by the association's MinRec Committee. The student may also have to submit further paperwork including an essay or theological reflection. The candidate then attends the interviews arranged by the College usually with a small number of other candidates. The form and length of the College interview process varies greatly between Colleges. The candidate is usually notified within the same day of the outcome of their interview.
• If the candidate is accepted as a ministerial student at the College, their training will usually consist of two main components: an academic element and practical experience. The level of study will depend on what, if any, previous study the student has completed. The practical element will depend on the student's previous experiences in life and ministry and the type of ministry to which they feel called. The length of the training is almost always between two and four years, depending on the policies of and courses offered by the College and the experience and situation of the student.
• In the final year of the agreed course, the student usually goes on the settlement list - a match-making service that seeks to pair ministers and churches. The student produces a profile, detailing his/her strengths, weaknesses, theological ideals and passions in ministry and church life. Many students refer to this time as the un-Settlement Process, as there is a lot of waiting and trying not to worry involved.
• Hopefully/ideally, the student is eventually matched with an appropriate church. This process involves phone calls, visits, preaching with a 'squint' and preaching with 'a view to a call'. If both the student and the church are satisfied that they are called to work together, the student will then be ordained and inducted as the minister of that church.
• The student is now a Newly Accredited Minister (NAM). He/She will be completing further NAM studies alongside ministry, and attending yearly meetings and evaluations at one of the Baptist Colleges (usually, but not always, the nearest). During this time the NAM is also assigned a mentor, whose job it is to support and advise the NAM in the challenges and surprises of the first three years of ministry.
• If the NAM survives those three years and completes all the related course work, he/she then becomes a 'fully accredited minister' in the Baptist Union of Great Britain and is added to the list of those who have been recognised and ordained within BUGB.

Having just been accepted by one of the Colleges I am now between bullet points 8 and 9 if I counted correctly, but my training will be slightly different from the norm. Hopefully, when I begin ministerial training next autumn, I will have already qualified and graduated with a PhD in theology. My College training, therefore will be almost exclusively weighted to the practical side of ministerial formation. This also explains why, after 10 years of studying theology in seminaries and training colleges, I will require a further 2 before I can actually DO the thing.

Although it takes a long time to write down and to read (kudos if you have kept it up this long!) I was, (and still am when I think about it) inspired this process. The length, the dedication required, the number of people, many of them volunteers, who take the time to get to know and pray over each candidate as he or she progresses along this journey, is beautiful to me, and encourages me to think that if and when I make it to the end, I will feel the hands of the many people who have helped me, encouraged me and affirmed my calling supporting me into new life and ministry.

PS

When I was interviewing for my College place, one of my interviewers (an older, white-haired cyclist) asked me, a foreigner, why I had chosen to pursue the BUGB process to enter ministry. When I called the work of the volunteers who conduct interviews and seek to discern calling 'beautiful', he jotted the word down. When I commented on that, he said, smiling, that no one had called him beautiful in a long time. That, in a nutshell, is why I am grateful to be on this journey in this place and with these people.

my life in pictures

Last week we made the switch - PC to Mac. Years ago I made the decision that when it was time to get a new computer, it would not be a Windows PC. However, it is not my intention to rant about Windows in this post, nor to express my great delight with certain aspects of my new MacBook. Only one of these features is related to this post.

As always happens with the purchase of a new computer, we have been going through the switch. Getting important documents, pictures and music off the old computers and onto the new ones. As I was seeking to personalise my desktop picture, I discovered that there is a setting on the mac that allows the desktop to be a changing picture rather than one static image. The effect is a bit like a slide show, but the intervals between the slides can be minutes or hours, as set by the user.

Fairly caught by this imaginative idea, I began to go through all my digital images and select photos I would like to see cycle through my desktop. I began with the standard sea-scapes and mountain-scapes, sunrises and sunsets that I typically use, but slowly other pictures began to creep into the mix.

I don't remember which people picture I picked first. Perhaps it was the picture of me with my siblings at Carderock:

Or maybe the photo of my sister and her partner with me at our friends' narrow boat:

Or perhaps it was my wish to see again images of my father and not to forget the past:

So it went. I began to put in pictures of all my family members, of special times and places, of my husband, of pretty flowers. I even put in a few that were less picturesque and more indicative or evocative of the personality of the subject:

and

All this means that I now daily see photos from a selection of 115 that remind me of who I am, where I have been and what relationships have constituted and continue to effect who I am, my personality and my growth. In bringing my past closer, I find myself thinking differently. It almost forces me to do what my spiritual director has been encouraging me to do all along - bring my past into my present and seek to become a more whole individual. The lives on two continents must become a single life, a single identity. My life. Me.

One particular image has struck me with its poignancy. I don't think I realised how evocative this was until the first time it popped up onto my screen. A tiny shock, a reminder, an image of love:

barren?

I've done better lately - or perhaps it is just that other things have taken precedence over broodiness. After all, there is a lot of change and grief going around in my life at the moment. Who has time to waste grieving for children that never arrive?

Perhaps it is because there have been two posts on Facebook this week announcing births/pregnancies that I wasn't expecting or didn't know about. Only two - that's enough to upset me? Well, there was also that news article last night, and there are other things as well.

It makes me curious when these posts come - was the child planned? was the pregnancy difficult? was infertility an issue? When one of my friends ended up in hospital carrying twins about 14 months ago, I guessed infertility had been involved - I found out I was right in the end. There seems no rhyme or reason or justice involved in fertility. When my mother decided she wanted a kid, they tried, she had a kid. Simple. I have another friend who has had a few, and is ready to concentrate on other things in life. Pregnancy is more a 'danger' than a desire. The ones who want can't have, the ones who have worry they might get more than they want.

Of course there's no actual reason. Every test seems to give different, unpredictable results. They are effected by stress, exercise, general health, weight - the list seems endless. But the it is impossible not to notice that that less active, heavier, less healthy people seem to have none of these difficulties. There is certainly no justice to this, and almost no control. Like most people, I hate not having control.

So, there's not much point to this. Just the rant of a frustrated would be mother who is desperate not to fall back into the pit of infertility despair.

They don't say it is impossible - but sometimes that only seems to make it worse.

Christmas Grouch

Why is it that the character in the film that doesn't like Christmas is always the bad guy? From the classic Scrooge to the green Grinch, the one who dislikes the season and festivities of others is a hard-hearted, close-fisted villain that needs to learn a tough lesson.
Perhaps these cultural messages go some way to explaining the guilt I feel at the moment. Not only am I glad to see the other side of Christmas this year, I spent most of the last few weeks almost hating the season and certainly angry with it. We did have our decorations and a few presents, and I did play Christmas music on the iPod - it seems a waste not to, when it's only appropriate for three weeks a year, but these were my only concessions to the season.
In truth, I endured Christmas, with gritted teeth. I celebrated nothing, and barely remembered the miracle of the incarnation which usually fills me with such wonder. Perhaps I never truly felt it was all humbug, but I certainly wanted to join Scrooge and brush it aside with a 'Bah!'
It didn't help that Christmas is work in the manse, or that I was regularly seeing people who insisted on asking 'how are you?' a ridiculous question to ask a grieving person when the mildest possible answer 'I'm crap, thanks for asking' is not socially acceptable.
If anything the whole experience has highlighted to me how our culture lacks provision for those for whom Christmas in any given year may be neither merry nor happy and no amount of 'Christmas spirit' or guilt-tripping films will make it better. In the end, having duly learned their respective lessons, both Scrooge and Grinch find that a little bit of love/generosity/charity can heal years of ill-will, pain and loneliness, but I and, I suspect, many others like me, only end up feeling like pariahs in a world where not being 'merry' at Christmas time is one of the greatest social sins.

pause

For almost three hours I have been sitting here trying to figure out how to start. All I have accomplished is the eating of lunch. The bank paperwork lies beside me with the pen, unmarked. The draft of chapter 4 is also here on the desk, begging to be covered in red pen marks (an activity I usually enjoy). I've nearly drunk a thermos full of hot cherry and cinnamon tea. I've even failed to think of a snappy start for a blog post to get my brain going. My brain is utterly stagnant.

This is a grey day. Grey and damp. It doesn't even have the heart to rain properly. There are only a few drops on the window beside me. I can see the small plastic flag stuck on the end of the car aerial. He bought it so he can find the car in car parks. The flag seems to bounce and move in small, invisible breezes, proudly announcing our allegiance to a Wales. I wonder if we will ever make our home there together.

Actually, I find I don't want to write a post today. I don't want to be clever. Words seem to be strangers, not the friends they usually are. My thoughts refuse to be formed into intelligible, communicable ideas. I stare straight ahead, face blank, numb.

My apologies for the dour and dark posts of recent times. I don't mean to be morbid or selfishly navel-gazing. I have always fondly hoped that what I write might be of use to others. I have also sought at all times to be true in what I post to what I think and feel and where I am on my journey. Right now I am journeying through a traumatic bereavement. Things aren't going to be cheerful for a while.

worth doing well

Last Saturday night we attended a concert. After the previous Sunday morning service we were each approached and told that our tickets had been paid for. It wasn't a concert we had been planning to attend, generally we appreciate spending Saturday night at home before the busy day that is Sunday. However, unwilling to seem churlish, we did not refuse, and we went.

As a former music major who has spend the best part of my life in choirs, I ought to enjoy a concert. Except all that training and experience has made me far to critical of such performances. The three amature choirs that joined together to give the concert all sang their hearts out, and, as such, they gave a creditable performance. Perhaps it was my frame of mind, or my training and experience. I did not enjoy the evening. Within three songs I was in tears.

One of the three choirs was a small children's choir, placed up on the stage. In that position they had both lighting and microphones that the other choirs did not have. I couldn't help thinking how hot they must be, but it was the microphones that bothered me. My earliest memories of childhood in church are of following my father around before 8am on a Sunday as he assembled and set up the microphones and other audio equipment to support (and record) the worship of the church. I helped, plugging in microphones, delivering the lapel mic to the preacher, checking that everything was plugged in the right place and set to the right height. Helping dad was one of the highlights of my Sunday mornings. Durring these early morning set-ups dad taught me a few basic princples of sound engineering. One of these was the insistence that microphones are there to assist the sound. They should not be noticable. The sound levels should be only as high as absolutely necessary to assist the sound, and balanced so as to avoid any ringing, background noise or (worst of all) feedback.

The microphones set up at the concert provided all of these unwanted extras in almost every song. They were loud enough that I rarely heard the natural sound of the children or other performers on the stage, only the sound blasting from the speakers. How I wanted my dad - I knew it sounded wrong, but he could have done it right.

On top of this, I suddenly had another realisation. To my recollection, I never heard him say the words "if something is worth doing, it is worth doing well," but last Saturday night I realised that he had drilled this lesson into my head nonetheless for never having said it. There was so much about the concert that I wanted to tweak. It was okay as it was, but it could have been better. Ever self-critical (not always in a positive way), dad always strove to do things well. If this meant doing them slowly and carefully, or finding someone else to help, that didn't matter, as long as they were done well. As a child I often tired of this meticulous attention to detail and left him to get on with whatever the project was, but I on Saturday night I suddenly realised how much more like him I am than I realised.

Unfortunately for me, this desire to do things well has too often resulted in a refusal to do things at all because I do not wish to put in the effort involved, but after Saturday night I have a new understanding of myself through those memories of dad. So perhaps I should be grateful for those tickets we didn't want.

Red and Black

I once knew a brass musician and composer for whom music was colour and movement. What he heard and what he composed were visual to him. I sometimes feel this way about emotion. There are times and places when the labels we give to emotions and feelings fall so far short of the mark they don't seem worth using. Times when the inner world is a swirl of colour, light, darkness and flickering images that seem to tell a story. At these times I wish I could draw or paint this inner art. Sometimes I think I might understand my own self better if I could get those colours out and look at them, but art has never been my strong point. I have always enjoyed colouring books and posters where the drawing is done for me and I add colour and textures with pencils, markers and crayons, but the colours are dictated by the drawing that is already there. Trees and grass are green. Hair is blond, brown, black or red. Water and sky are blue. Wood is brown.

Two Sunday's ago I went to church dressed in black with red accessories. It was the only palate I had to illustrate my inner world - awash in a swirl of angry reds and desolate blacks. They flicker and flash, sometimes so close they almost block my natural sight, sometimes so far away that they only echo in the corners of my mind.

Every night I replay another dream, another scenario of loss and seeking. Another big building or place I once belonged but now belong no longer. Another story of cutting off, leaving behind, choosing to be strong. But waking brings no comfort, no relief.

These are the days I believe in nothing. I forget my calling. I drift with no will other than to avoid the void yawning beside me as I walk this precipice of emotions, for I have not yet fallen into it, and I refuse to do so. Perhaps, like Shasta, an invisible Beast paces silently between me and the gulf, patiently escorting me through the terrifying darkness.1

I am reminded of these words: "To live, for me Jane, is to walk on a crater crust that may crack and spew fire at any moment."2 Perhaps these words are more appropriate for my husband, who never knows whether  a word will cause me to lose my temper or burst into tears, but most of the time, I don't know either.

Several years ago, in another dark place, I made a decision to believe there is a God who loves me. This decision I have maintained. I have gone through tough times and good, and along the way I have allowed myself to have the days when my faith is my strength as well as the days when I have no faith at all. But even in the midst of the absence of faith I know that a day will come when I will believe again and strive again to pursue my calling.

For now I will be here, amidst the swirling red and black, on the edge of the void, waiting for the darkness to pass.

1 see The Horse and His Boy by C.S. Lewis
2 from Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte

Snapshots and stories

Images keep playing back in my mind. Disjointed, they repeat. Together they recall that last week in Virginia, all the horror and love and humour. My uncle in tears, confessing he never knew his brother. My aunt, seated on the couch surrounded by paperwork, helping us get to grips with the financial situation. Holding my grandfather's arm as he moved slowly towards our front door. My other uncle, silently surveying the situation with red eyes that seemed to be looking at something else. My sister's partner quietly seeing that the practical things were taken care of. My brother, in black, looking older. My aunt and uncles and their cousins, the family tendency towards height pronounced in their gathering, sitting around the old picnic table dad made for my third birthday party and sharing their grief and their memories. The endless queue of mourners and sympathizers, some offering comfort, some needing it, and others just understanding and sharing. Seeing again people I haven't seen almost since my childhood. Remembering a life that seems so long ago and far away now, brought into sharp focus by the knowledge that it is now, concretely, over.

Today I finally had the guts to get out that shirt I brought home. I don't know what I'll do with it.

Speaking to a friend on Monday morning, he observed that I almost have 'car crash syndrome'.

There are other memories of that week that I wouldn't want to post here. They are closer to the heart somehow, closer to the grief. They are me and my family, being us, minus 1.

I still can't get to grips with it.

One more story:

In the hot August of 1949, a small baby was born in Chester, Illinois. He was born with spina bifida. The infant was taken to the hospital in the nearest big city, 70 miles away. When they got to the door, the parents were told that they could not take the baby without a $100 deposit. The father did not have this kind of money, but he signed an IOU and turned over the infant. For the next week, he begged and borrowed from family and friends and returned to the hospital with $100 to save his newborn son. The surgeon, offered to perform the appropriate procedure for free, saying that the survival rate was so low, he didn't want to charge. After the surgery, the tiny infant was handed back to his parents with the un-encouraging instructions: if he is still alive in six months, bring him back for a check-up.When they brought back a bouncing, healthy baby boy six months later, the doctors were astonished.

That $100 bought 63 years of life and love, three children to carry on the legacy, and an untold number of lives touched. Not a bad investment.

(thanks to my aunt for telling this story to my husband at the wake)

Death, trauma and love

Death is so final, so absolute. Death brings a life to an abrupt, complete halt. Death seems so unnatural, so contrary to the patterns of living, yet it is an integral part of life in this world.

In the aftermath of death, shock, mourning, funeral, one huge thing stands out in relief against the background - the great gaping hole left in life by the one who has died. For those who saw him daily this is the greatest trauma of all, but I can't help thinking of the spaces he will no longer fill - the car, the bed, the computer chair  - the radio stations he will no longer listen to, the films he will never again watch, the tools he will never again pick up. Things, places and activities once cherished, now abandoned. A gaping hole, an absence.

For those of us who live, those of us who grieve, death is a part of life. Eventually, with time and the Spirit, the wound will scar over. We will learn to live with the hole. Life will become something different than we  supposed it would be, but we will inevitably be jarred by those events when, looking forward, we had expected him to be a part of that moment. Graduation, marriage, birth of a child, and the many other great events in life will each bring a punch to the gut, a tear in the eye, a deep breath, and the choice to keep going, keep living, keep hoping, keep loving.

After all, his memory and his legacy lives on in each of us who loved him.

But just now, it just hurts, reminding me again of the price of love.

the role of a minister

I recently posted on Facebook about my upcoming interview with the local Baptist Association's Ministerial Recognition Committee. In order to get the conversation going, they have asked me to speak for five minutes on the topic : What is the role of a Baptist minister in the 21st century?

One of my Facebook friends, a man I once worked with, who is now also in Christian ministry, challenged me to reflect on how my answer to this question would be different if the word 'Baptist' was removed from the question. I wonder if, in some sense, my friend's secondary question springs from the differing contexts of ministry in the US and the UK, but I will go some way to answering it by reflecting on both questions here.

Firstly, I was going to begin my interview by pointing out that each Baptist church has the freedom to agree with its minister what role that minister will undertake within the local worshipping community. The calling of a Baptist minister to a local congregation is a decision made by the local church meeting, under the leading of Christ in the Spirit, and accepted by the said minister, hopefully, under the same leading. Although regional ministers and others may have helped to bring this church and minister into contact with one another, it is their choice to enter into relationship with one another, and the terms under which the minister serves are settled between that minister and that church. These terms can include number of days off (1 or 2?), the primary sphere of the minister's work (church or community work), and financial arrangements (reimbursement for miles driven, utility bills or the provision of a manse).

It becomes obvious, then, that the role of a Baptist minister is highly variable, contextual, and determined by that minister and his/her church. To what extent this is true for other traditions is somewhat beyond my knowledge. I have been a Baptist from birth, with a brief 9 months as pianist/accompanist for a Lutheran congregation in West Virginia. Within my current UK surroundings I am best placed to observe Methodists and Anglicans. Within these traditions there are church structures that effect and describe the role(s) of the minister. There is also a growing trend of 'circuit' ministry in which a minister or team of ministers shares responsibility for a number or churches. I would hazard a guess that the roles shared among these ministry teams would differ from a minister who is committed to a particular church and context (more traditionally the Baptist model).

I suppose it could be argued that these are chiefly cosmetic differences. As my friend's question implies, Christian ministry (especially in the West) faces challenges and opportunities that cut across denominational lines. Questions of worship style, moral attitudes, inclusivity, witness, mission, pastoral relationships and the place of our faith within an increasingly secular culture challenge us all.

So what is the role of a Christian minister? In some respects the same as it always has been: to walk with people through all the joy and pain of life; to conduct weddings and funerals; to visit the ill, the struggling, the housebound and the hospitalised; to conduct worship services for the church community; to seek to communicate the message of Jesus to people within and outside our church buildings.

How does it differ in 'the 21st century'? We abandon the position of privilege we have so long held. [Here again there is a difference between US and UK, for Baptists in the UK have an identity as a 'free' church and a history of challenging establishment while Baptists in the US have a tradition of (attempting to) control government and society. Anglicans in the UK are still a part of the establishment, placing them at once in a prime position to help change policy and in a position of collusion.] We seek to spread the message of Jesus as a contagious disease rather than an exclusive club. We seek to preach in how we live, attempting to cultivate integrity, humility and solidarity with others, avoiding violence in our words about and towards others as well as our actions.

My default answer to almost any question is a variation on 'it depends.' The role of a specific minister in any tradition with vary in accordance with that minister's tradition, context, local congregation, personality and passions. Most ministers I have known have a particular passion within the wider context of 'ministry' - enabling others, fostering authenticity, preaching the gospel, or simply trying to 'be Jesus with skin on'. Ministry, in its essence, is about connecting people with God. So perhaps, in the final analysis, everything else is just attempting to figure out how.