Tuesday, 3 September 2019

Guest blog: "peace to this house" - a sermon from South Africa

I'm three days 'back to work' after a wonderful, refreshing, enriching and eye-opening three months of sabbatical time - an immense gift, that I'm only just beginning to unwrap.

One of the many, many highlights of that time was two weeks in South Africa, spending time with Christians, theologians, and practitioners, churches, organisations and communities in and around Pretoria and Cape Town. I joined with two very different church communities for Sunday morning worship while I was there. One of them, in Pretoria, was the Uniting Reformed Church of South Africa congregation of Melodi ya Tshwane. The preacher there was also my host for the few days before, Revd Cobus van Wyngaard. With his permission, I'm sharing his sermon from that morning - with gratitude not just for his hospitality (and that of the congregation there), but for the many resonances it struck with my own experience, thinking and practice...

Scripture: Luke 10:1-12

Sermon (Revd Cobus van Wyngaard)


One strange thing about worshipping together, is that part of our worship is to remind ourselves that worshipping together really isn’t the point. We gather together in part to remind ourselves that our purpose is not gathering together. While Christians are known for gathering on Sundays, we gather to remind that faith is not about Sundays. Faith is not about what happens in between these walls, what happens on Sunday, but about what happens throughout life, Monday to Saturday.

When Luke writes his gospel the church is no longer a small community in Jerusalem. Paul’s mission journeys lies decades in the past. Peter and Paul have both died years ago. And small Christian communities can be found all over the cities of the Roman empire. When Luke writes, he is not simply trying to tell a story of 72 of Jesus’ followers somewhere in Galilee, on their way to Jerusalem. Rather, he is trying to say something to the hundreds of Christian communities all over the Roman empire, 40 years after the crucifixion, trying to work out what it means to engage their communities in their day. And in the same way the story that Luke tells of something that happened 40 years earlier have been speaking to Christian communities decades and centuries after he wrote this. Forming the way in which we work out what it means to engage our communities today.

There are two words that Luke use, that cause me to think that it is important to note that he is writing to followers of Jesus in little congregations all over the Roman Empire: “peace” and “kingdom”. Now, these words are not unique to Luke 10, we find them all over the gospel. When the angels announce Jesus’ birth in Luke 2, then it is with the word “peace”. And when Jesus introduce his parables it is often with the words “the kingdom of God is like...”. But why are these words so important?

The Roman Empire of Luke’s day have occupied the area all around the Mediterranean Sea. Today we would think of countries like Spain, Italy, Greece, Turkey, Israel, Egypt, and Libya. And this empire will continue expanding for centuries after Luke was writing, before eventually collapsing. This big empire, like all empires, were being maintained by a big army. But the Roman empire was quite explicit that what it was bringing through all these conquests was peace: the peace of Rome. Peace through conquest. Peace through power. Peace through subordination to rulers in big cities far away. This was the good news of the Roman rulers. The gospel of the emperor.

And here comes Jesus, telling his followers: go to all these small towns in the Roman empire, and tell people “Peace to this house”. Here comes Luke, writing to Christians some decades later, telling them: live in this Roman Empire in such a way that it brings “peace”. But which peace? The peace of the Roman emperor? Is Jesus teaching that they should do their part in making this empire work? Definitely not! It is God’s peace that is being announced. A different kind of peace. We can examine the reminder that the “kingdom of God has come near” in a similar way. God’s kingdom. A reminder of a different rule that the rule of the emperor.

But there is another side to these encounters of Luke 10 to which I want to draw our attention this morning. Yes, the message that is being pronounced is about “peace to this house” and “the kingdom of God has come near”, but just as important, perhaps even more important, than what is being said is what is being done. Two things happen in these encounters of peace. People are eating together, and the sick is being cared for.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of this story, at least for me, is that Jesus is teaching his followers that they should not only give, but also receive. They are sent out to these communities, and they are to receive hospitality. And I have a suspicion that there is much that the church today must hear in this. The message of peace are weaved together not only with giving hospitality, but with receiving it.

What happens when we arrive at strangers and receive their hospitality? A while ago I found myself in Kenya for work, arriving a weekend before the project started. A Kenyan neighbour of mine told her sister who was living close to Nairobi that she must receive me for a meal. However, when I got picked up I was told in no uncertain terms that I cannot just come for lunch, I’ll have to stay the night! And many things are happening in such encounters. Yes, there are the relationships being built across many borders. But there is also the deep sense that I can never repay them. I am bound to receive. And I’m absolutely dependent on other people, I can sense that I’m losing control, I’m in other people’s space where there are rules and habits that I’m not familiar with, and which I do not control. So hear Luke’s story: Go, and do not take a purse, or bag or sandals. Go, but in such a way that you will be forced to be dependent on others. Because God’s peace imply, among other things, that we learn to live inter-dependently. To follow Jesus, to announce God’s peace, mean that I learn to lose control, to become dependent on others. But also, that I have something to bring, a peace to announce, care to give. I also bring something to this peace encounter.

The peace of Rome came with swords and a big army. It came with clear control of some over others, with power for some, and powerlessness for others. The peace it promised was a peace that would get rid of the “bad elements” in society. It promised to keep the roads safe – although ironically it is Luke 10 that will later tell the story of the good Samaritan, of an attack on a road, reminding that the army really wasn’t even able to keep this promise of peace. But the peace of God doesn’t come with power. It isn’t being forced down. Friends, we cannot even claim to “bring” the peace of God from one place to another. God’s peace doesn’t simply flow out of the church towards our communities. It’s not something that we can claim to own. Rather, God’s peace is discovered in these meetings where strangers become dependent on each other. Receive a meal, heal the sick.

And if the kingdom of God has come near, then it similarly isn’t something that arrives from outside. These meetings are themselves sign of the kingdom coming near. These meetings are the cracks in the kingdoms of the world which is being enforced with might, the kingdoms of this world that separate, that sets up one group of people against another, plays off one group of people against another. The kingdoms of this world that tell us that there are some who give, and others that must just wait and receive, some who control, and others that are just being dragged along. In contrast, in these encounters where those without a purse or bag announce peace and receive hospitality we see the sign: the kingdom of God is near.

But Luke 10 is so different from how we usually think of the church’s mission to the world. We usually think of the church as the one bringing, the one announcing, the one giving. We bring God, we bring the gospel, we bring something to hand out. But what if we start to note that to receive hospitality in the most expectant places is part of what we are being sent into the world for?

What would it look like if we start to think quite concretely about a faith which calls us into such an inter-dependence? We usually gather in the CBD, where people from multiple countries, languages, and cultural backgrounds live in close proximity. Gauteng as a whole is a place where people are gathering from all over the country, and from far beyond the borders of the country. What would it look like if we learn to live truly inter-dependently? Not only giving, not only receiving, but discovering God’s peace when we give and receive. Discovering moments of hospitality in our encounters with one another.

This is a peace which neither the police nor the army can bring. It’s not a peace that is maintained by stronger control of borders of the movement of people. It’s not a peace dependent on deporting people or hiding those that have become dependent on a life on the streets. Rather, a peace which asks that we learn to live inter-dependently, learn to give, but also to receive.

And both require learning. For some of us, we have been told so many times that we have nothing to give, that it will require learning that we have to give to discover God’s peace with others. For some of us, we have been told to many times that we should do everything ourselves, that we need nothing, that we must always be in control, that it will require learning that we need to lose control, accept what others offer, and join in a meeting of God’s peace.

Exploring our gifts, and exploring where we need to let go of control, should be part of what we do as church, and what we do together with the communities in which we live. What would it look like if we build connections of giving and receiving between the old age homes in the city – with whom I read Luke 10 last week – and our youth groups? Both reminded that they have something to give, and something to receive. Perhaps our journey towards unity can only have meaning if we discover that we are truly inter-dependent. And perhaps our witness to our society and country will only speak truly of peace when speak from within communities that are inter-dependent, where those without a purse announce peace and receive a meal, where those who receive a meal care for the sick in turn, where we discover God’s peace which emerge when we bring our gifts and receive the gifts of others.

Tuesday, 2 July 2019

The path of life (a sermon)


I'm on sabbatical at the moment, so generally not going anywhere near the work of preaching (or indeed much else that usually counts as 'work'). But it was an immense privilege to be asked by a very dear friend, Revd Catherine Matlock, to preach at her first eucharist as a priest, in the parish of Kings Norton where she is currently Pioneer Curate. Lots of people said lots of very generous things about the sermon, so here it is...

(Readings for Proper 8C:       Galatians 5:1, 13-25; Psalm 16; Luke 9:51-end)

Francesco Bernardone’s family were up-and-coming, newly rich. His dad was a shrewd and ambitious businessman, and as his fabric business made money, he bought up tracts of land from struggling landowners in the area. Young Francesco had seemingly limitless money to spend, and his father encouraged him to splash it around freely. Aside from his wealth, Francesco was a popular young man, charming, witty, and by all accounts a bit of a party animal. He was also a fighter, alongside many of the other young men of the city – committed to defending their wealth and property from hostile neighbours.

Clara Favarone, by contrast, came from a long line of aristocracy – and was intended to be married, in time, to a similarly aristocratic husband. She lived in a grand palace, high up on the city’s central hill, and even as a young woman had earned a widespread reputation for great honesty, kindness and humility.

When Francesco’s father discovered that his son had not only donated the money from the sale of some expensive cloth for the restoration of a ruined local church, but had also sold the horse he had been riding, his father came to find him, dragged him home in a fury, locked him up for several days, and demanded a court hearing to have the erratic behaviour of his son punished. In the public hearing that followed, Francesco not only repaid the money in question, but stripped himself naked, handing every piece of his fine clothing back to his father – renouncing his inheritance, his family, his status, to follow Jesus to the very edges of society, living in community among the marginalized and excluded.

Clara, meanwhile, after months of planning and preparation, slipped out of the palace one night under cover of darkness, and sought sanctuary in a convent about 4 km from the city. The very next day, some of her male relatives found her and stormed the chapel where she was hiding. Her sister Catherine who followed Clara two weeks later was again pursued by family members, who beat her until she appeared lifeless. Both sisters, however, resisted their family’s violent efforts to take them back home and, with Francesco and some of his new brothers, committed themselves to establishing communities of solidarity, sanctuary and tender care, spaces of resistance and humanizing transformation in a divided, violent society.

57 As they were going along the road, someone said to him, “I will follow you wherever you go.” 58 And Jesus said to him, “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” 59 To another he said, “Follow me.” But he said, “Lord, first let me go and bury my father.” 60 But Jesus[c] said to him, “Let the dead bury their own dead; but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.” 61 Another said, “I will follow you, Lord; but let me first say farewell to those at my home.” 62 Jesus said to him, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”

It is dangerous to read biblical texts in isolation. Dare I say it, the Jesus in this passage from Luke’s gospel doesn’t come across as much fun, very likeable, or even particularly compassionate. There is a single-minded, tunnel-visioned intensity about this man who, we’re told, has “set his face to go to Jerusalem”, and nothing, and no one, it seems, will deviate or delay him from that path.

So thank God for the reminder in today’s psalm (Psalm 16), that this path of Jesus is in fact “the path of life” – that walking this path is to walk with God, “in [whose] presence is fullness of joy”. If we are to make good sense of what God is calling us to today, we need to hold these two things alongside each other – the single-minded intensity, and the fullness of joy. Jesus invites us to say a great big, joyful YES. But that Yes also requires us to say some careful, but firm NO’s.

Just remember – lest this harsh bit of Luke’s gospel confuses that memory – Jesus had absolutely nothing against Samaritans (the woman at the well, for one); he had nothing against caring for one’s family (he goes out of his way to heal Peter’s mother-in-law); and he had nothing against grieving for those who have died (think of his own tears at the death of his dear friend Lazarus). What Jesus is demanding, in his followers – and demanding, I think is the word – is what another of the psalms (Psalm 86) calls “an undivided heart”. To follow Jesus, to be a co-worker for the kingdom, to walk the path of life, requires our full, undivided commitment right here, right now – no “buts”, no qualifiers, no conditions, no competing demands. Which is why, of course, Jesus rebukes James and John for wanting to call down a bit of consuming fire on the inhospitable Samaritan village – there is no room, on the path of life, for resentment, violence and revenge. No room. That is to walk in the opposite direction to the way of Jesus.

But in the world that we live in, to follow the way of Jesus, to walk the path of life, demands a lifetime of disentangling, of extricating ourselves from ways of indifference, division and death. That’s what Francesco and Clara discovered – or St Francis and St Clare of Assisi, as we tend to call them. That to say Yes to Jesus required them to say No to the lives that they had previously had – and to the power, status and violence, the social and cultural assumptions and divisions, that those lives were bound up with. For Francis and Clare, it required them to say No to the consumption, competitiveness and ‘gated communities’ of wealth; to say No to the violence so often mobilized to protect vested interests and the status quo; to say No to the exclusion, abuse and exploitation of those deemed less-than-human; to say No to those desires in ourselves that seek to deny our interrelatedness, diminish our humanity, and hide from the truth. And of course Francis and Clare’s world is not that different to our own. Many of the No’s that they had to say, are No’s required of us too – so that we too can say Yes to the way of Jesus, the path of life. Some of these No’s, in our society of Brexit-exposed divisions and ecological emergency, are perhaps even more urgent than they were for Francis and Clare – and certainly no less so.

And what about Catherine, dear friend, newly-priested pioneer curate? What does God ask of you – through, around, or in spite of, today’s Scripture readings? The ‘job descriptions’ of ‘pioneer’ and ‘priest’ allow for so many things you can say ‘Yes’ to, it can often be hard to utter your ‘No’s. For some of you here, to hear Catherine say ‘No’ at all may feel uncomfortable, difficult to take. Did not St Paul say he was ‘all things to all people’, you might say to yourself? (Although even St Paul immediately followed that up by focusing in on ‘some’ people, rather than everyone.) On the other hand, is Catherine to be like the Jesus of today’s gospel reading, setting her face in one direction only, on one small section of the parish, boldly pioneering where no one has pioneered before, saying No to ‘here’, so she can say a whole-hearted Yes to ‘there’? There is a careful, prayerful discernment in the role of pioneer priest which is unenviable. There is no blueprint. No roadmap. As St Francis himself wrote towards the end of his life: “No one showed me what I had to do.” Only slowly and gradually, one faltering step at a time, do we – pioneers, priests and saints among us – discover what walking the way of Jesus, the path of life, looks like in practice.

But there are, at the very least, some clues to shape our discerning, from those who have – in fact – boldly gone before us. And I want to leave you with two interrelated images, both in some ways profoundly traditional.

The first is the priest as eucharistic host. Here in this eucharist, Catherine, you have done the welcoming, you will do the inviting, and from your hands we will receive the bread, the body of Christ. In some important sense, as much as we are all guests of God here, it is you who creates the conditions for hospitality in this space this morning. But in the eucharist you invite us not just into a sacred space, but into a sacred time. Eucharistic time is Sabbath time. Whether it is in church or in a fresh expression, whether it’s on Sunday morning or on Thursday afternoon, the eucharist invites us into a time for saying No to ‘productivity’, ‘efficiency’ and ‘effectiveness’; to say No to deadlines and clock-watching, busyness and hurriedness; to say No to consumption and competition for scarce resources; to say No to division, enmity and violence… to say No, so that we can say Yes, whole-heartedly, full-bodiedly, to enjoying each other in God’s company, to celebrating around God’s table without limit or end… This patient, generous, gentle eucharistic time, Sabbath time, nevertheless has an urgency to it – as urgent as Jesus’ proclamation, as urgent as Francis and Clare’s invitation, as urgent as our ecological emergency. As priest, Catherine, even where you find yourself the guest of others, you invite those around you to say Yes to eucharistic time, Sabbath time – and call us to be inviters in turn.

But as priest, Catherine, God also invites you to inhabit that eucharistic time, Sabbath time, for yourself – and to do so with an urgent slowness (and I’m preaching as much to myself here as to you, as we preachers so often do). To say Yes fully to the way of Jesus, to the path of life, to the God in whose presence is fullness of joy, you will often find yourself having to say No even to those demands that seem of the utmost importance, from even those people whom you love most dearly. Because to follow the way of Jesus, the path of life, with urgency, is also to learn the art of not-doing, of an attentive stillness.

The priest, poet and Shropshire lad Mark Oakley was once revisiting the county of his childhood when he came across a shepherd, leaning on a traditional shepherd’s crook. Joking with the shepherd that his boss, the bishop of London, had a very similar crook, Mark asked him if he used it to haul in the naughty stray lambs. “No,” said the shepherd, “that’s not what it’s good for. I’ll tell you what I do with this crook. I stick it in the ground so deep that I can hold onto it and keep myself so still that eventually the sheep learn to trust me.”

So Catherine – and those with whom you travel here in Kings Norton – as you take this next step, together today, on your journey into priesthood, may God gently, patiently, kindly make in you an undivided heart, that with Francis and Clare you may more firmly say No to the ways of indifference, division and death, and more joyfully say Yes to Jesus’ life-giving way, to the eucharistic, Sabbath time, of love, joy and peace. Amen.

Friday, 24 May 2019

Sabbatical hopes


I'm writing this two days before going on sabbatical. Although CofE clergy have (in theory) the opportunity to take a sabbatical every 7 years, this will be my first one in 18 years of ordained ministry. I thought it might be helpful to log, at this point, my own hopes for the next 3 months - for my own sake, as some kind of 'baseline' to look back on; and just in case anyone else is interested in what I'm doing - and not doing - and how it's going once it's begun.

Right now I'm excited, a little nervous, and very tired. The last few months has felt something like living on an ever-accelerating hamster wheel, attempting to finish some things that really needed finishing before now, and making sure everything else is handed over - today's regular day off mopped up the very last of the 'to do' list, and a few things just resolutely failed to get done. And there's also been a strange 'feedback loop' thing going on: as the sabbatical has drawn closer, I've been more and more aware of how much I'm needing it. It's something more than the tiredness of the moment: there's been an increasing awareness of a cumulative build-up over 18 years of ordained ministry, 9 years in the current post in Hodge Hill, around 6 years of writing a PhD - and probably other things too.

So my first hope for my sabbatical is rest. I've only read the first chapter of Nicola Slee's wonderful new book on Sabbath, but I've a good hunch that it will be one of my guide-books for the next few months. Sabbatical. Sabbath. Rest. As a good and wise friend put it last week, sabbath time is for refraining from creating, refraining from destroying - and for embracing opportunities to celebrate. As someone who is hard-wired, I think, to be busy, to be spinning plates and generating 101 ideas before breakfast, sabbatical time will be permission - and challenge - to stop. My body needs it (I'm aware of the inevitable cold/cough/sore throat brewing - one of the little but familiar indicators that I'm stopping). And my soul needs it too. I make no claims for the life of a vicar being any busier than any other job, and I'm acutely aware of the particular gift of grace that sabbaticals offer those of us in stipendiary ministry, a gift that is not available to most of my friends, colleagues and neighbours (including two of those I supervise regularly, and my wife in her own paid work). But there is certainly something about the role - and about the way it has unfolded here in Hodge Hill - that has meant that it has been a constant presence in my mind and heart - the 'what has been' and 'what could be' as well as the 'what is happening right now'. And letting go of all of that, for a little while, feels like a profoundly good thing for me. I am conscious, also, that I'm immensely blessed here with the wonderfully wise, competent, and gracious colleagues around me - both lay and ordained, paid and voluntary - in whose hands I can leave things with utter confidence and trust.

A second hope is to re-connect with God. After half-term holiday week with the family, I'm going on a week's guided retreat up at the Community of the Resurrection in Mirfield (near-ish to Leeds, but far enough away to be properly rural, I think). I haven't done a week-long guided retreat since I was 18. I'm looking forward to the space, to the daily companionship of a guide, and to the opportunity it offers to transition into the sabbatical - to consciously and carefully do the 'letting go' of the entanglements and concerns of daily working life, and to consciously and carefully enter into a different rhythm, a rhythm that includes regular prayer. I'm not someone that finds prayer remotely easy. I pray best when I'm with other people - and in the encounters of daily life. That's deeply rooted in my personality, in my particular, God-given way of being in the world. But I'm aware that sometimes that can also be an excuse, a way of hiding from the honest, vulnerable exposure of all of me to the one who is closer than I am to myself - the one who knows me utterly, and yet loves me unconditionally. I hope that some of the rhythms I (re)discover in sabbatical time will extend into the time beyond - the time of returning to daily life and work, but hopefully not exactly to 'business as usual'.

A third hope is to be able to be present to my family - my wife and our two children - in ways that have at times become stretched a bit too thinly. It's usually me who does the 'wake up to school drop off' time in the mornings, but rarely have I been around from the end of school all the way through to bedtime - at least in ways that are free of the distractions of emails and phone calls, and without the need to hurry everything (and everyone) along, to make it out to an evening meeting. And the gift of weekends (Saturday and Sunday!) for us to get away as a family! Not to mention almost all of the six weeks of school summer holidays to play with together. And my intention is that this is not just about expanses of time, but about the quality of attention I can give too. I'm very conscious that my habits of phone use, and engagement with social media being a large part of that, come close to resembling addictive behaviour - or might possibly even have tipped over that line. Another way in which I hope sabbatical time will help re-shape the life that follows on from it.

Fourth, having discovered a love for cycling over the past 2 or 3 years, I'm hoping to get out on my bike a couple of times a week - between beginning and end of school. Maybe with a picnic, maybe finding a nice coffee shop, maybe with a book in my bag - but not much more than that. To inhabit the bodily rhythms of peddling and breathing, to enjoy the liberation of going somewhere but it-matters-not-where, but out in the fresh air and away...

Fifth, there is a book to write. It's a book that's almost written in my head, but it needs to get down on paper and its deadline is fast approaching. This one sits a little uneasily. I want to get it done - I think I will mostly enjoy getting it done (I'm one of those strange people who does actually love writing). But it does feel like a task. 'Refraining from creating' it certainly isn't. I could let it fill the whole time, but am determined not to let it do so. I also know there will be a sense of liberation when it is finished, birthed - when I am delivered of it.

Sixth, there are a handful of wonderful opportunities for travelling, listening and learning. Two weeks in South Africa, in and around Pretoria and Cape Town, visiting churches, communities and projects, and meeting with neighbours, community workers and theologians - with a focus on people and places that are intentionally bridging race and class divides. My hunch is that what people in South Africa have been wrestling with for decades, we in the UK (we white folk in the UK most particularly) are just beginning to get our heads round. And as well as the other-side-of-the-worldness of South Africa, sabbatical also offers the opportunity to visit and spend time with some communities and practitioners in this country who are wrestling with similar stuff. One of the questions I'm keen to ask in those conversations is: "how do you, in this place, enable people to listen on a deep level to each other, and share their stories with each other?" It feels to me like it's one of the most urgent questions of our time - and I'm keen to glean a bit of practical wisdom from people and communities who've been working at it for a while.

And seventh - seven feels like a lot, but there's something a bit apt about seven for a sabbatical - I'm looking forward to reading, and engaging practically, in an area in which I feel rather late to the party: ecotheology. There are a number of reasons why this has finally caught up with me with some urgency as well as fascination. Greta Thunberg and Extinction Rebellion have been the 'tipping point' for me to finally appreciate the sheer emergency of the human causes of climate change. Hannah Malcolm's winning 'theology slam' entry was a vital spur to engaging theologically with the climate emergency. Our local efforts to connect our community-building with our neighbourhood's green spaces and the work of growing things and tending our environment, have been given a new impetus with the appointment of our 'Green Connector', Cath Fletcher, and the abundant possibilities for linking up growing, cooking, eating and developing community, have begun to blossom and flourish here, on a radically local level. And in our home, we've begun to take seriously the practical challenges of reducing our plastic usage and our carbon footprint - led by Janey and the kids. In so many related areas I feel like I'm playing catch-up. But in my own theological work (through the PhD and beyond), the theology and practice of 'radical receptivity' seems now to point inexorably towards the ways in which we humans can, and must, be radically receptive to the non-human creatures around us and the earth itself. This sabbatical, this sabbath time, seems to be a really obvious time to start trying to join up a lot of these dots in ways that integrate heart, head and hands.

So that's it for the moment. Seven hopes for a sabbatical. I'll try and 'check in' via this blog, at least occasionally between now and September, with a snapshot or two of how it's going.

Thursday, 23 May 2019

Safeguarding and community-building

I want to share (with the participants’ permission!) a recent, brief but insightful, thought-provoking conversation into which I was invited to contribute (in a Facebook group that focuses on community-building from a faith perspective). It feels like a profoundly important and timely exploration, for a couple of reasons: firstly, because of the litany of safeguarding failures within the Church of England that has recently been emerging, and the urgent necessity for a change of institutional mindset and structures (we, collectively, must do much better); and secondly, because our increasingly atomized, divided society urgently needs the patiently-exercised practical wisdom of community-building, done in ways that start with the passions, gifts, skills and stories of neighbours young and old (and especially those who have been rendered invisible, inaudible, marginalized) – what is often called ‘asset-based community development’ (ABCD).

Contributors to the conversation, alongside me, are Cate Williams (who works for Gloucester Diocese of the Church of England) and Kat Gibson (a community-builder with Barnwood Trust, Gloucestershire), Jane Perry from Lewes (who has for some years supported us in Hodge Hill to reflect on and evaluate our community-building work), and Ali Dorey from Sheffield (who among other things, worked until recently with Fresh Expressions UK).

CW:
A couple of things recently have alerted me to a potential (creative) tension between ABCD and safeguarding.  As I see it, in many ways ABCD is re-teaching the skills of neighbourliness that we have lost in contemporary society, so is at the simplest level about people meeting people as neighbours, sharing a community together and seeing where that goes.  But for good reasons, contemporary safeguarding teaches us to be wary of the stranger and to put strategies in place that ensure that encounters are protected in some way.

So, are we ok for example to do community bingo at a community festival and encouraging people to open conversations with strangers?  Can an old folks home invite the toddler group in to join them without additional layers of safeguarding or do the safeguarding policies that both these organisations already have cover what is needed?  How can we encourage ordinary neighbourliness and an attitude of trust when there is potential for that trust to be abused? 

KG:
This dilemma is part of why ‘befrienders’ rarely introduce isolated people to their neighbours - even making the introduction is risky - what if things go wrong? And this is one of the reasons why in my own practice I spend most of my time simply asking questions and encouraging. What do you want to see happen here? What do you want your neighbourhood to be like? What would it take to make those things happen? Who do you know who might like to be involved? What’s the best way to meet other people who share that passion?

To me, the element of power is huge here - we move from “I’m going to put something on because it will help the community” to “I’m going to encourage people to do the things they want to do - in their own way and with their own creative resources” - and I’ve come to think over the last few years that actually the more we encourage and the less we ‘help’, the more ownership people feel of their own projects and ideas - such that we have no control over it. This can be scary (and if we want to be able to take credit for something, that’s not going to happen!), but also hard at times to see people struggle without stepping in to fix it for them - at which point the power shifts again.

[To clarify, I don’t necessarily mean having lots of individual conversations and then never making contact again - the dance of stepping in and then stepping back to get out of the way doesn’t necessarily mean run away as soon as you’ve had a conversation - but rather having intentional conversations which focus on asking the right questions (and maybe telling stories too!) rather than offering specific answers or helping too much. You could end up meeting with a person or a group regularly for ages to support them to think through a situation or an idea, but those conversations (in my experience) tend to be most sustainably fruitful when we spend the time asking the sorts of questions that encourage them to find their own answers, rather than offering solutions or sorting things out for them.

Having said that, when there’s something you really want to get involved with because of a personal passion/interest, there’s not necessarily any reason to ‘step away’ - we’re all human as well as any organisational hat we may wear! As long as we don’t take over and help create the conditions for people to grow into their own strengths, make their own decisions and express their gifts more fully (and even make their own mistakes at times!) we can be as involved as we’d like to be!]

If you take this principle a step further it even applies to networking. Most community workers face your dilemma in situations such as - “You want to meet new people and you like painting? Great - I’ll introduce you to so-and-so who also likes painting” - but if we want the person to really take ownership and step into their own power, we might not even make the introductions, but rather ask things like “Who do you know who could be involved in that?” Or “What do you think would be the best way of finding other people who like [painting]?” Or even simply “What would it take for your dream to become reality?”. Sometimes we don’t even need to make an offer (eg to introduce someone to someone else) - if they come up with the idea to meet other people, and their own way of doing so that fits their own personality, the safeguarding question is swallowed up by the principle of trust among neighbours and communities, without any external professionals or helpers being involved. The dynamic becomes more about people as humans getting to know one another and less about systems, agendas or projects.

Of course, there is still a risk - whenever people get to know one another there’s a risk of it not going well or even potentially becoming abusive - but without taking that risk it’s hard for people to build any genuine relationships in the community. We can always support people to think through appropriate boundaries, places to meet, etc - especially if we sense there may be a higher-than-usual risk with a particular individual - but as soon as we step in to control that for them (or even tell them where to meet someone!) the power is ours, not theirs.

This might seem extreme (or ‘purist’ ABCD) but in my experience taking that risk, allowing people to weigh it up for themselves and do things in their own way, creates space for more genuine friendships to be built between people without ‘helpers’ like us sorting it out for them or getting in the way! So Yes, encouraging people at an event to talk to others (eg through community bingo) is a risk worth taking!! If you think about it, we have the same dilemma in every Christian event/conference in which people mingle - there could be people showing up who meet others there and end up in difficulty as a result of those new relationships. But that doesn’t mean the organisers and leaders have to try to ‘manage’ all the individual relationships that could be formed, unless some perceived difficulty arises: we simply support one another to create the conditions in which people can build healthy friendships and flourish in them.

AB:
Kathryn, the wisdom you've shared here is priceless. As I read it, I found myself saying Yes, Yes, and Yes again...

Cate, I think approaching it as a 'creative tension' is a very helpful place to start. Both have a 'best instinct' at their heart, and while their practical out-workings might apparently come into conflict, I don't think their 'best instincts' should do of necessity.

I think the conflict is felt at its sharpest in the kinds of imagination each shapes in us. ABCD invites us to imagine our communities as fundamentally places of goodness, abundance and generosity – an approach that some might accuse of being dangerously naïve. Safeguarding, on the other hand, at its most anxious, can train us to imagine our communities as fundamentally places of danger and abuse. Of course, both have more than an element of truth. And both have well-rooted theological foundations (in Christian doctrines of creation and sin).

So one of the questions we've been learning to ask here is "what factors enable a member of this community to be safe and well?". And one of the answers to that question that we're discovering is: "having a multiplicity of overlapping relationships of trust, friendship and care." Multiplicity and overlapping being key. Even if one relationship (or participation in one friendship group, etc) has the potential to be dangerous or abusive, if someone also has other relationships of trust, friendship and care, then the chances are that one of those other people will spot the signs of concern, and act to help that person find safety and support. It's significant, I think, that none of these relationships are necessarily "professional" - in fact, it's probably better if they're not, because on the whole the "professionals" will be unlikely to overlap with the other aspects of the person's life - neighbours are much more likely to do so.

So one of the roles for the community-builder is - especially through the kinds of process that Kathryn describes so well above - to support and encourage people towards those multiple, overlapping relationships, and, more widely, to contribute to nurturing a local culture of trust, friendship and care. We’ve had some external support (from one of our partner organisations, Thrive Together Birmingham) on this bit of our learning journey in Hodge Hill, under the (helpful, I think) label of 'community safeguarding' - by which we mean the whole community taking responsibility for keeping people safe and well. (Which I think is actually the 'best instinct' of safeguarding more widely, especially in church circles, but often degenerates towards a 'professionalizing' of that responsibility.)

The more we formalise the process of 'introducing' neighbours to each other ('befriending schemes', etc), the more they are necessarily governed by safeguarding processes. The key, as Kathryn has emphasised, is how much we can bear to leave the agency in the hands of local people - and the flip-side of that, how much we can bear, as professionals, to step back into the background of the processes of community-building, space-making, friendship-forming, etc.

Just this week we’ve been thinking locally about youth work in particular. And one of our reflections was that it's tempting for youth workers to talk about themselves as 'safe adults', and the spaces they manage as 'safe spaces' for young people. Both of which are hopefully true - but the underside of that language is the implication that other adults, and other spaces, are generally 'unsafe'.

Some of the response to this is being aware of our own addictions to being needed, and to being seen as unusually 'safe' or 'trustworthy' - under the guise of 'professionalism'. As 'professionals' one of the biggest contributions we can make to safeguarding is to restrict our own activity. The more we do that makes - intentionally or unintentionally - our neighbours dependent on us, the professionals, the less safe they are likely to be - because the less they are likely to look towards a rich network of neighbours for their safety and wellbeing...

JP:
I’m also tempted to reflect that my instinctive response is much the same as my approach to research ethics: if you truly value each individual and are working for their wellbeing, then you should be actively reflecting on what the highest standards of ethics/safeguarding mean in your context (and not have a problem with this); unfortunately we (or rather the institutions we work within) have learned the hard way that we can’t assume that everyone will do this, so they put policies/procedures in place to try to formalise the minimising of risk - that is not wrong, but it should always be secondary to, and supportive of, good practice... not the arbitrator/guarantor of it...it follows that where ‘rules’ appear to be genuinely undermining community-building, I’d feel we had a duty to question that...?

AD:
This is really helpful. It’s reminding me about the ‘where trust decreases, legislation increases, and where trust increases, legislation decreases’ thing. Which is a big topic regarding “pioneering” etc. In my experience the structures of the c of e (most churches?) inadvertently discourage the growth of trust between people. It feels to me like the culture of our churches disciples us in not investing time/energy in forming relationships of trust. Which is the opposite of what Jesus did...? Maybe? Then need for more legalistic /paranoid safeguarding grows, ironically making everyone less safe, and less able to engage in healthy trusting ways with each other and with people in our local communities. If we can somehow avoid modelling the worst of this that would be good! If we can get to the point where we actually are appropriately vulnerable with each other and others in our communities that would be awesome. Well it might actually be something like the pearl of great price that everyone longs for...?

CW:
Not just churches, Ali, it is the culture we live in. Though the church has a backstory on getting safeguarding wrong which leaves us particularly prone to anxiety about now getting it right, which can lead us into legalism around this area.

I've been pondering the backstory because actually most of what we got wrong was around how we dealt with something when it came to light. Hiding harm rather than bringing into the open and dealing with it. Which was undoubtedly wrong. Our response has been to put in all kinds of layers of stuff to prevent it happening in the first place, which is a different thing altogether in many ways though all good to prevent harm of course. But I can't help wondering whether we have made it too much about paperwork and not enough about awareness.

I wonder whether something like a safeguarding risk assessment, which isn't actually something I hear talked about, would be more helpful than more layers of policies and procedures as that is about thinking through a situation and awareness. Maybe it is talked about in youth work circles? But of course a risk assessment can become just a paper exercise . . .

AD:
Hmmm yes... I still think Al’s observations above about what makes people feel safe (and actually be safe, I’d say) is being in lots of overlapping relationships of trust are more key than any risk assessments, safeguarding procedures or anything else. I feel we neglect growing trust at our peril. And I think your observation about bringing things into the light ASAP is exactly what enables the growth of trust. Hence all the teachings about what is hidden will be brought to light. If we could confess truth to one another with honesty and humility and keep short accounts with people that would be very transformative. The structures of institutions etc inevitably seem to end up encouraging subterfuge instead of bringing everything into the light. And yes, we’ve got our history to live with. We either perpetuate it or we change from here on in. I wonder why all priests don’t have a spiritual accompanier? If they did, and engaged honestly and openly with them, I suspect the situation might improve a bit at least? And not just priests. I expect a lot of ordinary people who are not church goers might appreciate that sort of accompaniment too.

AB:
This has been a richly insightful conversation – an honest wrestling with vital questions. I want to resist the temptation to end it ‘neatly’ – falsely tying up ‘loose ends’ that in reality remain loose. But I do want to offer one or two last thoughts for the moment, hopefully to provoke further conversation!

Firstly, our conversation has unfolded in parallel with responses to the IICSA investigation into safeguarding failures in the Church of England. This final line of Friday’s Church Times editorial particularly struck me: 'The story will end well only if the culture of deference to the powerful and indifference to the weak is eradicated'.[1] How on earth have we, the church of Jesus of Nazareth, ended up with a ‘culture of deference to the powerful and indifference to the weak’? It’s a tragically rhetorical question, of course. We can trace the sinful history that has got us here. But how do we move on from this desperate place? The art of community-building, I would suggest, is the beginnings of an answer.

Which brings me to a second observation, and a second coincidence: we’re having this conversation in the days after the death of theologian of community par excellence, L’Arche’s Jean Vanier. One of Vanier’s recurring themes is an insistence that those normally considered ‘strong’ need – and are not just needed by – those normally considered ‘weak’. It was the theme of an incredible lecture he delivered at the House of Lords in 2015[2] – and it’s a watchword of our community-building work in Hodge Hill: “everybody’s welcome here – we can’t do without you,” we often say. I wonder how our safeguarding practice would change if ‘we’, ‘the strong’, were concerned not just to ‘safeguard the vulnerable’, but to be ever attentive and alive to the gifts ‘the vulnerable’ bring to the whole body – including us ourselves.

Simon Duffy’s recent reflections on Vanier’s House of Lord’s lecture are illuminating here:[3]

“In the process of fixing others we lose sight of our very humanity – our essential fragility, our need for love, for belonging and contribution. Humanism becomes inhuman. … [M]odern politics [and not just politics!] demands that the powerful are constantly mindful of their appearance in the media and they must, at all times, maintain the illusion that they are competent to solve any problem. They are caught in an impossible trap – for they must present themselves as the answer to any question we might ask. They are the folk who must stand atop the crazy pinnacle of the world that Vanier wants us to reject: a world where we can only advance by standing on the backs of the other people.

It is important to note that Vanier is not attacking government, the powerful, professional experts or policy-makers. He is not saying they are wrong, stupid or evil. Instead he is acting out the very issue he wants people to understand: we must meet each other; we do not need to use each other. The world is not a puzzle to be solved. We must live and act with integrity and love. We cannot hope to be the answer to every question. We must be true to our own gifts and find the role that is right for us.

If I had one frustration in all of this it was simply that it was so hard to challenge the rather strange assumption in the home of the powerful that it was them – the powerful – who could be trusted to act in the best interests of the weak. Does it make sense to assume the abuser will reform himself [sic]?”

Simon Duffy’s Vanier-inspired reflections apply not just to politics and politicians, of course, but to the Church and its leaders, and to wider community-building efforts and those of us who are community-building practitioners and ‘professionals’. Which sparks a third thought for me. One of the guiding principles for our ABCD work is to ask four questions in the right order (thanks to Kat for reminding me of the crucial fourth!):
1.       What can we do here, in this neighbourhood, with the power of neighbourly relationships?
2.       What can we do here, with a bit of external support from ‘professionals’?
3.       What do we need external ‘professionals’ to do for us?
4.       What do we need ‘professionals’ and organisations to stop doing?

It strikes me that these three questions might necessarily be applied to ‘community safeguarding’:
1.       what can we do here, in this neighbourhood, to ensure our neighbours are safe, well and flourishing, with the power of neighbourly relationships?
2.       what can we do here, in this neighbourhood, to ensure our neighbours are safe, well and flourishing, with a bit of external support from ‘professionals’?
3.       what do we need external ‘professionals’ to do, to ensure our neighbours here are safe, well and flourishing?
4.       what do we need ‘professionals’ to stop doing, to enable our neighbours to be safe, well and flourishing?

The critical point, of course, is asking them in the right order. And when we, ourselves, are the ‘professionals’ – whether ‘external’ or ‘internal’ to the neighbourhoods and communities we’re thinking about – we need to be constantly alert to the need, and the possibilities, for us to step back into the background, to stop doing things, to resist our own addictions to ‘providing safety’ and ‘care’, to enable the power of neighbourly relationships to multiply, deepen and flourish.

One fourth and final point, a 'last word' (for now!) fed into the conversation by our friend and travelling-companion Cormac Russell, who has seen and encouraged ABCD in action in more communities around the world than anyone else I'm aware of. And that is that even our language of children, young people and adults being 'vulnerable' or 'at risk' functions to eclipse the ways in which they are, in fact, brimming with promise and abundant gifts. To shift "from nice words to restorative practices that heal the wounds between young and old", he argues, we need to start with three fundamental assumptions:
  1. There is space and hospitality within every community for the gifts of all young people,  regardless of their history or reputation, if we intentionally invite them in and make the connections. These spaces will not be found unless we actively seek them out and animate them.
  2. Communities cannot reach their full potential until the gifts of their young citizens are discovered and received.
  3. We do not have a “youth problem,” we have a “village problem.” Every young person, regardless of past transgressions, has strengths that are needed to tackle this village problem and, by so doing, to build inclusive sustainable communities.
“It takes a village to raise a child” may have been the way of the past, but in the future––if we can learn to embrace the giftedness of our young people––it may be truer to say it takes a child to raise a village. [4]




[1] Church Times editorial, 17th May 2019, ‘Power of abuse’ (https://www.churchtimes.co.uk/articles/2019/17-may/comment/leader-comment/power-of-abuse)
[2] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0NOX_UPSyJw
[3] https://www.centreforwelfarereform.org/library/by-date/in-memory-of-jean-vanier.html
[4] quoted by permission from Cormac's forthcoming book

Monday, 6 May 2019

Guest blog: Encountering Christ in Hodge Hill

This guest blog is written by Jack Belloli (@giacbelloli), who has been sharing life with us in Hodge Hill as part of our Common Ground Community since September 2018.

If what Jack writes here inspires you to want to explore coming to join our Common Ground Community - for a year like Jack, or for longer - we'd love to hear from you. If you're interested in coming as a resident member in one of our Community Houses, for a September 2019 start, we'd be really keen to hear from you by the end of May. For more details click here.

***


As I write this, Easter Week has just finished – and the story from the week’s lectionary readings to which I’ve found myself returning, as I look back on seven months so far in Hodge Hill, is the risen Christ’s appearance to the disciples at Emmaus (Luke 24:13-35).

This story’s always meant a lot to me, but particularly since 2016, when I was pointed towards Henri Nouwen’s book With Burning Hearts, while I was beginning to reflect more deeply on God’s call for my life. Nouwen reads the encounter as Christ’s way of confirming a pattern for sustaining the ‘Eucharistic life’, which He announced at the Last Supper and fulfilled in His Resurrection. He comes to us, as He does to the disciples in their despondency, and reveals Himself first in the Scriptures and then, more completely, in His breaking of bread.

This year, however, I’ve found myself paying more attention than I had previously to the ways in which the turns or hinges of this pattern are made possible by the disciples. Jesus can explain the Scriptures to them because they are already thinking about Him, about what He had done ‘before God and all the people’; He is revealed at the table because they choose to invite Him in.

These details confirm a way of understanding just what kind of thing “the life of Christ” is. It’s one that runs through Luke’s Gospel in particular – right from an opening in Mary consents to bear and raise God’s Son – but which I’ve also seen particularly clearly during my time living here: that Christ goes where love already is, to dwell with and enhance it. If this is the case, being Christ-like might not be a matter of establishing new patterns of living as much as of being open to the patterns that are already out there, containing the seeds of their own transformation.


One of the sites I’ve found myself going to this year has been The Hub, a shopfront on the Firs and Bromford Estate which provides a base for two grassroots charities that Hodge Hill Church supports. Here, a group of us commit to sharing time with whichever neighbours cross our threshold, and sharing in whatever aspects of their lives they choose to bring with them. Our aim is not to treat these encounters as opportunities to solve problems, but (where necessary) to remove obstacles to our neighbours’ flourishing and (more importantly) to build connections among them, finding other people who share their passions or can celebrate their gifts. It’s a matter of focusing not on somebody’s struggle to use a new iPhone, but the love and support for family on the other side of the world that inspires them to keep trying; not on the ways that someone’s disability requires asking for special provisions, but brings with it gifts for openness and empathy that enable those around them.

This principle of cherishing what is already there is also expressed every Thursday, when a team of us prepare and share a pay-what-you-can community lunch and boutique, using “real junk food” donated from supermarkets. In a world in which the only response to financial and environmental crisis seems to be one of imposed scarcity and sacrifice, we insist that God has always provided enough for His creation and that is already being made new through redistribution.         


The other place where Christ is already at work is The Old Rectory, the house that survives from the Anglican church property that previously stood on Hodge Hill Common. Here, we’re in an ongoing process of working out what a ‘homely expression’ of church might look like, and what particular benefits it can bring. The room in which some of us gather twice a week to share the Eucharist is the same as the one in which other meals are shared, craft is collaborated on, space for conversation can be held, and quiet days can be hosted: where the boundary between what is sacrament and what sacramental is particularly thin, and where individuals can find themselves guided from one to the other as they need.

It’s here, too, that the Common Ground community meets once a month for one of its regular times of fellowship (the other is a monthly Bible study hosted by different community members around the estate). Rather than following a set rule of life, we support each other in discerning a sustainable rule that emerges from our own developing sense of where our passions and gifts lie, and how they might be oriented towards God. I’ve been struck by how people’s descriptions of their apparently “secular” habits and pastimes – their exercise, or pets, or holidays – bear witness to a confidence that God is part of these too. And by how Common Ground can provide a space for the particular ways in which we live our lives individually to be “held up”, and begin to be shared. In a culture where quality “family time”, for example, can feel unachievable, putting children at the heart of our time together doesn’t simply compensate for or replace that time, but might expand our sense of what family values might be, of how and by whom they are expressed.


Before I arrived in Hodge Hill, part of me was expecting to encounter Christ in quite a radical way while I was here, as startlingly or disruptively as he appears on the road to Emmaus: perhaps in the witness of someone remarkably “unlike me” in age or ability or social background. Another, slightly more concealed and embarrassed part probably hoped that I was bringing some kind of previously unavailable gift with me: that I was capable of doing something, however small, to shape or transform this place.

Both of those expectations have been met, in a way, but neither particularly dramatically, and neither to the point that it overwhelms the other. Both processes together have been part of an ongoing rhythm of life here, and it’s this quiet ongoingness that’s worth celebrating. In doing so, we’re continuing to participate in the task that God the Father trusted His Son with, when He gave the world to Him: the task not primarily of changing it, but of allowing ourselves to be given over to the world, so that the world may become more fully itself.