Almost a year ago, something began which I thought would bring me joy. And it did, for a while. But very quickly, the situation took me (or I allowed myself to go) to a place of darkness, pain and sorrow. It was so bad that I stopped writing. I lost my words, part of the core of my being. I lost part of my self. Those who know me well will know how significant this was. When I go silent for too long, it's not a good sign. I went quiet, I went numb with the constant hurt, and I misplaced my backbone.
If not for the friend who asked me where the woman she knew and loved had gone, I might still be there. If not for the friends who loved me, supported me, let me cry, didn't judge me, fed me tea and cake, listened to me, kept me company, protected me, held my hand, helped me heal and reminded me who I was, I would probably still be a puddle on the floor.
Instead, I have returned! I am strong, beautiful, alive, happy! So, thank you: Charli, Tina, Simon, Tracey, Rob C, Rob M, Henri, Till, Maddy, Nat, Bethan, Emma C, Siobhan, Emma A, Elizabeth S, Jane, Yiwen, Suwei, Bobby, Zoya, Egle, Dominika, and many more. Like the stars, I know you're always there - wherever in the world we are.
Thanks to you, I was lost but now I'm found! And the words are back :)
“May today there be peace within. May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be. May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith. May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you. May you be content knowing you are a child of God. Let this presence settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love. It is there for each and every one of us.”
"He that takes his cares on himself loads himself in vain with an uneasy burden. I will cast my cares on God; he has bidden me; they cannot burden him."
A couple of posts back, I wrote about how it can sometimes feel like God is trying very hard to get a message across. He knows us so well, He knows exactly what speaks to that place within us that wants to hear Him. I think this is particularly true in those times that we find it hardest to hear His voice, or when we don't want to listen in case He says something we don't want to hear. Personally, I find it difficult not only to hear God but to talk to Him when I am in pain, or otherwise in a dark place. It's not that I don't want to; those are the times I want communion with Him more than ever. I just can't. I'm too distracted by the storm. I can't hear Him for the roaring of the wind, I can't see Him for the ten-foot waves between us, I can't feel him for the rocking of my little boat.
So I go away in search of silence, and the first thing I see on walking into this place is a board with these words: "Serenity is not freedom from the storm, but peace amid the storm". It's the message of Matthew 14:22-32, the same one that's been coming at me from all directions lately. Peace amid the storm, stillness in its midst. The world does not have to come to a standstill for us to be at peace. The peace of the Lord passeth all understanding, and it is where God is, which is everywhere. God is always there. We may leave, but He is constant, waiting with open arms for us to come back and be comforted, celebrated, cherished, loved.
Which is all very well, but how do you find this peace when the reality of life as you are living it is anything but? I wish there were an easy answer, but it's complicated. Because we are human, and imperfect. Because it is connected to our relationship with God, and relationships are complicated. Because an ant can only see so much of a mountain at once. So I don't have the answer, and there isn't a magic wand we can wave, but something helpful has come my way. This is what was prayed at evening prayer, the night I had spent the whole day asking God how to find the still place.
You, Lord, are in this place.
Your presence fills it,
Your presence is peace.
You, Lord, are in my heart.
Your presence fills it,
Your presence is peace.
You, Lord, are in my mind.
Your presence fills it,
Your presence is peace.
You, Lord, are in my life.
Your presence fills it,
Your presence is peace.
Help us, oh Lord, to know that we dwell in You and You dwell in us, this day and for evermore.
That's a pretty good place to start, don't you think?
Do you ever get the feeling God/the universe is trying to tell you something? I spend quite a lot of time asking God questions, ranging from "what am I supposed to be doing with my life?" to "why can't I just eat cake all the time?" - and He never, but never, seems to give me a direct answer. Most annoying, but I suspect God doesn't work that way for most people. What I think He does do is keep open the lines of communication from His end; God constantly reaches out to us, but we don't always see or hear him, because sometimes we just can't or just don't want to. It's scary to listen to God. He might be saying something you really don't want to hear, and what happens then? So we put up walls, or I do anyway - because I am scared, suspicious, stubborn, worried, angry, or for whatever reason have too much internal noise to hear the still small voice of God.
He is always there though. That is the point of Him. He doesn't go away. Not ever, believe it or not, and it can be so hard to believe it sometimes, even if you know it. And while most of us probably don't have daily visions of Him, or hear him a la the Metatron in Dogma or Morgan Freeman in Bruce Almighty (you might, I don't), I do believe He tries to get through to us all the time. He is there in prayer, in the people we meet, in the books we read, the music we hear, the art we create, the world He has made - look at a sunrise or a sausage dog and tell me God had nothing to do with that.
This is all wonderful but not terribly specific. However, now and then I think there is something God really wants us to hear, and then I think He goes all out to make sure we get the message. Now I don't know about you but I tend to be fairly oblivious and usually need to be hit over the head with it before I get it. And that's the kind of week I've had. Everywhere I've turned, every other person I've spoken to, every random moment I've experienced, I've been hearing the same thing.
There's this great story in Matthew 14:22-32: Jesus has fed the five thousand, and tells the disciples to get in a boat and cross the lake at Galilee while he goes off alone to pray. A storm arises in the middle of the night when the boat is far from the shore and everyone panics. Jesus walks out on the water to the boat, and everyone freaks out, convinced he's a ghost or spirit. Jesus tells them not to worry, it's just him, and Peter says, "If it really is you, tell me to come to you on the water." Jesus does so, and Peter start to walk towards him on the water. Everything is fine while Peter keeps his eyes on Jesus, then he notices the wind, panics, and starts to sink. He cries out, "Lord, save me!", and Jesus reaches out to him and catches him saying, "You of little faith, why did you doubt?". And when Peter and Jesus climbed into the boat, the wind died down - at which point the relieved disciples worshipped him saying, "Truly You are the Son of God."
Wonderful, and so apt for me at the moment. I feel a lot like Peter; as long as I keep my focus on the Lord, everything's fine - or at least I feel like it's all going to be ok. I trust. But I get distracted, and panic, and then I flail. It reminds me of when I was learning to play the piano and my teacher used to get me to memorise the music. I'd be playing along from memory quite happily, with the score in front of me "just in case", and it would be perfect until I suddenly realised I hadn't turned the page in ages, doubted myself, and my beautiful Chopin would collapse into a rubble of dischord and missed notes. Oh you of little faith, why did you doubt?
I also feel a lot like the disciples: I'm inclined not to really believe with all my heart until the storm has been calmed. The problem is, some storms keep raging for a lot longer than I can keep my focus.
Anyway, everywhere I have turned recently I have been hit over the head with Matthew 14. I went to the BBC Proms for the first time this year, and randomly chose a performance of Elgar's The Apostles - guess what a big chunk of that was about? My favourite stained glass window in my new church (shown to me by the lovely, intuitive vicar who thought it would speak to me) depicts - you guessed it - Jesus calming the storm. The readings in every other service/bible study/random discussion I've had in the last week or so? Matthew 14. The passage a spiritual director gave me to read on retreat? Matthew 14.
You think He's trying to tell me something? I don't believe in coincidence, but I do believe in a divine plan of such magnificent scale that it's beyond my comprehension. And in the meantime, while my bark is tempest tossed, it's rather nice to know that He will calm the storm and as long as I keep my eyes on Him, anything is possible.
"People who are in the habit of praying- and they include the mystics of the Christian tradition- know that when a prayer is answered, it is never answered in a way that you expect."
"Pray the largest prayers. You cannot think a prayer so large that God, in answering it, will not wish you had made it larger. Pray not for crutches but for wings."
"... follow your heart. I know it sounds trite, but it's the only thing to do. Because at the end of the day your heart will stop beating, and it will be too late to regret that you didn't go where it prompted you to go." (Berthea Snark, "A Conspiracy of Friends", Alexander McCall Smith)
God knows what He's doing. It's a truth I find it hard to hold on to sometimes, especially when nothing seems to be going the way I'd like it to, but it's an unshakeable part of what I believe and therefore of who I am. It doesn't mean that bad things don't happen, or that life isn't full of disappointments and unfairness. But it does mean that when I remember to stop being such a type-A control freak, I have the exquisite luxury of knowing that the guy in the driver's seat knows where we're going and how we're going to get there. All I have to do is go on the journey - and try to remember to enjoy the ride.
I have spent most of my life fighting my own heart. I am used to putting everyone else's expectations before my own desires, everyone's wants before my own needs, other people before my self. Not because I'm particularly good or kind, but often because I have felt that is precisely what I am not. I have a terror of being selfish, and so I find it very hard to say "no". I have been conditioned to put duty and responsibility above all else, and certainly above that pesky little ego and id - my super-ego reigns supreme.
Don't get me wrong, duty, responsibility and moral obligation are important. There are far too many people with no sense of how what they do affects the people in their lives - or who just don't care. But how do you take care of the people you love if you won't even give yourself permission to breathe?
Rob Bell, writing in Velvet Elvis, puts it better than I can ever hope to:
"I started identifying how much of my life was about making sure the right people were pleased with me. And as this became more and more clear, I realised how less and less pleased I was with myself. What happens is our lives become so heavily oriented around the expectations of others that we become more and more like them and less and less like ourselves. We become split.
...I had all this guilt and shame because I wasn't measuring up to the image of the perfect person I had in my head.
...I meet so many people who have superwhatever rattling around in their head. They have this person they are convinced they are supposed to be, and their superwhatever is killing them. They have this image they picked up over the years of how they are supposed to look and act and work and play and talk, and it's like a voice that never stops shouting in their ear.
And the only way not to be killed by it is to shoot first."
The very first time I read this passage, a few years ago now, I felt the power of what Rob Bell was saying. It scared me how close to the bone this man, who had never met me and didn't know me from Eve, had come. I read this, and I saw myself, and I knew that he was right. If I didn't stop living this way, I was going to end up dead.
I knew this, and still I could not, or did not, or was not quite able, to stop myself. And so I kept going. I fought it, and I tried, but I kept going. I didn't want to, but I kept going, because that is how I am. I am a perfectionist, and I try hard, and nothing is ever good enough. I am never good enough. Way to miss the point, huh?
And finally, finally, it has almost killed me. It has almost, quite literally, ended my life.
There is a story that's been doing the rounds for years, told as a joke but with a serious point to make:
A religious man is on top of a roof during a great flood. A man comes by in a boat and says, "Get in, get in!" The religous man replies, "No I have faith in God, he will grant me a miracle."
When the water is up to his waist, another boat and rescuer come by but once again the man responds that he has faith in God and God will provide a miracle. With the water at chest height, another boat comes to rescue him, but he turns down the offer again because "God will grant me a miracle." Finally, as the man is almost completely submerged, a helicopter throws down a ladder and they tell him to get in. Mumbling through the water in his mouth, he says - you guessed it - he believes God will come to his rescue. Of course, he drowns. He arrives at the gates of heaven with broken faith and says to Saint Peter, I thought God would grant me a miracle and I have been let down." St. Peter chuckles and responds, "I don't know what you're complaining about, we sent you three boats and a helicopter."
I have turned down several boats, but there is no way I am not getting on that helicopter. It means letting go of a lot, and leaving people behind. It means having to fight a lot of learned behaviour. It means giving myself permission to be the person I really am, instead of struggling to be the person I am expected to be - which, horror of horrors, means accepting that maybe, just maybe, who I am is enough. No, not good enough, which has nothing to do with anything; just enough. It is the hardest, most terrifying thing I have ever done (and this is a lawyer speaking). But it is better by far than the alternative.
It is going to be a struggle, and I am going to need help - most of you will have no idea what it took for me to recognise and admit that, to myself much less to anyone else. But at this point I have nothing to lose. So I choose not to let the floodwaters close over my head. I choose to be free. I choose life. And it doesn't really matter that I don't know what I'm doing, where I'm going or how I'm going to get there, because God does, and I have found, in some of my darkest hours, that I really do trust Him. So, don't worry about a thing, 'cause every little thing's gonna be all right.
“If we want hell, if we want heaven, they are ours. That's how love works. It can't be forced, manipulated, or coerced. It always leaves room for the other to decide. God says yes, we can have what we want, because love wins.”
"Faith is knowing that God is who He says He is, has what He says He has and will do what He says He will do and then putting ourselves in a position where our lives depend on it."
"Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her." Luke 10:41-42
Most of us are familiar with the Biblical story of Mary and Martha, told in Luke 10:38-42. Jesus and his disciples were on their way, moving from town to town, village to village. At this particular village, Martha welcomed Jesus into her home. Martha scurried around, making sure there was food, shelter - everything her guests might need. She didn't stop for even a moment, not while there was still work to be done. Mary, meanwhile, sat at Jesus' feet and just listened to what he was saying. Eventually, tired and frustrated, Martha appeals to Jesus to tell Mary to get up and help her. And what does he do? He rebukes her!
At least, that is how I saw it for many years, and I must say, I took it deeply personally. I was as hurt as if Jesus had appeared before me, tutted, and told me off. Because I am, and always have been, very much a Martha. I do. If I'm not doing, I don't feel right. I don't feel that I'm living with purpose unless I'm trying my hardest to take care of everyone and everything. And there has always been a part of me very much in sympathy with my Biblical namesake; I too feel like saying to Jesus that it's all very well to sit and listen, but if that's all everyone ever did nothing would get done! And then where would we be? Jesus hit the nail on the head with me - I am worried and distracted by many things.
But as with so many things, context is everything. The story of Mary and Martha is immediately preceded by the parable of the Good Samaritan, which suggests that comtemplating without doing is at best a futile exercise; at worst, it can cost a life. Yet Jesus tells Martha "there is need of only one thing" - to listen. So which is it?
Once I stopped being so offended at Jesus for speaking to Martha as he did, I grew puzzled. Because Martha was an important part of Jesus' ministry. Jesus could have provided food, water and shelter for himself and his followers but he didn't, not on this occasion anyway - Martha did. She provided hospitality and in doing so, helped make it possible for Jesus to provide for others, to do what was important for him to do. In her own small way, she helped to enable Jesus' ministry. Taking care of people was her ministry. Martha served.
And perhaps this is why Jesus tells her to take a time-out. No one can keep going and going and going without burning out, as I have learned the hard way. Martha loves Jesus, so she serves him the best way she knows how. Jesus loves Martha, so he tells her she needs to strike a balance. He is not telling Martha her work is worthless, or to stop completely. He is telling her not to get so caught up in it that it takes over her life, that her purpose is lost in the sheer volume of tasks she takes upon herself. Jesus reminds Martha of the importance of giving him her undivided attention.
Returning to the idea of context, I also think Jesus is offering Martha a kind of freedom. Jesus was unconventional, he challenged expectations; and I think he is letting Martha know she can do the same. At that time, in that place, a good woman's place was very much in the home, her role largely domestic. Women were not supposed to be scholars, or agents for social or political change. By allowing Mary to sit at his feet, Jesus was going against religious and social custom on at least two fronts. It was not quite the done thing to be in such close physical proximity to a woman one was not related to, nor was it usual for a Rabbi to be imparting his teachings to a woman. Jesus was inviting Martha to draw nearer to Him, and showing her she too could listen and learn. She did not have to be confined to a single role, important as that role was.
There is nothing wrong with Martha, nor is there anything wrong with Mary. But what I need in my life, what so many of us need, is to strike a spiritual balance between these two seemingly conflicting aspects of our personalities. As an inveterate Martha, it is such a gift to me to be reminded just to stop and listen. To be given permission to let go of my concerns, my busyness, the fragmented nature of my life, is a blessing indeed. To be invited to stop for a while, and just be with the God who loves me, is truly wonderful. To be reminded to listen, and be guided in my actions by what God has to say to me, by what he wants for me, is a necessity I have realised I cannot live without.
I didn't fully appreciate the value of just listening until I drove myself to a breakdown. Even then, I found it almost impossible to stop. Sheer momentum, force of habit, and a distorted sense of self-worth tied to the accomplishment of concrete tasks kept me going. When I couldn't keep going, I became depressed. And then I lost my words. When I can't do, I begin to have trouble speaking, writing, sharing. I withdraw into myself, and I struggle to break free again. The sense of my own failure oppresses me and smothers my voice. I am so thankful to have people in my life who understand this, who point it out to me when it's happening, and who just keep loving me through the hard times. I am so thankful to the people who helped me understand this about myself, and who did (and keep doing) me the service of listening to me.
How ironic, that I have always valued myself by how much I can do for others - and the greatest gift I have been given is to be listened to, to be heard. Thank God for Mary! Thank Christ for the listeners! I have always been happy to be a listener, but I never appreciated this aspect of myself. I thought it was nothing. I thought it was not enough simply to be present - largely because I always thought I was not enough. I have had, for years, a monumental double standard when it comes to valuing service, with myself on one side, always having to do more and try harder, and everyone else on the other side, where it is enough that they just be who they are.
It is temping to vilify Martha and exemplify Mary. It is tempting to dismiss Martha, as Jesus seemed to be doing. It is tempting to criticise Mary as being selfish, taking the opportunity to learn and letting Martha do all the work without offering to help. But the scripture is more complex than that, aslife is more complex than that, as we are more complex than that.
It is not about being one or the other. We are called to be Martha: to provide food and shelter to all God's children, to nurse them when they are ill, to provide for their physical needs, to fill the need that surrounds us. We are also called to be Mary: to sit, to listen, to provide a safe space for people to tell their stories, to let people be heard. We are called to serve, and Jesus through his life has shown us just how many ways there are to do this, all of which mean something, all of which are part of the larger design.
We are called to be like Jesus: to provide hospitality to everyone, even if - especially if - society considers them "second class" for some reason. We are called to make space at the margins, and to do what we can to free our brothers and sisters from the roles and ties that bind and oppress them. We are called to extend freedom to all God's children so that they can simply be.
And that has to start with me. With you. We have to give ourselves the freedom to be who we are, and then just to be.
"Many of the world's finest Oriental rugs come from little villages in the Middle East, China, or India. These rugs are hand-produced by crews of men and boys under direction of a master weaver. They work from the underside of the rug-to-be. It frequently happens that a weaver absentmindedly makes a mistake and introduces a color that is not according to the pattern. When this occurs, the master weaver, instead of having the work pulled out in the order to correct the color sequence, will find some way to incorporate the mistake harmoniously into the overall pattern. In weaving our lives, we can lean to take unexpected difficulties and mistakes and weave them advantageously in the greater overall patterns of our lives. There is an inherent good in most difficulties."
