What if...? #Inequality & poverty of imagination

What if inequality wasn't inevitable? In a book that has been hailed as 'forensic', 'angry', and 'a brilliant analysis of the nature of inequality in the UK' , Danny Dorling sets out five 'myths', widely-believed and oft-perpetuated in so much of our collective imagination, that enable inequality to persist in our society, because they convince us of the 'TINA' principle, that 'there is no alternative':

1. that 'elitism is efficient' - even though it turns 1/7 of all children into 'dropouts'
2. that 'exclusion is necessary' - even though it leaves 1/6 of all people trapped in the grip of debt
3. that 'prejudice is natural', a 'social Darwinism' that sees incentives as good for some (the rich) and punishments necessary for others (the poor) - even though it leaves 1/5 of all adults in what Dorling calls 'indentured labour' - doing everything they can, but paid barely enough to 'get by'
4. that 'greed is good', the cult of celebrity and consumption - even though 1/4 of all households don't even have access to a car
5. that 'despair is inevitable', that competition and insecurity are unavoidable - even though it leaves 1/3 of all families dealing with anxiety-related illnesses

(Daniel Dorling, Injustice: Why Social Inequality Persists, Bristol: Policy Press, 2011)

The myths go deep within us: as a society, and as individuals. Alistair McIntosh, a member of the Scottish Poverty Truth Commission, puts it like this:

"It is crucial that we understand the roots of what poverty is. First, it is structural, being systemic to the distribution of power, resources and educational opportunities in society. Second, it is a form of violence that comes from a deficit of empathy between those who have much and those who have little. Third, it is intergenerational, with its life-crippling seeds getting passed on in early childhood. And fourth, it is sustained by blindness to the full humanity of one another, showing it to be a pathology of the rich and not just a deficit of the poor."

What both Dorling and McIntosh highlight is that poverty and inequality are not just the result of 'faulty technologies', workings of our society or economy that need tinkering with to improve things for those at 'the bottom of the heap'. No, they are ultimately rooted in 'a deficit of empathy', a 'blindness to the full humanity' of others - and that this 'poverty of imagination' (especially among the rich) manifests itself as violence against the poor.

Anthropologist and activist David Graeber picks up on these themes. Violence is the resort of the stupid, he argues - and the securities of wealth make people incredibly stupid:

"violence, particularly structural violence, where all the power is on one side, creates ignorance. If you have the power to hit people over the head whenever you want, you don't have to trouble yourself too much figuring out what they think is going on, and therefore, generally speaking, you don't. ... Why is it that the folks on the bottom (the victims of structural violence) are always imagining what it must be like for the folks on top (the beneficiaries of structural violence), but it almost never occurs to the folks on top to wonder what it might be like to be on the bottom... [T]he downtrodden actually care about their oppressors, at least, far more than their oppressors care about them..."

(David Graeber, Fragments of an Anarchist Anthropology, Chicago: Prickly Paradigm Press, 2004, pp.72-73)

And in his concluding observation, Graeber highlights the glimmer of hope in it all. The rich may be suffering from a pathological empathy deficit, a blindness to the humanity of others, a poverty of imagination when it comes to people 'not like us' - but among the downtrodden, the 'excluded', and those who live with the daily reality of poverty, empathy is less thin on the ground, imagination abounds. The Poverty Truth Commission in Scotland, with which Alastair McIntosh has been involved, is one brilliant example of making a space within which that empathy, that imagination, can be nurtured. This is about anything but mincing our words: it is, as Meg Wheatley puts it, about learning 'to talk with those we have named "enemy"':

"Fear of each other also keeps us apart. Most of us have lists of people we fear. We can't imagine talking with them, and if we did, we know it would only create more anger. We can't imagine what we would learn from them, or what might become possible if we spoke to those we most fear. ... I believe we can change the world if we start listening to each other again..." 

(Margaret Wheatley, Turning to one another: simple conversations to restore hope to the future, San Francisco: Berrett-Kohler, 2009, pp.7-8)

The way McIntosh describes it evokes echoes, very intentionally I think, of South Africa's 'Truth and Reconciliation Commission':

"To walk this path we must allow ourselves to be challenged by Truth - the truth of where we and our world stand, the truth of where we know we are called to go, and the many truths of how to bridge that gap. Truth is an active power for change. Reconciliation is what brings us back together again in our common humanity. Both spring from the sharing of community. Truth and reconciliation are about seeking that which gives life. Life as love made manifest."

But what if the rich and powerful aren't interested in truth and reconciliation? What if they can't be bothered to listen? Well, at the very least, the rest of us don't need to wait for them to change their hearts and minds. But we do need to turn our attention, our imaginations, in a different direction. Here's Dorling again:

"We see our history, our future, our nightmares and our dreams first in our fickle imaginations. That is where we first make our present. How we come to live is not predetermined. Geographically all it takes is a little imagination, a little 'wishful thinking', to see that a collection of movements will achieve the change we wish to see in the world; these are movements that need only exist in our imaginations in order to work, to have faith. These are movements to 'make our own world from below [where we] are the people we have been waiting for'. ... Everything it takes to defeat injustice lies in the mind. So what matters most is how we think." (Dorling, p.320)

So let's stop waiting for new ideas to tackle inequality to descend from 'above', from our so-called 'political leaders', whose imaginations are stunted and sight impaired by the hard walls of their wealth and insecure security. Let's crack on with making a new, more equal, more justice world without them. Because, as Andre Gorz put it, 'the exit from capitalism has already begun'. The end is already here, and in the midst of the death throes of the beast, new forms of common life, of sharing and reciprocity, of imagination, of mutual respect and equal dignity, are springing up all around us. Have a look for them, and you'll see them. And when you do see them, join in. Because it's much more fun than endlessly rehearsing the five myths of inequality. Another world is possible, and it's already here. We just need to get stuck in...

[This blog was written, in some haste, for #BlogAction Day #BAD2014]

Let's #knitforBrooks!

"The important thing charities should be doing is sticking to their knitting and doing the best they can to promote their agenda, which should be about helping others."

Yes. Those words are from the first speech of the new Minister for Civil Society.

Just in case you didn't quite get that - this is the Minister for Civil Society:

"We really want to try and keep charities and voluntary groups out of the realms of politics. Some 99.9% do exactly that. When they stray into the realm of politics that is not what they are about and that is not why people give them money."

Which is interesting, isn't it?

Exactly what, we might ask, does the Minister for Civil Society think 'civil society' is? And what, we might also ask, does he think 'politics' is?

It seems he has a quaint notion - perhaps he's watched too many period dramas - of 'civil society' as a little bit like a crudely stereotyped Women's Institute meeting (I've met the Women's Institute, and they're not like this, honest) where lots of little old ladies sit around knitting, chatting, and perhaps sometimes going out and giving a poor, homeless person a cup of tea and a sandwich.

'Politics', on the other hand, is clearly a professional activity for highly-trained people like himself, making important decisions and doing the real work of running the country - interrupted every 5 years or so by a brief collective ritual involving the rest of us.

Or perhaps that's how Brooks Newmark would like it to be. But of course, it's not quite like that, is it?

'Civil society', if it's a 'thing' at all, is all of us. Citizens. Little old ladies and homeless people, the Brooks Newmarks of the world and irritated vicars, and many, many more. And everything we do is political: our choices at the supermarket, and our conversations online; which neighbours we make friends with, and what we gossip about at the school gate; our choices to conform with the rules, or protest against them; who we give our money to, and what we spend our time and energy on... All of it knits the social fabric - aha! - in particular ways, nurturing what we value, excluding what we don't, making its little ripples through our social and economic relationships as far as people we don't know and will never meet.

What arrogance from a 'professional politician' to think that only people like him do 'politics'! And what naivety - I'm assuming, generously, that it's nothing more sinister - from the 'Minister for Civil Society', to suggest that 'civil society' should shut up and not dare to ask questions, or make criticisms or constructive proposals, about the social fabric that entangles all of us.

A little while ago, many of us sent pants to Iain Duncan-Smith, after it was discovered that he was struggling so much with his MP's salary that he needed to claim for his underwear on expenses.

So why don't we knit something for Brooks? Why don't we, as it were, sock it to him?

A bit of banter with a Quaker theologian friend Rachel Muers this morning suggested a number of possibilities:

Rachel Muers How about everyone who volunteers or works for a charity knits a square and writes a piece to go with it -"in the time it took me to knit this square, my charity has/I could have..." It would be better if they actually stopped doing what they normally do in order to knit ("we went back to knitting like you said") - but then large chunks of the social fabric would fall apart. Social fabric. Ah, I think we have the metaphor...

Rachel Muers Alternative suggestions: some sort of knit-in protest in Parliament Square; knitted puppets turn up at his next event to talk about what charities and civil society organisations do...

So who's up for it? Brooks Newmark would be ashamed of me, but I'm afraid I can't knit, yet. But I know some people who can, and I'm up for learning.

What do you think? Squares or socks?

But I love Rachel's suggestion of what we send with it. Something along the lines of:

"Dear Mr Newmark. I work/volunteer for xxxxxxx. As you suggested, me and my colleagues/fellow-volunteers went back to knitting - for a bit. In the time it took me to knit this square, my charity has/I could have done xxxxxxx. We're part of your 'civil society'. And we can't help being political, even if your government's Lobbying Bill would prefer we shut up. So here's a chunk of the social fabric that would fall apart without us. Do let us know what you're thinking of doing with it. Yours sincerely..."

And we love a good hashtag...

#socialfabric #knitforBrooks #sticktoyourknitting #sockittohim #politicalfabric #stitcheduppolitics #uncivilsociety... The possibilities are endless! (Although I guess one's probably better than lots!)

Who's in?!

"What are you doing here?" A sermon

(Sermon for 10/7/14, Proper 14A, Hodge Hill Church)

Readings:            1Kings 19:9-18; Matthew 14:22-33

For 9 days in the summer of 2004, on a strip of wasteland on the border of Hulme and Moss Side in Manchester, close to the home of Jamal al Hairth, a detainee of the American internment camp in Guantanamo Bay, a razor-wire perimeter fence contained a fully functioning replica of the American Camp X-Ray, complete with local volunteers acting as guards and prisoners. Every morning for the 9 days of the theatrical installation, the American flag was raised and the American national anthem was blasted out across Hulme from the guarded watch-tower.

This is Camp X-Ray, as it was called, made very visible, and for Jamal’s Mancunian neighbours brought unavoidably close to home, the stark reality of the Western world’s regime of everyday fear and ‘securitization’ which, for most of us on most days, happens around us without us even noticing. We have been trained to be suspicious and afraid, of so-called ‘terrorist threats’ and ‘radicals’ who destabilize the status quo, and we have been trained to accept restrictions on our movement, on our gatherings, on where we can walk and where we can sit and what we can question, in the name of ‘security’, ‘safety’, ‘protection’. We’ve been trained to accept the necessity of surveillance, of the arms industry, of ‘superpowers’ that could, at the touch of the button, destroy the planet we live on and all its people – and are in fact already, just more slowly, doing exactly that. And we’ve been trained then to forget about it – to not think of it as a crisis of democracy, of humanity, of the created world – but as normal life, as inevitable and ongoing, as the only world that can be, with no imaginable alternative.

Elijah too lived in a world where fear and force were apparently the only reality there was. He lived under the regime of King Ahab, supporter of the followers of the god Baal. The altars of Yahweh, who some once said was the one true God, are in ruins, and Elijah, Yahweh’s prophet and champion has, you might remember, been waging a valiant war against Baal and his prophets, culminating in a show of force on Mount Carmel where these rivals gathered to see which god could burn a sacrificed bull with fire from heaven. As the prayers of the prophets of Baal piled up, Elijah mocked them, suggesting, among other things, that perhaps Baal can’t put in an appearance because he’s busy with a bowel movement. When it’s Elijah’s turn to offer his sacrifice, first he rebuilds the altar of Yahweh, then completely soaks his bull in water, and Boom!, the lightning strikes. All present fall to the ground, crying: ‘Yahweh is the true God.’ And Elijah immediately takes advantage of this, pointing his finger at the 450 prophets of Baal, ordering that they be seized and killed. His order is obeyed at once.

After this triumph, however, Elijah falls into a bit of a depression. He goes off into the desert, and wants to die. God gives him the food he needs for survival, but not even that pleases him much, and an angel has to tell him to eat up. He does, eventually, and the food keeps him going for the 40-day, 40-night hike to Mount Horeb, like Moses had done before him. Once he gets there, Elijah hides in a cave, and God has to come and find him. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asks. And Elijah replies:

"I have been very zealous for the LORD, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away."

There is a tragic heroism in Elijah’s little speech, but not far underneath the surface are three little unspoken words: “and I’m afraid”.

Elijah is then ordered to come out of the cave and stand before the Lord, who is going to pass by. And you know the story: first comes a mighty wind, which splits mountains and breaks rocks in pieces, but the Lord was not in the wind. Then comes an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake, and then comes a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. After the fire there comes a still small voice – a sound of sheer silence…

And it’s at this point that Elijah goes out and stands at the cave’s entrance, and God speaks to him again, again asking him what he’s doing there, and once again, Elijah answers:

"I have been very zealous for the LORD, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away."

Word for word, the exact same speech. It’s as if nothing at all has changed.

And then the story reaches its extraordinary anticlimax. God tells Elijah to go off to Damascus to anoint Jehu king, and to find Elisha to be his successor as prophet. And, by the way, God adds, there are 7,000 Israelites out there who haven’t forsaken the covenant with Yahweh. Elijah’s story, and his ministry, is pretty much over – but there are plenty of others out there who have been, and will continue to be, faithful to Elijah’s God.

This is, in fact, a conversion story. When the story begins, Elijah’s God is a god like Baal, but bigger and tougher, and Elijah is his spokesman, confident, obedient, faithful – perhaps just a little bit arrogant with it. His God works wonders, and Elijah himself is in the centre of the drama.

But when it all goes quiet, as Elijah sinks into depression in the desert, he begins to doubt the value of all the dramatics of Mount Carmel. And on another mountain, the truth finally takes hold of him: his God is not in the earthquake, wind and fire, not in the impressive performances and theatrical victories – but in the still, small voice after the excitement has died down. And Elijah, rather than the heroic martyr he imagines himself to be, the only one to remain loyal as all around are faithless and hostile, is told by God, gently but firmly, that there are a good 7,000 faithful others up God’s sleeve, and that Elijah should get on with the mundane, unspectacular work of handing on his responsibilities to some of them.

There is, in Elijah’s conversion story, an invitation to conversion for us too. We are invited, with Elijah, to look and look again, to keep looking through the drama of smoke and lightning storms, through the destruction of earthquakes and missile strikes, through the apparent ‘protection’ of ‘security fences’ and firewalls, until we are able to recognise the faces of other human beings, like us, fearful, fragile, vulnerable, broken. And we are invited, with Elijah, to listen and listen again, for the still small voice that addresses us by name, and tells us to go, and join our hands with our neighbours, in the mundane, unspectacular work of building relationships of solidarity, friendship, and peace.

In 2001, the International Solidarity Movement was set up, under the guidance and invitation of Palestinian peace activists, to invite international volunteers to Israel/Palestine. ISM volunteers engage in non-violent direct action, intended to ‘dramatize the terrible conditions under which Palestinians live because of the Occupation, and to protect them from physical violence from Israeli soldiers and settlers’. Over the last 13 years, ISM volunteers from around the world have accompanied Palestinians to harvest olives in occupied territory; acted as human shields against Israeli military or settler attacks; delivered supplies to refugee camps under curfew; participated in peaceful demonstrations; dismantled roadblocks and observed the treatment of Palestinians at Israeli checkpoints. One motivation (among many) for inviting internationals has been the belief that faced with the presence of foreign bodies, the likelihood of human rights abuses would be decreased, and that some kind of media publicity would be generated. ISM volunteers are present in Gaza right now, many of them living alongside Gazan Palestinians in the UN schools and shelters. We know all too well, from the news coverage of the last few weeks, that that has not stopped terrible killings of children, women and men by Israeli forces, in what many observers are saying are not just violations of international law, but war crimes.

One British volunteer for ISM, Sharon, interviewed a few years ago, had been shot in the stomach by an Israeli soldier while on a demonstration in Palestine. Sharon insisted that the experience only confirmed her determination to ‘put her body in the way’ of violent attacks, to risk her life in solidarity with the most vulnerable:

“You’re essentially ... handing over your body to someone who has the power to damage it,” she said, “and, you know, for some people that’s the most fundamentally frightening thing you could come up with... OK, so I’ve been arrested and I’ve been in prison for a short time, and I’ve been shot... [but that] means, when all these things are threatened, to stop me doing what I want to do, I can think, well, I can handle that... that’s not going to stop me.”

Handing over your body, in vulnerable solidarity. Perhaps not without fear, but determined not to let the fear be the thing that stops, prevents, paralyses action. There is something strangely like walking on water in Sharon’s attitude, something that sounds remarkably like following in the wake of the christlike God. Exposing the forces of violence – that so often manage to hide themselves – for what they are, but also making visible, ‘witnessing to’, another way, another way of living in the world, a way of vulnerable, risky, solidarity, friendship and love. We have seen something similar this week, very close to home, in Shenstone, just north of Sutton Coldfield, as protestors locked shut the doors of a factory that makes engines for Israeli unmanned, armed drones, and kept vigil on its roof for 2 days and nights. A merely symbolic gesture, perhaps, but just as with the transplanting of Camp X-Ray to inner city Manchester, exposing the world we live in, and embodying a glimpse that another very different world is possible. In fact, there is the possibility that we as a church might join, in the days, weeks and months to come, with other Christians in a regular vigil at the UAV factory in Shenstone, as a continuing witness to the possibility of peace.

Today, at the end of our prayers of intercession, we’ll have a moment to use our bodies in a very small, but significant and symbolic way: for each of us to light a candle, for peace in Gaza, and across our troubled, violence-torn world. Please come and offer your prayer – but more than that, ask God to show you ways that you can be your prayer, living it out in your daily life in little actions of vulnerable, risky, solidarity, friendship and love.

I want to finish with a poem from Kathy Galloway, Christian, peace-maker, and a member of the Iona community:

Do not retreat into your private world,
That place of safety, sheltered from the storm,
Where you may tend your garden, seek your soul,
And rest with loved ones where the fire burns warm.

To tend a garden is a precious thing,
But dearer still the one where all may roam,
The weeds of poison, poverty and war,
Demand your care, who call the earth your home.

To seek your soul it is a precious thing,
But you will never find it on your own,
Only among the clamour, threat, and pain
Of other people's need will love be known.

To rest with loved ones is a precious thing,
But peace of mind exacts a higher cost,
Your children will not rest and play in quiet,
While they still hear the crying of the lost.

Do not retreat into your private world,
There are more ways than firesides to keep warm.
There is no shelter from the rage of life,
So meet its eye, and dance within the storm.

Notes:

• Elijah commentary drawn from James Alison, ‘Theology amidst the stones and dust’, in Faith Beyond Resentment: Fragments Catholic and Gay, pp.27-30
• The stories of This is Camp X-Ray and ISM volunteers are taken from Stefan Skrimshire, Politics of Fear, Practices of Hope, p.157, pp.184-5
• A couple of snippets of wisdom on ‘making visible’ lie in the background to these reflections too. They can be found at http://thisestate.blogspot.co.uk/2011/05/making-easter-faith-visible-some-quotes.html

"What I need is a good listening to"

“What I need is a good listening to”. That was the headline, a few years ago, of a powerful ad campaign run by the Children’s Society. Not the “good talking to” from a cross adult, more familiar to many children. But adults need “a good listening to”, too.

In Hodge Hill, we run a little drop-in place, twice a week, that we call Open Door. The name is quite deliberate – it’s a place where you don’t need to make an appointment, where you can come and go when you want to, and where you’ll find a warm welcome, a smiling face, a cup of tea, and a listening ear. It’s also a place where you can get help accessing the internet, writing a CV, searching for jobs, making phone calls, and all kinds of other practical support. “You feel equal in here” says Stefan, one of our ‘regulars’. And if people often come through the door very aware of their ‘needs’, we’re really keen to help them discover and unlock their gifts: the things they’re passionate about, the things they know about, the things they can do, that they could share with their neighbours.

And that’s where ListenUp! comes in for us. We were really keen to find opportunities to give people an opportunity for a longer, more in-depth “good listening to”. To help them become more aware of the resources and resourcefulness they have, the ways they have – even when things are really tough – to ‘make ends meet’, to ‘keep head above water’. And to give them safe spaces where they could also voice those experiences of being overwhelmed, of ‘going under’. In the process, relationships of trust, understanding and empathy are deepened, and friendships have a chance to grow, bridging differences of background, experience and nationality.

But ListenUp! opens up possibilities for even more. We work really hard in Hodge Hill to celebrate and nurture the ‘hidden treasures’ in our neighbourhoods – the networks of support and care, the groups where people come together around a shared interest or concern. The conversations we have with people through ListenUp! will hopefully highlight and uncover many of these, but also reveal some of the ‘gaps’: what kinds of local support are missing, that would make a real difference to people’s ability to ‘make life work’? And what can we develop together – with the people we’ve listened to potentially taking a leading role?

And then there’s the bigger picture. We know first-hand that the savage cuts to services and the so-called ‘reform’ of the welfare system are having a huge impact on many, many people in our neighbourhoods. But ListenUp! helps us get into the nitty-gritty detail: exactly what difference does the bedroom tax, or a sanction from the Job Centre, make to this household and its livelihood? And how do they manage to cope, and what might happen if they ‘go under’? ListenUp! builds up a real, lived ‘evidence base’, helping to challenge and undermine the easy prejudices, and building a rooted, shared authority to speak and act for change.

Listening seems to be a quiet thing. But it’s actually the seed-bed of revolution. As listening ‘hears others to speech’, it empowers them as new ‘hearers’ in turn. Those who heard Jesus cry ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ became the witnesses to, and agents of, resurrection. It’s a world-changing movement, and it begins with “a good listening”.

This blog was originally written for Church Action on Poverty in March. We've now completed our first round of ListenUp! conversations, and worked with the Church Urban Fund to write up the process and our early findings. The report and executive summary are available at: www.cuf.org.uk/research/listen

Beyond 'glass half full' - the politics of ABCD

For a couple of years now I've been a passionate advocate for asset-based approaches to community development (ABCD). I believe in ABCD partly because I'm a pragmatist - it seems to 'work' (slowly, with fragility, but surely, we're seeing evidence of 'community' springing up around us here in Hodge Hill, and that seems to be making all kinds of positive differences in the lives of those of us who live here, and are finding ourselves part of 'it') - and partly because I'm a theorist - ABCD resonates with some of my deepest principles, with the core of my theology, and seems to make a whole load of sense of some of the biggest challenges of the world that we seem to be living in today.

But I also have to acknowledge - and increasingly so, as I get increasingly passionate in advocating for it - the dangers that an ABCD approach brings to the surface, the tightropes it makes us walk. And a lot of those dangers, those tightropes, are political - with a small 'p', that is, beyond parties and voting and that stuff, to the way power is hoarded, distributed, channelled, at every level from the micropolitics of neighbourhoods to the macropolitics of the global economy.

These reflections have been brewing for a while, much of them in conversation with others. It feels timely to get them down in words, in the hope that the conversation draws in more voices, and the dangers and potential of ABCD can come to greater clarity.

1. The 'glass half full' is a statement of defiance

ABCD goes well beyond a kind of Pollyanna-ish, or Monty Pythnoesque, 'always looking on the bright side of life', but close to its heart is the image of the 'glass half full': approaching neighbourhoods and those who live within them not primarily as 'needs', as 'deficits', as 'problems', but as 'gifts', as 'assets', as holding within themselves huge creative power. For neighbourhoods like mine, this is powerful stuff - because people have, for far too long, both outside and within our neighbourhood, told the 'deficit' story: we're one of Iain Duncan-Smith's 'broken ghettos', apparently, 'workshy', 'scroungers', 'dependency culture', you name it. 'Can anything good come out of Nazareth?' asked Nathanael, brother of Philip, about Jesus. People have similar suspicions about neighbourhoods like mine. The labelling is so often stigmatising, and the stigmatising can - and does - crush and break people's spirits.

So an ABCD approach is, on a very foundational level, a gutsy, defiant, 'f*** off!' to those who would label and stigmatise us, and to that part of each of us that falls for those untruths. We have passion, knowledge, and gifts here, and we have each other, and in sharing our gifts together, we have so much more than we are told we have - and that is power! It was far from coincidental that the very first Firs & Bromford Community Passion Play, last year, reached its ending with a sung version of Maya Angelou's poem, 'Still I Rise':

"You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise."

2. ABCD is about community - and a dangerous vulnerability

It may sound obvious, but asset-based community development is first and foremost about building community. It needs to be said, however, because one of the risks of ABCD-language is it gets muddled up with 'asset-based', or 'strength-based', approaches more generally and, at its most simplistic, is seen as simply an expression of 'positive psychology'. At its worst, this confusion can seem to veer towards the politics of those who advocate 'individual responsibility', 'getting on your bike', and 'pulling yourself up by your bootstraps' - whether in work or financial security, health or education.

This is where the 'glass half full' can be misleading: beyond 'looking on the bright side', beyond looking for individuals' strengths rather than their weaknesses, ABCD affirms that we need community - we need each other, our neighbours, our fellow human beings. We need to share each other's gifts, but we also need to share each other's vulnerabilities, each other's wounds, each other's struggles. The 'half empty' half of the glass can also be, and often is, the thing that enables us to connect with those around us. And it is community, says ABCD, that enables us to do that connecting, that sharing, in a way that systems and institutions - let alone markets - fail miserably.

This invitation to community, to vulnerable sharing, is also somewhat political: money, as theologian Stanley Hauerwas is fond of saying, is what we rely on when we've forgotten what friends are. Those who live in expensive gated 'communities', secure behind their fences, are trying to protect themselves from the vulnerabilities of being human. Those of us who try our best to live a more vulnerable kind of 'community' challenge the rich and powerful to risk discovering their humanity. Who knows where that might lead?!

3. ABCD takes issue with the 'service industry' - public and private

"Perhaps, the major problem with public health’s uncritical adoption of asset-based approaches is that it fails to distinguish between a radical critique of welfare, one that is firmly linked to an analysis of neo-liberal economics and the neo-liberal attack on welfare, which by contrast, supports the further de-regulation of markets and withdrawal of the social rights of citizens. If the strength of the assets movement is that it has generated discussion about re-dressing the balance of power between the public sector, public services and local communities, its fatal weakness has been the failure to question the balance of power between public services, communities and corporate interests. As such, asset-based approaches sound the drum beat for the retreat of statutory, state provision of both public services and public health."[1]

Lynne Friedli, writing from a public health perspective (and addressing 'asset-based approaches' more generally than ABCD), offers a strong challenge to ABCD, highlighting one of its biggest dangers: it can be heard to be supporting, and indeed co-opted to support, the neo-liberal 'rolling back' of the State.

Rooted in the work of social critic Ivan Illich, ABCD does indeed shine a spotlight on the way institutions, once intended to help and empower people, have a habit of growing in size and complexity to the point where the 'service' that they 'offer' is, in fact, counter-productive in people's lives, reinforcing in people the very 'problems' that the institution claims to solve, sustaining people's dependence on the institution to feed the institution's dependence on a steady stream of 'needy' people. It is a dramatic, powerful critique, and, in everyday experience, it seems to hit home at least as often as it misses the mark. There is, in fact, much more that properly sits in the domain of 'what communities can do' for those living in them, than the 'service industry' has allowed us space to imagine.

But it is in the moves onwards from Illich's critique that the real battles are to be fought. It hardly needs stating that 'the private sector' does no better job of humanising the 'service industry' than 'the public sector' - in fact, when you add in the profit-seeking factor to the already toxic mix, the drive towards institutional counter-productivity - benefits for the institution at the expense of its 'clients' - merely accelerates beyond imagining. In fact, after years of neo-liberal, 'competition'-promoting government in Conservative, Labour, and Coalition flavours, it's now barely possible to distinguish 'public sector' from 'private sector' at all. However paternalistic in intent the post-war origins of the welfare state were, that sense of shared responsibility as a society for the welfare of the most vulnerable - and with it the acknowledgment that any of us might, at times, find ourselves living with such vulnerability and need - has been all but obliterated - and ABCD needs to position itself, and articulate itself, clearly as part of the challenge to that obliteration, rather than a colluding partner in it.

4. ABCD is about social justice

With Friedli's challenge ringing in our ears, we cannot possibly say that the State's withdrawal from communities, its withdrawal of its people, places and money, is somehow going to make everything better. To be sure, often what communities need to be able to function better is for the systems and institutions to 'get out of the way' - but the ideal of the 'Big Society', dreamt up in a cosy Oxfordshire village, with volunteers aplenty to 'man the pumps' of everything from the library to the fire station, has been shown to be a blatant cover for the accelerated redistribution of wealth, an 'asset stripping' which has enabled the rich to get even richer and forced the poor to get even poorer, abandoning the poorest communities to 'look after themselves'.

Edgar Cahn, the founding father of timebanking, expresses the point with a necessary sharpness. Lamenting the way the 'brilliant work' of ABCD (in the USA) was being 'circumvented and perverted, used to get money without really altering professional practice or changing who got the dollars, who defined the problem, and who defined the response', Cahn exploded with anger at the 'obscene' way 'in which we were throwing away, destroying, degrading, or denigrating the most precious assets we have: human beings'. The core values of ABCD needed to be intertwined with a fundamental commitment to social justice:

"Assets became: No more throw-away people.  

Redefining work became: No more taking the contribution of women, children, families, immigrants for granted. No more free rides for the market economy extracted by subordination, discrimination, and exploitation.  

Reciprocity became: Stop creating dependencies; stop devaluing those whom you help while you profit from their troubles.  

Social capital became: No more disinvesting in families, neighbourhoods and communities. No more economic and social strip-mining." [2]

An angry No, then, intertwined with a hopeful, creative Yes. Not disinvestment, then, but changing the way we invest. Not abandonment by the State, but the State - at least so far as it embodies society's 'shared responsibility' and power-in-coordination - finding new ways to be present within neighbourhoods, ways that are infinitely more receptive, connective, and creative, than the familiar models of 'delivery' which so easily modulate into 'control'.

The three questions at the core of ABCD approaches, then, remain vital:

i. What can this community do for itself, with local people power? 

ii. What can this community do for itself, with some help and support from external agencies? 

iii. What does this community need external agencies to do for it (or perhaps better, alongside it)?

It's crucial to ask all three questions, of course - something the 'roll back' advocates would rather ignore. But the order of the questions is also crucial, because the 'default position' is to proceed from (iii) to (i), leaving local communities with the left-over scraps of activity once the external agencies have delivered on their own agendas and taken whatever rich pickings are to be had. A third caveat is also necessary: the questions need to be asked in each and every neighbourhood, and repeatedly over time, because the answers will vary greatly from place to place, and from year to year. There can be no nationwide prescription, as 'Big Society' implied - investment needs to be determined by local power and local need, and that, in itself, will require a radical redistribution of resources, people, and energy.

5. ABCD and 'progressive localism'

Having said that, I am increasingly convinced that there is something inescapably 'counter-State' about the evolving ABCD tradition. In the seemingly innocent language of 'progressive localism', some UK geographers are beginning to argue for, and discover already present around them, a 'counter-movement' to the aggressively 'anti-public', neoliberal 'austerity localism'. David Featherstone and colleagues outline four significant dimensions of such a counter-movement:

i. 'place-based organising' can, and does, challenge 'neatly bounded' conceptions of 'community' which spill out beyond the obviously 'local' (they offer the example of Gate Gourment workers in West London who were able to forge links of international solidarity, through the aviation industry, with workers in Norway and Denmark who refused to load meals onto aircraft bound for London) 

ii. rather than seeing globalisation as something 'done to' local communities in a simply 'top-down' way, local communities, workers, citizens can be seen to be 'active agents in shaping and negotiating such [globalizing] processes', 'challeng[ing] rather than entrench[ing] inequalities between and within places and regions' 

iii. these global linkages and connections can serve to highlight 'diverse forms of actually existing multiculturalism' that are present in localities and shape 'everyday practices of localism', challenging the chauvinistic rhetoric of politicians and media around race and migration

iv. progressive localisms 'can feed into broader social and political movements that aim to transform national and international policy frameworks' (the mobilisation of the living wage campaign from particular local communities in London is offered as an example) [3]

More recently, Andy Williams and colleagues from Exeter have argued that 'in amongst the neoliberal infrastructure' of localism, 'new ethical and political spaces' of 'resistance and experimentation' can be discovered, which work 'strategically, and even subversively, with the tools at hand'. Citing Foodbanks as a now notorious example of the neoliberal State apparently co-opting the people power in local communities, Williams et al argue:

i. 'the visible presence of Foodbanks has enabled structural critique of the processes underpinning food poverty in the UK' (by publishing data on usage, narratives detailing the reasons for usage, etc.) 

ii. 'spaces of care such as Foodbanks present a practical device through which citizens from myriad ideological perspectives can potentially experience a more positive identification with, and understanding of, the issues facing people with low-incomes' (the possibility of vulnerability leading to change that I suggested earlier) 

iii. 'these spaces of care can facilitate wider ethical-political alliances across voluntary organisations and protest groups' (similar to Featherstone et al's argument above) as part of an 'emergent public', 'a body able to advocate and represent itself and hold government to account'

Williams also, secondly, highlights research that suggests that 'the rationalities and technologies of neoliberal government at work in public, private and voluntary organisations can be performatively subverted from within'. 'Inside every civil servant is a citizen waiting to get out', as my friend and ABCD colleague Cormac Russell puts it, but perhaps they are not patiently 'waiting' as often as we think!

Thirdly, Williams points to examples of localism policies being embraced by local communities precisely in the cause of resisting the trends of neoliberalism: 'community take-overs of local facilities and amenities as social enterprises', 'strategic use of Local Enterprise Partnerships to direct economic development towards the growth of renewable and sustainable industries', 'harnessing the more open and deliberative nature of policy-making' that accompanies devolution 'to reject neoliberal models of individualised commodified care in favour of a more locally coproduced system of care-provision', and so on.

Finally, Williams highlights the emergence of groups which have created 'autonomous spaces', intentionally distanced from 'regulatory or financial relationships with government in order to pursue prefigurative, oppositional, and confrontational stances towards neoliberal logics'. They cite the example of Zacchaeus 2000 (Z2K), 'a London-based anti-poverty charity which provides free social, economic and legal assistance for low-income households affected by welfare reform and debt' which, alongside such support, has also been at the forefront of organising protests outside magistrate courts and other anti-cuts activism. While not entirely autonomous, as a registered charity, Z2K 'ventures directly into confrontation with state policy through its marriage of provision and protest'. [4]

It may be that I've deviated somewhat from directly discussing 'the politics of ABCD'. But I see in the developing discourse of 'progressive localism' a textured argument that allows us to take on board Lynne Friedli's challenge, but to go beyond a simple 'for or against neoliberal localism' dichotomy. In starting with the messy complexity of the local, with the diverse gifts and contestations of 'community', we are by no means restricted to the local, or to compliantly carrying out the wishes of neoliberal government. When people discover the power of face-to-face relationships with their neighbours, the possibilities of solidarities beyond the local, of challenge and resistance and re-shaping of wider structures, become more graspable. This is what Cormac is arguing, I think, in his excellent piece on an ABCD approach to local democracy, 'power from the people - power to the people'.

6. ABCD as (post)anarchism...?

I'm not sure it's been explicitly acknowledged anywhere, but there is, I would suggest, a distinctly anarchist streak to ABCD. In its emphasis on direct relationships of mutual care; on horizontal, associational life over against the hierarchical relationships of institutions; and on the 'common wealth' of local neighbourhoods, there is more than a resonance or two with anarchist politics - the development of 'autonomous zones' and experimental 'micropolitics' which 'prefigure' (i.e. begin living out in the present) a different kind of social order, beyond the State. Perhaps, following Saul Newman, Todd May and others, we might say the resonances are strongest with what is being described as postanarchism, which 'sees the state as a problem, but not the problem; it rejects the logic that would make any single point of resistance primary or central' and instead 'assumes power to be multiple and fluid, requiring more creative responses', which might well involve 'working more and more outside the state rather than strictly against it'. Interestingly - at least for me - that seems to bring us back to a place where some of the social practices of the Christian community might make a significant contribution. [5] But that, I think, is a reflection for another time...

Notes:

[1] Lynne Friedli, ‘“What we’ve tried, hasn’t worked”: the politics of assets based public health’, Critical Public Health, 23:2 (2013), pp.131-145

[2] Edgar Cahn, No More Throw-Away People (2000) p.29

[3] David Featherstone et al, ‘Progressive localism and the construction of political alternatives’, Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 37 (2012), pp.177-182

[4] A Williams, M Goodwin & P Cloke, 'Neoliberalism, Big Society & Progressive Localism', Environment and Planning A (forthcoming 2014)

[5] Ted Troxell, ‘Christian Theory: Postanarchism, Theology, and John Howard Yoder’, Journal for the Study of Radicalism, 7:1 (2013), pp.37-60

‘Moving in’: ‘working for’ or ‘being with’?

Janey, Rafi and I have been here in Hodge Hill for four years now. Our kids’ birthdays are always a good reminder of this particular ‘anniversary’ – Rafi had just turned two when we moved in.

When I took up the Bishop’s offer of the post here, Janey and I were pretty clear that we didn’t want to live in the Rectory, but somewhere on the Firs and Bromford estate – and we found a house, to rent, which isn’t, let’s say, quite up to the ‘spec’ of your average Vicarage. I know that at the time, that was a bit puzzling for quite a lot of people here, but it was really important for us, and I hope it makes a bit more sense now.

It wasn’t just that the Rectory was next to the derelict site where the old ‘PJ’ church had stood. It was up at the top of the Common (whether we’re at the ‘top’ or the ‘bottom’, in our geographies, have more of an emotional impact on us than we often realise, I think), at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, with just a few other (equally large) houses nearby.

And we also had a sense, from friends who already lived on the Firs and Bromford, that the estate was somewhere that was used to being either ‘overlooked’ (in both senses, ‘forgotten about’, and ‘looked down on’, quite literally, from the top of the concrete pillars of the M6), or ‘done to’, by a steady stream of ‘outsiders’, whether well-meaning or more indifferent, many of whom had come for a while, promised much, and then gone away leaving local people feeling let down and abandoned once again.

I’ve reluctantly had to admit to myself, over the years, that I am a middle-class professional. An RAF child, born and bred in the ‘Home Counties’, with a Cambridge degree and another couple since then, seven years ‘professional training’, and a steady salary paid by a 400-year-old institution. Admittedly, over the last 16 years or so particularly I’ve become more and more sensitised to issues of inequality and injustice, poverty and deprivation, and the sheer struggles to ‘make ends meet’ and ‘keep head above water’ faced daily by many of my fellow human beings – a strong sense of ‘being for’ my neighbours (as Anglican priest and theologian Sam Wells puts it). And as a person who is naturally an ‘activist’, who feels good when he’s doing things – and with certificates and titles that supposedly prove ‘knowledge’ and ‘expertise’ – it’s all too easy, and all too tempting, to imagine that my most important role in life is to use that knowledge and expertise and activism to serve – or ‘work for’, as Sam Wells puts it – those who need what I can bring.

The trouble is, as Sam Wells points out sharply, “working for makes the expert feel good and important and useful, but it does not necessarily leave the recipient feeling that great. The working for model sets in stone a relationship in which one person is a benefactor and the other is a person in need. It is humiliating if many or most of your relationships are ones in which you need someone to do things for you. The working for model perpetuates relationships of inequality. Worse still, it is possible to be the recipient of a person’s help and still find the benefactor remains a stranger to you.” In fact, that’s precisely what all the structures and boundaries around ‘professionalism’ are designed to ensure.

There are alternatives, though, Sam suggests. One is about ‘working with’ – “never doing something for people that they could properly do for themselves” – but also “offering what you have and are” to support others in the action they decide to take. It paints a picture, if you like, of “a roundtable where each person present has a different but equally valuable portfolio of experience, skills, interests, networks and commitments.” A lot of what we as a church have found ourselves getting involved with in the last few years has resembled this ‘working with’ model: involvement in the Big Local ‘regeneration’ investment on the estate; the Community Passion Play, where many of us responded to the invitation from Phil to join him in turning his inspired vision into a reality; and ‘Open Door’, from week to week seeking to work alongside people to help them find jobs, use their skills and knowledge, develop their interests and passions in their neighbourhood and beyond.

But we can push this further, says Sam. We need to learn to go beyond ‘working with’ to ‘being with’. “Just imagine working for and working with have done their stuff and achieved all they set out to do. What then, when there is no world to fix? We get to ‘hang out.’ In other words, we [get to] enjoy one another. ... The being with approach says, ‘Let’s not leave those discoveries till after all the solving and fixing is done and we’re feeling bored. Let’s make those discoveries now.’”

It was our desire to ‘be with’ our neighbours that drew Janey and me to want to find a house on the Firs & Bromford estate, and to immerse ourselves, as much as possible, in the life of our neighbourhood. It has its challenges, of course: ‘being with’ takes time, lots of time; it doesn’t tend to produce lots of obvious, measurable ‘outcomes’ (the kind that the Diocesan Office or the grant funders like to see); it can sometimes be quite uncomfortable, and often messy and complicated; and there’s the constant temptation to slip back into ‘working for’ mode, because it’s so much easier and quicker, and more straightforward, and ‘gets results’. But it’s only through the patience of ‘being with’ that the most precious gifts come: like learning from our neighbours; being able to relax and enjoy each other’s company; making friends; finding people you can have a good cry with.

In the next few months, six or seven people will come together to set up home in our two Community Houses – the old Rectory is one, and the church house in Ayala Croft on the Firs and Bromford is the other. Some of those people are very local, some are from other parts of Birmingham, and some are from further afield – and all of them are up for ‘relocating’ to Hodge Hill. When we got them together for the first time a few weeks ago, we asked them to ‘dream dreams’ of what could be possible, in and around their Houses, with the passions and gifts they bring with them. Their dreams were exciting ones to see begin to unfold. But crucially, they said to each other during their conversation, they were coming first to ‘listen’ and to ‘be’ – and only then, perhaps, to ‘do’. Our Community Houses will be lived in by some wonderful, passionate, gifted people – but they are coming, responding to their sense of God’s call, first and foremost to learn: not from supposed ‘experts’ like me, but from their neighbours-to-be. They are coming not to ‘work for’ or ‘do to’ – but to ‘work with’ and, most importantly, simply to learn to ‘be with’, and enjoy the discoveries that emerge. And that, we trust, will be a gift for all of us to share in.

[Quotes come from Sam Wells & Marcia Owen, Living Without Enemies: Being Present in the Midst of Violence, IVP 2011]

#OccupyWestminster and Common Worship

A few weeks ago I was in a room in Westminster Abbey from which a previous Archbishop of Canterbury was arrested and taken to be executed. I was there, in the company of some rather eminent theologians, to listen to American theologian William Cavanaugh give a robust defence of religion against its secularist critics, particularly addressing the charge of religious violence, by highlighting the inherent violence of the nation-state. The irony of the context was noted at the time, but none of us could imagine how much that irony could have been intensified in a matter of weeks.

For Cavanaugh, alongside other such leading lights in the theological world as Stanley Hauerwas, John Milbank and Sam Wells (now Vicar of St Martin's-in-the-Fields in London, and also in the room at the Abbey that day), the worship of the Church shapes its participants in a kind of politics that is quite different to the dominant politics of the world that we live in, the politics of neoliberal capitalism, of democratically-sanctioned state violence and the all-consuming power of global corporations. More than that, the Church's worship doesn't just shape worshippers for political engagement in the world - the Church enacts a different, resistant, even revolutionary kind of politics in its worship. For Cavanaugh, "the Eucharist" is "an alternative imagining of space and time which builds up a body of resistance to violence, the body of Christ. This is a body that is wounded, broken by the powers and principalities [of the world] and poured out in blood offering upon this stricken earth. But this is also a body crossed by the resurrection, a sign of the startling irruption of the Kingdom into historical time and the disruptive presence of Christ the King to the politics of the world." (William T Cavanaugh, Theopolitical Imgination, p.7)

And then I saw photos yesterday of Westminster Abbey, surrounded by a ring of police, 'protected' by the power of the State against a crowd of disabled people, protesting against the government's removal of the Independent Living Fund. Church staff had, it seems, called in the police when the protesters started setting up tents and gazebos on the lawn outside the Abbey.

The scenes were reminiscent of those outside St Paul's Cathedral a couple of years ago, when the Occupy LSX encampment was evicted by the police, at the request of the Cathedral authorities. At that time I'd felt not only embarrassed by the Church's stance, but deeply sad at an opportunity so spectacularly missed, for the Church of England, for once, to place itself on the right side of history, receiving the gift that the occupiers were offering them; offering hospitality, sanctuary, even, in the midst of London's privatised 'public squares'; but more than that too, humbly 'venturing out' into the tented city, not as host but as participants among others, engaging together in the globalizing wave of questioning and re-imagining of which the Occupy movement had been an iconic part.

This time, at Westminster Abbey, was worse - not just because the Church showed it had learnt nothing from the Occupy/St Paul's encounter, but because those who were setting up tents on the Abbey lawn could not so easily be dismissed as 'middle-class hippies' (however inaccurate that might have been of Occupy LSX), but were, very visibly, physically vulnerable disabled people, many in wheelchairs, whose access the police were able to restrict, even before the ubiquitous 'kettling' manoeuvre, simply by removing various makeshift ramps from the site in question. That was some of why I tweeted last night: "Yet again CofE’s public face is that of the oppressive, defensive neoliberal state and not the vulnerable."

The particular irony, of course, is that Westminster Abbey, like St Paul's Cathedral, is a place where Christian worship has taken place for hundreds of years, where the Eucharist - which Cavanaugh holds up as the 'resistant politics' of the Church - has been celebrated daily, tens of thousands of times over its history. Surely - at least if the logic of Cavanaugh et al is correct - these should be the places par excellence which have formed Christians in the habits of resisting the violence of the State, and of a Christlike solidarity with the vulnerable and excluded? Surely these should be the places where there is not even an 'ethical dilemma' in situations like this, where the response is instinctive, shaped by years of repeating the 'political' liturgies of the anti-Empire Church?

But of course, there are caveats from the theologians of 'liturgical politics': "All of this sounds wonderful," Cavanaugh admits, contrasting the liturgies of the Church with the blasphemous 'liturgies' of the State, "but we must confess that it is the shrivelling of this vision within the church that has allowed the flourishing of ersatz realities... [State] liturgies have succeeded in imagining communities because Christian liturgies have failed to do so in a fully public way. As the church expanded after Constantine, Christian worship was not centered on the parish but on the whole city... The church sought to replace the pagan cult of the city with the Christian liturgy. Therefore, Christian worship on the Lord's Day and other feasts generally took the form of a series of services in churches and public spaces, linked by public processions, totaling six to eight hours. Here was the church taking itself seriously as nothing less than 'the embodiment in the world of the World to come.' Much of this way of imagining the world has been lost as the liturgy has shrunken to a short semiprivate gathering." (Cavanaugh, Migrations of the Holy, p.122)

When pressed, with concrete examples of liturgy's apparent failure to form counter-cultural Christians, Cavanaugh et al respond by telling us we're not doing the liturgy well enough, and if only we did it better, things would look very different. We're not taking it seriously enough. The church isn't taking itself seriously enough.

But yesterday's events at Westminster Abbey don't quite fit that script. If there's one thing Westminster Abbey does, it's take itself - and everything it does - seriously. It is, perhaps, the epitome of the Church of England taking itself seriously. And that, here, seems to be the problem, rather than the solution: here, cross and imperial crown nestle together, the liturgy of the Church and the liturgy of the State are indistinguishable, because they are one and the same. If there is revolutionary potential in Christian worship, it has been neutralised in Westminster Abbey.

Apart from, yet again, the pain and embarrassment of association, through the Church of England, with what 'we' did to a group of disabled protesters yesterday, what's disturbing for me, as Rector of Hodge Hill, is that since at least the 17th Century, the 'common prayer' or 'common worship' of the Church of England has decreed that what they do in Westminster Abbey, we do, in some kind of similar form, in our little Anglican church here. If Cavanaugh and friends are right, that there's something about our liturgies that profoundly shapes, if not actually constitutes, our 'political' habits and responses, then however much I might protest that here (in Hodge Hill) we're an inclusive church, here we're a politically radical church, here we're engaged in building new patterns of relationship and society as the neoliberal world crumbles around us - if we too are tied up in the 'common worship' of Church and State, then we're surely sunk.

But it's clearly not quite as simple as that. Hodge Hill Church is not Westminster Abbey (thank God!). We are not likely to host any coronations here in the near future. We are about as far from the 'centres of Empire' as you can get, demographically if not geographically. Our worship here looks, sounds, feels very different to what they do in Westminster Abbey (and, don't tell anyone, but we also sit rather loosely to the expectations of 'common worship', and that's not just because we're an Anglican-URC ecumenical partnership). But all of that is only half the story, I would suggest. Because I'm not convinced our worship is the only thing that shapes us, by any means. I think our engagements 'out there in the world' shape us just as much, if not more, than our worship in church does. And we have learnt - and are continuing to learn - here how to receive, with humility and expectation, the gifts offered to us in those encounters and engagements, even when those 'gifts' feel initially awkward, uncomfortable, or even hostile - from strangers, as well as friends.

And perhaps that's the most important difference between we Christians here in Hodge Hill and those who have been in charge of Westminster Abbey and St Paul's in their brushes with 'Occupiers' over the last few years. They, there, have had lots of practice at welcoming and honouring the rich and powerful (and, in a lesser way, anyone who is paying to come and look around their beautiful buildings). We've had lots of practice at being displaced, homeless, and dependent on the hospitality of our neighbours. And that, in turn, has shaped our worship, as much, if not more, than the other way round. Of course, we have much less 'symbolic capital' to play with in Hodge Hill - few people (even locally!) are going to notice, or care, if a few tents popped up on our church building's front lawn, and so any response we were to make, equally, would hardly make political waves. But we will, of course, continue our little, barely-noticed acts of hospitality and receptivity, solidarity and subversion, trusting in the power of tiny mustard seeds to grow, in the infectiousness of the microscopic germs of the kingdom of God. And, despite the shame of being Anglican on days like today, we will continue to hope and pray that our Christian sisters and brothers who find themselves in places of symbolic and political power, will rediscover in their own ways the subversive challenge of the gospel, and of the worship of the Christ who was crucified by the powers-that-be.