In search of awe and wonder

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Image: Valeria Aksakova / Freepik

Sometimes I wonder if we’re all just big old magpies, dressed up in human form.

Flitting around from branch to branch, scouring the earth for the next big shiny thing. Lining our nests with all that glitters – even when it’s not really precious at all but an old piece of tin foil, or a plastic ring from a Christmas cracker, glinting as if it might be something special, foxing us with it’s own reflection.

Sometimes I wonder how we ended up chasing all that fools gold, seeking solace in tinsel and trees covered in lights, presents piled up underneath. Finding fleeting happiness as paper is fast-unwrapped, packaging piling around us; life –with all it’s cares and burdens – for just a moment, forgotten.

Sometimes, when you are surrounded by so much, it’s hard to keep finding the awe and wonder in the everyday. Hard to find anything at all that stirs your world-weary soul anymore to soar, and hope and dream.

Dream of a Christmas where half the world is not cowering beneath a bombed-out sky, looking up and waiting not for Santa and his sleigh to steal overhead, but for aircraft, heavy laded with all the wrong sorts of Christmas gifts.

Dream of a time where people do not live in fear, in hunger, without shelter, free to talk and share and speak of their faith without risking their lives.

In my comfortable, western life, I cannot imagine such suffering and persecution, and yet I know it goes on. Occasionally I see it on the news, more often I hear of it through books that I read, or through stories of people that I know living and working in places where even saying you are a Christian can result in your death. Does that really even exist anymore? Oh yes.

Would I have the courage to stand under that? To stand and stand and keep standing. Never wavering, never fearing, just holding fast to the hope that is in me, the Light of the World?

I read a story recently about two young women, imprisoned in Tehran, Iran, for converting to Christianity and daring to speak to other people about Jesus. Their courage and bravery was inspirational,but what was really startling for me, in this season of tinsel and glitter and all that sparkles, was the awe and the wonder that rose up in the women that they met, every single time the name of Jesus was spoken.

Women in prison, living in filth, tortured and beaten; for trying to escape a violent marriage, for being the wrong ethnic group, for getting caught in the wrong place with the wrong head covering, for being an inconvenience, for daring to have an opinion or trying to do a job. Women who live in a society where they are property, not people, who live at the mercy of another ruling over them, with no rights, no advocate, no hope.

Except this Jesus, who came down from heaven – God with us, Immanuel – to be our hope. God in human form, who does not require or demand anything from us apart from our love, and who offers us mercy, hope, compassion. Can we ever understand the newness of hope that springs up in the soul of a person who has never before met this Jesus? Whose only experience of religion is a forced one, covered in fear and obligation, hopelessness and never-changingness?

The books of the Bible that speak of the early church, letters written to baby Christians in places like Ephesus and Corinth, also tell tales of awe and wonder as it spreads through a  society that has never before seen such love, such hope. Instructions on dealing with widows, with orphans, slaves and women – there because the early churches were crammed full of them. Oppressed people with no rights, living under a Greco-Roman household code that placed men at the top, and all else underneath, where their testimony was not even valid in a court of law, running to the one that offered them equality, a place to belong, a home. Running to Jesus, who loved women so much that he first appeared after his resurrection to Mary, the prostitute-turned-pupil, and told her to go tell the men (John 20:11-18). Who built a church that lived by the once-revolutionary-now-more-ordinary premise that “There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” (Galatians 3:28). Churches where women could prophesy, tell of God’s goodness, where they are mentioned as leaders, as fellow-workers, as equals. In a society that did not afford them anything like that status. No wonder they loved Him.

We cheer now that this motto, once oh-so revolutionary, is taken for granted as a basic human right – for us here at least, if not for everyone, everywhere. But as we cheer, I will try this Christmas, as I baste my turkey and celebrate with my beautiful family, in our comfortable, privileged life, to conjure up once more some of that awe and wonder. To remember what exactly happened that night 2000 years ago, when God left heaven and collided with out world, ushering in – if we let Him – a new world order.

When He offered us something more than fear, something greater than chasing after the next shiny thing. When He gave Himself that we might live with Him forever. I will try and remember the newness of that, when those women and children and slaves in Greece and Rome and Israel heard it for the first time. When women today, living in societies that oppress and violate them, hear it for the first time:

“For God so loved the world, that He gave His one and only Son, that whosoever believes in Him may not perish, but have eternal life.” (John 3:16)

Maybe here, we hear it so often that it becomes like white noise. The choice – because we have so many! – becomes unimportant. Our privilege, our opportunity, our options blind us to the awe and wonder found in the Christmas story. But my heart cry is simple. It is this: not this year, not here, not in this heart.

Don’t let me be blind to what He gave. Don’t let me be deaf to what He offered. And don’t let me be so dazzled by all that is around me, to my comfort and privilege and afforded rights, that I forget how truly blessed I am to live where I do, in the time I do, and that I don’t have to suffer what some people suffer every day because of their gender, their ethnicity or their religion.

To oppressed people everywhere: you are in my heart this Christmas. I don’t take this freedom for granted.

There are many great organisations working in war-torn parts of the world such as Syria, or supporting church communities in countries where they are oppressed. Below are a couple that you could donate to, but there are many more out there on the internet!

 

 

It’s all in the detail

When I read the Christmas story, there are so many things that surprise me. Things that don’t often make the cut in the pre-school nativity, the cosy candlelit scenes in pretty churches of hay-filled mangers and babies that don’t cry and children with tea-towels tied jauntily around their heads.

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Like the fact that Mary was likely 14 or 15 years old when she gave birth to a son. Now I have an 11 year old myself, that sounds even more shocking to me than ever before.

Like the fact that they ended up in a stable – or actually, most likely a cave of some sort – probably because they had been shunned by all of Joseph’s family that lived in Bethlehem, confused by the fact that he’d chosen to marry a girl who was already pregnant with a child he didn’t father.

Like the minutiae of the whole crazy story, planned and executed perfectly and intricately to fulfill a story that was thousands of years in the making.

A baby born in Bethlehem, not because that’s where his parents lived, but because right then, at that particular point in time, a Roman government chose to take a census. Two young parents forced to up sticks and travel 90-odd miles, 9 months pregnant and on a donkey, when it would have been the last thing on their minds. All so that the words of a prophet, Micah, would be true:

“But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah,
    though you are small among the clans of Judah,
out of you will come for me
    one who will be ruler over Israel” Micah 5:2

Born of a woman, and an unmarried, uninitiated one at that, to make true the words of Isaiah, another prophet, spoken over 700 years before his birth:

“Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign: The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and will call him Immanuel.” Isaiah 7:14

Born into a one particular family, out of all those on the face of the earth, tracing back through the lines of the great and the good of Biblical patriarchy – David, Jesse, Jacob, Isaac, Abraham – so that another 8 predictions, stretching all the way back to the first books of the Bible, were fulfilled.

The devil is in the detail, so the saying goes, but here and now, it’s the savior that’s in the specifics.

Specific details that narrow down this gift of love.

Specific circumstances that rearranged and realigned themselves to let us know that God was here. Immanuel. God with us.

Specific promises, spoken through holy men and recorded in holy books hundreds of years before they came to pass. So that we would know. That despite the waiting – which must have seemed endless and endless and endless to the Israelite people waiting for their coming king; despite the silence – over 400 years between Old  and New Testament writings, where God seemingly said nothing to his people that anyone saw fit to record. Despite it all, when it finally happened, when the Son of God was born on earth, it was PERFECT.

An intricately-woven story of a faithful God who is always interested in the detail and who always answers us intimately. A faithful God who is still the same, yesterday, today and tomorrow, regardless of the silence, the waiting, the uncertainty.

I’m reminded of it each advent, as I re-read the story of a saviour born in such specific circumstances so that we might know He is Truth, and I was reminded of it this week when I listened to this beautiful song from Chris Tomlin. A faithful God whose promises are still – as they always were – Yes and Amen.

 

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Keeping sight of why we’re here

I’ve just finished reading a book by the fabulous Liane Moriarty called ‘What Alice Forgot‘. It’s the second of her books that I’ve read now, and the stories are gripping from the outset, pulling you in and keeping you hooked as you clamber through the pages as fast as you can.

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This one (without spoiling the plot for those of you that wish to go off and read it) is about a 39 year old woman who falls over at step class one Friday, bangs her head and wakes up having lost a decade of her memory. She thinks she’s turning thirty and in the throes of excitedly expecting her first baby with her gorgeous husband, when in fact she’s got three children, and is in the middle of a hideous divorce.

I’ve barely been able to put it down these past couple of weeks, and actually did something I rarely ever do – I sat down for half an hour in the middle of the day yesterday to finish it, so strong was the pull to find out how it ended.

With two kids of my own and a decade of child-rearing under my belt, the poignancy of the conflict inside the central character’s head between the ‘old’ and ‘young’ Alice was especially moving. ‘Young’ Alice would never have made her kid go to hockey just because ‘playing a team sport is good for you’ when the child so obviously hated every minute of it. ‘Young’ Alice, in the naivety (or is it hopefulness?) of new marriage would never be cross at her husband for forgetting to buy an ingredient for dinner on the way home from work.

As I read it, I felt compelled to look back over my shoulder at the past 10 years or so of my life and look at where I’d changed, and whether those changes were for better, or for worse.

My Mum would say my diet has changed, and that I now impose on my children all the same restrictions that I hated her placing on me and my brother when we were small. She’s right. Do I regret it, now I am looking at it hard and eyes wide open, or want it to change? Not particularly, I don’t think. We live in an obesiogenic environment where kids are surrounded every day with a zillion opportunities and temptations to eat the wrong things, a little moderation from me isn’t going to kill them. I have journeyed from being super-militant on the no-sugar-thing to a (hopefully) middle ground that won’t result in my kids hating me or pushing back too hard as they grow and exercise their own independence, so we’ll see how that pans out.

Both my parents regularly laugh at me (helpful) as they listen to me discipline the girls, smug chuckles that can only be uttered by people that have lived through the same pain when parenting you and your sibling. I definitely look forward to similarly laughing heartily at my children in years to come. But I do wonder sometimes as I hear the words of so many mothers the world over come out from my mouth, seemingly unplanned and unrehearsed, ‘How did this happen to me?’

‘How many times do I have to tell you….’

‘Why can’t you just remember to….’

‘Don’t you realise just how lucky you are…’

I don’t think I am a bad parent, overly stressy or shouty or harsh, but for me, reading this book has definitely reminded me to lighten up when possible, to not treat it all as such a life-or-death moment. I was given some great advice early on in my parenting journey, to try and pick my battles wisely, and only ever say ‘no’ when there was good reason to. I’m going to try harder to hang on to that, and not sweat the small stuff so much (or often).

What about my marriage? My ambitions? My general attitude to life, to risk, to adventure and challenge?

Sure, I’m not the same person I was at 29 either. At 29, I’d been married 4 years. In that time, we’d bought a flat, quit our jobs, gone travelling, come back, moved from London to Cornwall, had a baby and bought our first proper house. In the 10 years since, we’ve had another child, and pretty much stayed where we are. So not quite so exciting, that’s true. But thankfully, hopefully, I’ve not morphed into another creature entirely, unrecognisable to myself or those around me.

I still love my husband more than I think you’re pretty much meant to love anyone, ever, and that’s a really, really  good thing. But even when you’re lucky enough to have a good thing to start with, it’s not difficult to see how life gets in the way and makes you both stop seeing the good in each other. Whether it’s work-life balance (or lack of it) financial pressures, grief, or simply the mundane day-to-day, wouldn’t it be great for all of us that have been married for a while to suddenly see things as we did a decade a go – or longer. To view each other, if only for a second, as how we once were, without the baggage of time, hurt, pain and maybe just complacency, colouring the water. Would it change how we spoke to one another, reacted to every day comments and conversation, if we saw what we once saw, rather than what we’ve learnt to expect.

And I guess that’s true not only of our marriage, but also of us. It’s good to reflect and remember what we once wanted, where we were going, and what we thought was important. Sometimes, it reminds us of who we really are, underneath those roles that sometimes threaten to smother us: wife, mother, teacher, carer, business woman, professional, bread winner, church leader.

I’m lucky in that I wouldn’t want to lose the last 10 years of my life. Some, I know, rather would. Painful memories that are best left well alone. But whether it’s a chance to start over, or a reminder of the good things we’ve lived though, let’s take the good and leave the bad. Learn from what we can, and move on from what we can’t. And make a promise to ourselves to be fully present, here, today. To make the most of this moment, savour it, enjoy it, live it.

 

 

 

 

 

Nailing your colours to the mast

This week, I’m delighted to be writing again for Evangelical Alliance’s Friday Night Theology. To read the original post, click here.

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Over the past few days, there has been much in the media about the decision of the English and Scottish football associations to defy FIFA and allow their players to wear the poppy on black armbands when the two teams meet at Wembley next week. We’ve had Theresa May voicing her support in parliament, people writing in newspapers on both sides of the argument. Loud shouts of support and patriotism, and cries of politicism and point-scoring. 

Some have argued that all the posturing and publicity is making the whole thing seem ridiculous, devaluing the reverence of the actual act of remembrance in the first place. For some, it is a point of pride; for others, a personal choice that should be kept out of the spotlight of media and sports stadiums.

In many ways, it is an age-old debate. Does what we feel, what we put our faith in, what we practice and believe and orientate our lives around, have any place in any sort of public forum at all? Crosses worn at work. Having to teach in a classroom what we don’t hold to be true at home. Bibles in hotel bedroom drawers. Being able to speak about our faith openly and plainly without being held up as narrow-minded bigots or crazy loons.

Communicating the gospel – in whatever way you choose to do that in your life – can seem harder now than at any point in history. Emotions and arguments can escalate oh-so-quickly, and before long, the cross of Calvary and its amazing message of redemptive hope, glorious grace and everlasting love has been overshadowed by political points of view, stubbornness and anger. 

Finding the right way to express your faith, among pressures from some quarters to keep quiet, and from others to shout it from the rooftops and fight all the way, can be difficult. Being unafraid and unashamed is undoubtedly a biblical motif that we see throughout the story of scripture, but so is one of gentleness, respect and reconciliation.

When Jesus confronts, he does so with uncompromising truth, and unyielding grace. Arriving in Jerusalem by donkey, Jesus tells his disciples that he does so to fulfill Old Testament prophecy: “Say to Daughter Zion: ‘See, your king comes to you, gentle and riding on a donkey.’” Matthew 21:5 / Zechariah 9:9

Then in the next breath this gentle saviour turns tables in the temple, righteous anger for his Father’s house flashing through his veins. And then again, returns as quick as lightning to drawing to him the blind and the lame; healing them all, children dancing around his feet in praise.

Jesus came to save us. The nature of this mission is described well in the Isaiah 61 prophecy – to preach good news to the poor, to bind up the broken hearted, to heal, to restore, to set free. And that is now our mission too as Christ followers. As it says in Ecclesiastes 3: “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.”

Whether for you it is a time to keep silent, or a time to speak out, may the way we communicate our faith always be orientated – as Christ’s was – around the never-ending goodness and grace of the gospel of God.