Living Wittily

The Boston Marathon and an Alternative to the Futility of Violence

I haven't been in many American cities, but I have been in Boston three times. My good friends Bob and Becky live in New England, and as their guests we have enjoyed the hospitality, warm love for all things Scottish, and the intellectual and cultural experiences of New England people. And from a blugerass concert to Shaker heritage, to Boston and its important place in the history of Baptist thought and practice, even visiting the Quaker assembly which Elton trueblood attended.

I guess not many now know the name Elton Trueblood. Philosopher and cultural critic, radical Christian practitioner and intellectually generous follower of Jesus, a man whose wisdom and deep love for God illumines much of what he wrote, lived and said. His sermons The Yoke of Christ, his numerous books on Christian engagement with society in the 1950's and 60's, and his reputation as a thinker deeply plunged in the contemplative foundations of Christian theology and prayer, made that brief glimpse of the place where this man lived out his later life a kind of low key pilgrimage. I owe much to Trueblood's thought.

His book Alternative to Futility was born in class discussions about war and peace, violence and dialogue, conflict and reconciliation. In the 50's the Cold War was fuelled by runaway fear and suspicion, and the futility of a world divided along lines of terror, hostility and the idolatry of explosive power. The idolatry of explosive power from bullets to missiles, smart bombs to IED's, and yes nuclear weapons and drone delivered death, is now an established and largely unchallenged recourse to the explosion of energy for the damage of other human beings.

And I guess my overwhelming response to the explosions at the Boston marathan, immediate and so far largely unreflective as it is, is one of deep sadness at the futility of such acts of violence and hatred of other human beings. The death of an 8 year old boy, there to celebrate his father's finishing the race is, well futile. The reduction of human life to fuel for publicity of any cause or none fulfils no meaningful purpose I can discern. Trueblood's thesis still requires adequate refutation - whatever the motives for the use of explosive power to the damage of another human being, it will always be invalidated in any hieracrchy of values that sees human hurt and human killing as a means to an immensely lesser end. I realise more can be said. And on reflection I may wish I'd said more, or less. But the sense of sadness, and the refusal to give in to the temptations of despair and cynicism that grow out of a sense of futility, will not make me want to be less hopeful, more committed to an alternative view of the world, more thoughtful in my prayers for a world like ours.

One of the great visions of the Hebrew Bible is children making the noise of play and excitement in city streets. Whatever else the death of that young boy means, it is a reminder of what I hope for in human fulfilment, and what I pray against in the actions and thinking of those who settle for futility.

Kyrie Eleison

Christe Eleison

Kyrie Elieson

Margaret Thatcher, St Francis of Assisi, Money and Social Security.

My family going back several generations were Lanarkshire miners. By the time Margaret Thatcher became Prime Minister most of the deep mines in Scotland were either closed or closing. My children were born into a country in which we struggled with the three day week, power cuts, the oil crisis with prices going beyond what any of us thought would ever be affordable again, inflational spirals, and then the Winter of Discontent. That so apt Shakespearean phrase was filled with all the constrained but difficult to contain energy of resentment, an anger charged lightning that had to find a point of discharge.

The debate surrounding whether Margaret Thatcher ruined the country or saved it was always going to rage after her death. Indeed, rage is perhaps a word that encapsulates the emotional and visceral responses generated by the policies of successive Thatcher Governments. Either the rage and outrage of those who opposed monetarism, privatisation, the forefronting of nuclear threat, the dismantling of heavy and manufacturing industries replaced with financial and service industries, or the rage of those who thought Union power, Nationalised industry, the threat of Russia and Communism, and other social or socialist policies were forcing the country into recession or social regression.

No wonder feelings are once again raw with hatred or admiration, resentment or gratitude. It is interesting that those who speak most volubly and positively of the Thatcher legacy mostly do so from positions of power, wealth and social security - the phrase is deliberate. Note, Social Security is a positive idea, Benefit System is much less affirming and supportive of human need. I mention the point because amongst the most influential changes Margaret Thatcher brought to British politics was not only political divisiveness but a discourse and rhetoric that made a virtue of polarisation rather than negotiation, that edefaulted to compulsion over consensus, and that placed in the political lexicon the threefold No! No! No! as the term of choice when defending self-interest.

The creation and validation of greed as a social virtue, the morally naive claim that creation of wealth is not wrong (The Sermon on the Mound) and that it is the use of wealth that raise the significant ethical questions, lacked, as all political ideologies do, an adequate doctrine of hamartiology. Hamartiology is the area of theology that deals with human sinfulness, fallibility, and the creative genius of the human mind to create and worship our own idols. In recent decades the phrase structural sin has come to refer to our ability to build into social structures of power and policy, those same self-interested drives that underlie greed, dishonesty, matter of fact bottom line thinking that delibedrately leaves out the human cost because that is a subjective skewing of what needs to be an objective assessment in order to get value for money, the cheapest price, the most for the least output, cost or effort.

Successive Governments after Margaret Thatcher's fall in 1990, have built on that legacy, with a financial free for all that became financial freefall, and now an austerity programme justified by blaming others, and fuelled by that same resentment against those who benefit from our ( note, our - not the Government's) Social Security system and our ( note, OUR ) National Health Service.We still lack an Hamartiology adequate to our economic ambitions, mistakes and inhumanity.

All that said - an elderly woman has died and certain humane customs ought rightly to follow. The scale and cost was always going to be problematic, if only because of security, settling of scores, and what she herself called 'the oxygen of publicity', even more important and immediate in a culture used to surveillance, digital technology and the uniquitous hand held camera options. I hope her funeral takes place with dignity, honesty, and the proper summing up of a human life, believing as I do a truer, sterner judgement, and a more generous mercy and justice than mine, will prevail and speak the final words.

At the beginning of her Premiership, Margaret Thatcher quoted the prayer of St Francis of Assisi, including the words "Where there is discord, may we bring harmony". Perhaps instead of taking ideological sides, or insisting that her impact on our personal life story is the decisive factor in the debate about her achievements, the whole of that prayer, in its more familiar text, should be set against her political career, her life, and her legacy.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury,pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.


O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen

.

 

The Existence of God: The Argument from Snow!

The First Snow

The snow
began here
this morning and all day
continued, its white
rhetoric everywhere
calling us back to why, how,
whence such beauty and what
the meaning; such
an oracular fever! flowing
past windows, an energy it seemed
would never ebb, never settle
less than lovely! and only now,
deep into night,
it has finally ended.
The silence
is immense,
and the heavens still hold
a million candles; nowhere
the familiar things:
stars, the moon,
the darkness we expect
and nightly turn from. Trees
glitter like castles
of ribbons, the broad fileds
smolder with light, a passing
creekbed lies
heaped with shining hills;
and though the questions
that have assailed us all day
remain - not a single
answer has been found -
walking out now
into the silence and the light
under the trees,
and through the fields,
feels like one.

Mary Oliver

Leaves, Trees and the Healing the Nations?

                 "And the leaves of the trees are for the healing of the nations..."

When Great Trees Fall  (Maya Angelou)

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.

(Photo taken on rentreat at The Bield in Perth)

The Mystery of Gratuitous Beauty and Ubiquitous Gift

The Summer Day

Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

This is the poem that brought Mary Oliver's poetry to my attention and I've read her regulary ever since. On a blue sky sunny day in Westhill, Aberdeenshire, this celebration of life and its unique unrepeatable giftedness is a reminder of responsibility to live life well and grateful for the gift it is and the gifts it brings.

The photo was taken in Aberdeen Botanic Garden - such fragile transient beauty, - cause for wonder, and praise and grateful holding of all that is Gift.

Wonder and Worship, Mystery and Meaning, Incarnation and Adoration

The etching is by Rogier Van der Weyden and is in the Louvre, one of the earliest 15th Century drawings by a Flemish Master. I have a print of this in my study. The delicacy and intensity of the gaze and the precise definition of the sketching contrasts with the sense of mystery, the artist's search for the ideal a creative metaphor for our own search for those glimpses of the love and grace of the God who comes to us in Word made flesh, and does so through the yes of a young woman. Beauty and courage, trust and risk, Divine calling and human scandal, confident angelic annunciation and free human assent - so heaven and earth are brought together through the Gift of God and the generous receptive will of a woman, and the birth of a child.

The poem below comes from  an age which we in our sophisticated postmodern mindset might dare to call credulous - but it was also an age when the human capacity for wonder was a recognised way of knowing, and an essential element of wonder. I wonder where the wonder went?

Wit Wonders

A God and yet a man,

A maid and yet a mother:

Wit wonders what wit can

Conceive this or the other.

 

A God and can he die?

A dead man can he live?

What wit can well reply?

What reason reason give?

 

God, Truth itself doth teach it.

Man’s wit sinks too far under

By reason’s power to reach it:

Believe and leave to wonder.

(Anonymous – 15^th C)

Finding a Safe Place when We Are in a Hard Place

The Avowal, Denise Levertov

As swimmers dare

to lie face to the sky

and water bears them,

as hawks rest upon air

and air sustains them,

so would I learn to attain

freefall and float

into Creator Spirit's embrace

knowing no effort earns

that all-surrounding grace.

Learning to "attain freefall and float" is sometimes a big ask. It requires faith which sometimes comes hard. Such trust requires the courage to risk it all, which seems beyond us when the inner self is feeling defensive and self-protective. Somewhere in the emotional and spirtitual anatomy of faith there is the fusion of personal response and Divine Gift, or perhaps, personal response to Divine Gift. We are saved by grace through faith, which is the gift of God. Yet we are to work out our own salvation with fear and trembling, while giving thanks that he who began a good work in us will bring it to completion.

It's an important pastoral insight, best learned by being pastorally sensitive to our own heart's longings, failures and fears, that being told to believe, to trust, to have faith, can be the hardest ask of all - and the hardest task of all. As well ask me to open a tin with a banana. In countless sermons, in many a praise song backed by enthusiastic singing, there can be a subtle but significant theological slippage that has far reaching spiritual consequences.

On what does my life depend? Where does faith come from? If it is all of grace, why does it seem so much depends on me believing, as if the flow of grace was through a tap I have to have the strength to turn on? And what if I don't have that strength?

Does my security depend on me holding on to God or God holding on to me?

Is it sinners receiving Christ or Christ receiving sinners that is of the esse of the Gospel.

Am I caught up into the Triune life of God, and held in the eternal security of a love that will not let me go, or does that depend on something I do, or give or think?

What I like about Levetov's lines, and why I quote them, is she understands (and later in her life came to understand with deep compassion born of her own suffering) is the last two lines.

Don't tell me to believe more. To trust more. To do this or that as if I wouldn't if I could, and if I knew what. To believe when my heart is wrung out of trust and I need to be held rather than take hold. Because it's that holding, that grace, that gift of Love Divine which as Julian says, enfolds us - it is that initiative of God, that perseverance, not of the saints but of God, whose untiring and inexhaustible grace as Levertov says bears, sustains and embraces, " and no effort earns that all-sustaining grace".

Just now and then in our lives, we come to the place where for all our uncertainties, we take the risk of saying to the God into whose life we are caught up in the love of the Father, the Grace of the Son and the communion of the Spirit, "Lord I believe - help my unbelief". The one reality that transcends thought and emotion, reason and the heart, and which persists as the truth that holds us even when we ourselves doubt it, is the spectacular assertion of Paul "Your life is hid with Christ in God".

We use the phrase a lot today, being 'in a hard place just now'. I guess we all know what it means. And that hard place can be a place where faith, trust, hopefulness, confidence, and courage require more than we are able to offer, just now. The hard place is the one that feels most real, determined by outer circumstance and inner anxiety. But the all sustaining grace perseveres, the untiring love does not weary, the life we live is surrounded and drawn into the eternal exchange of love and peace and joy - no we may not be aware of it, "our life is hid with Christ in God", and that depends not on my believing it, but on the love of Christ Crucified, the life of the Holy Spirit, and the sustaining mercy of the Father.

A Philosophical Theology of Prayer.

I don't enjoy many books about prayer. That doesn't mean there aren't any good ones, just that I'm not sure one ever helped me to pray more, or better. I'd rather have a book of prayers that have been composed, written and prayed in language rich with those human experiences out of which prayer erupts, or is dragged, or writes itself in word and emotion that is the human heart seeking encounter with the heart of God.

When a renowned philosopher whose works on Theism are mind stretchingly challenging decides to explore the basis of Christian prayer, then I don't expect another how to manual, nor another here's my experience, it was great and I'd like you to have it too bestseller. Which is good - because this book is quite different. Owen is unafraid of the theological and philosophical questions raised by our praying - telling God what God already knows, asking for what is in our own interests, establishing any causal connection between our praying and whatever happens that we perceive as an answer to prayer. The main thrust of the book is that prayer is best, perhaps only, understood, in the light of our doctrine of God and our theological conception of what a human being is, and what the relations between God and humanity are, should be and perhaps must be.

I learned so much from this book - The Basis of Christian Prayer, H P Owen (Regent College Pubblishing). Not about how to pray but about what prayer is, about the One to whom prayer is offered, and about the relational interchange that takes place between God and those who dare, and who desire, to address the God who first addresses us. "Prayer validates a personal, as against a non personal view of God. In prayer we address God as Thou." A page later (p.111) Owen quotes a most moving prayer of Anselm, from the Proslogion:

O God, I pray, let me know and love you

so that I may rejoice in you.

And if I cannot in this life fully,

let me advance day by day

until the point of fullness comes.

Let knowledge of you progress in me here,

and be made full there.

Let love for you grow in me here,

and be made full there,

so that here my joy may be great with expectancy

while there being full in realisation.

If there is such a thing as an eschatological spirituality, Then Anselm has gifted to the church a prayer that holds the Christian heart in that creative tension between now and then, here and there, Thou - and I.

Durer's Praying Hands (above) suffers from over-exposure on Christian kitsch products fro m wall plaques to plastic models. But in the original etching the artist combines beauty with beseeching, peace with tension, surrender and expectancy - and few images are more evocative of our humanity than our hands, with which we make and caress, hold and relinquish, clench and open, embrace or exclude. To lift up holy hands in prayer, is therefore no straightforward spiritual exercise.

Multum in Parvo (III) The priority of questions over answers

Always we find ourselves at the divergence

Of two paths travelling out.

Otherwise, our questions

Would already have been answered.

......................

Turning nightward in these domes

Our shutters opening like secrets

We set our silvered cups to catch

The fine mist of light

That settles from our chosen stars

On the edge of the unanswerable

Even here, our questions.

....................

These are two samples of poetry written by a brilliant astrophysicist whose field of research was 'dark matter'. Rebecca Elson wrote as an agnostic whose religious scepticism was tempered by imagination, compassion and a visionary hopefulness for humanity and for a future worthy of the beauty and potential of a universe shot through with mystery.

Reading her poetry and Journal entries is like encountering a 20th Century Qoheleth, questioning, enquiring, redolent of responsibility, capable of awe and wonder at the sheer intransigence of existence in the face of the human urge to mastery and comprehension.

Reading her poetry is to have your too easily and carelessly held assumptions about faith and life interogated by someone who was an Isaac Newton scholar at Cambridge, and interpreter of the Hubble data, a Harvard researcher, and a poet whose precision with words had more to do with nuanced meaning than technical skill.

Reading her poetry is like standing in a hot shower when someone turns on the tap downstairs and suddenly the water is freezing and there's no easy or quick escape from its jetted cold.

Accidentally praying - as if Someone meant it...

Come Holy Spirit, Spirit of Love, Spirit of Discipline,

In the silence

Come to us and bring us your peace;

Rest in us that we may be tranquil and still;

Speak to us as each heart needs to hear;

Reveal to us things hidden and things longed for;

Rejoice in us that we may praise and be glad;

Pray in us that we may be at one with you and with each other;

Refresh and renew us from your living springs of water;

Dwell in us now and always, Amen.

The prayer is by Father Robert Llewelyn one of the accomplished recent interpreters of Julian of Norwich, and it's taken from his book With Pity Not with Blame. From a well stocked shelf of studies on Julian, this slim book remains a favourite, especially as a guide to ways of praying that have less to do with words and more to do with inner orientation; acknowledging Presence, practising stillness, listening with the heart, gazing with the eyes of imaginagtive faith, and learning the necessary tensions between the mind thinking, the heart feeling and the will responding.

The other day I spoke with our College librarian, Dr Edward Burrows, about George Herbert and my fascination with three chosen people of genius - Julian, Herbert and Charles Wesley. Amongst their many gifts, I value their capacity to invest words with more than meaning, but with the power to communicate spiritual experiences with such penetrating integrity that they radically transform by sometimes evoking the very experiences they describe and expound. None of them use the idiom of contemporary-speak, and I guess it now requires an investment of time to learn their way with words, but to those who take the time, they may well discover the spiritual equivalent of treasure maps and the call to seek till they find.

There are others in my canon of spiritual geniuses - but those three - Julian, Herbert and Wesley, touch on a form of spirituality that for all their diversity, carries with it what C S Lewis called the scent of the far country.

As a matter of irrelevant coincidence (or unpremeditated purpose) I typed out the above prayer while listening to Albinoni's Adagio in G Major - and some of what the prayer asked just sort of happened, as if Someone meant it......