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The transience of flowers,
the ebb and flow of the sea,
the fluidity of a living community,
the changing context of the church;
faith, then, is embracing the transience,
accepting the ebb and flow,
adjusting to the fluidity,
and adapting to the changes
of a life lived seeking to follow faithfully after Christ.
The painting 'Stilling the Tempest' is a powerful visual exegesis of Mark 4.39 and Jesus' command, "Peace! Be still!" I first came across it in the wonderful volume by Jaroslav Pelikan, Jesus Through the Centuries, a book I used as a text book teaching a module with the same title. This was one of the images a number of students found moving, and it always provoked discussion.
Jesus with a Chinese face, is standing in the place of command at the prow of the boat. Mountainous seas with real mountains on the horizon, the whole scene a cauldron of threat and danger. The desperation of the oarsmen, the loss of control signalled by their lost rhythm, the faces set in expressions of fear or determined resignation, all conveyed with power. In the foreground a massive billow, reminiscent of a tsunami and originating under the boat, heads towards the viewer of the painting.
But the dominating figure of Jesus stands with arms outstretched and hands raised, upright and balanced in a boat tossed by elemental powers doing their utmost to overwhelm. Of course he stands in a cruciform gesture, redemptive and powerful at the same time. His authority over the waves and the wind is emphasised by the disciple clinging to his legs, while another has his arms raised imploring Jesus, and yet another clings to the mast but strains round to fix his eyes on Jesus.
It is an astonishing achievement which captures the full force of the storm just before Jesus speaks. The sea is in full tempest mode, the boat is riding a tsunami, the land is miles behind them, and left on their own, experienced sailors as they are, they are doomed. Except for that dominant cruciform Jesus, about to command stillness.
Yet Mark says clearly that Jesus was at the back, in the stern of the boat, asleep. In the picture Jesus is shown to be high and lifted up, at the front. This is of course artistic licence, but making its own theological point; the artist's interpretation is supported by the verb Mark uses which is an intensified form of rising, describing Jesus' action as standing up to his full height. And the place of authority and the highest point is the uplifted prow
Perhaps the reason the picture is called 'Stilling the Tempest', a title which uses the present participle, is precisely to convey the urgent authority of Jesus, striding from stern to prow. The picture then becomes a portrait of that moment just as Jesus is about to speak two commands; to the wind, "be quiet!, and to the sea, "be calm!"
The Chinese artist, Monika Liu Ho-Peh, has captured that dramatic split second, when with oars all over the place, sails ripped, bodies exhausted, impending doom is forestalled and frustrated by impending deliverance. And that is exactly how Mark portrays Jesus.
A shell is more than
a discarded home; it tells
of oceans and skies.
On a day of deep thinking, negotiating my way through inner shadows of sorrow in the search for hope and light, I stopped to look at the sky reflected in the sea water inside a mussel shell.
A shell has the capacity to hold in itself the same sand of a million beaches, and the same water of a world's ocean's.
Likewise our human minds and hearts have capax dei, the capacity for God.
Our capacity is that of the shell; God's fullness is that of the ocean.
And from that fullness of purposive love and creative wisdom, come our deepest and furthest reaching hopes.
I heard Jean Vanier speak several times over the years. If you don't know who Jean Vanier is then please read this obituary before reading the rest of this post.
The first time I heard Jean Vanier was in Queen's Cross Church 20 years ago. By then he was around 70, and already walked with his massive frame slightly stooped. He could have played the Big Friendly Giant with a minimum of makeup and coaching. Jean's gentleness was unmistakable, he wore his heart, not so much on his sleeve, more like a high visibility vest. His movements were slow, his face most reposed when smiling which seemed to be his default setting. He looked around at the audience with eyes that saw, and paid attention, and cared about what was going on behind the faces of those in front of him. He saw more than faces. This was a man who looked and loved, who smiled as an intimation of intentional friendship.
He draped himself languidly over the tall lectern, his long arms and hands moving expressively, occasionally gesturing outwards as if trying to embrace the whole crowd. He spoke of vulnerability and love, of community and forgiveness, about radical gentleness and human woundedness; and he spoke of these things as one who was a lifelong practitioner. His words were compelling, his eyes glinting with hope and conviction, his face not so much animated as responsive to the truth he was telling and the people who were listening. And were we listening.
This man had abandoned a promising career in the Navy, had become a professor of philosophy and abandoned that path too, and started a small community to share his life with people then described as having intellectual disabilities. Out of that small cottage in Troisly in France, grew what is now a world-wide network of caring and community called L'Arche. It was out of 40 and more years of such community building that Jean spoke that evening. Not a hint of self-promotion, simply a woven pattern of stories about people enabled to be who they are, about acceptance and belonging, about the love of Jesus becoming embodied in communities of welcome, and about how human growth is rooted in love, forgiveness, service and the gift of ourselves to each other.
In one sense I wasn't hearing anything new; I had read and deeply pondered his best writing for 25 years by then. But to hear him tell it with the quiet authority of one who had walked it, and had helped thousands find their place and their way; to witness a man gently aflame with love and conviction which he framed in stories of suffering and joy, of vulnerability and healing, of brokenness and wholeness; to recognise that in all he was describing he was demonstrating the counter-cultural value system of Jesus, and promoting a way of life that contradicts the most cherished values of a consumer culture; that gave these truths an intensity that was unforgettable - and unignorable.
For the previous 10 years I had been chaplain in a school for children with significant extra support needs. During those years I tried to model some of what I had learned from the life and thought of Jean Vanier, and from the stories of L'Arche as communities where 'each one is special, accepted and loved...' And that night, all those years of class involvement, school assemblies, pastoral engagement with staff, pupils and parents, were validated as exactly what ministry is, and what the vocation of love and grace both demands and confers.
I heard Jean Vanier a couple of times more, but that first evening remains one of those experiences to which I return in thought and prayer, and like the widow's cruse of oil, it never fails. It never fails to nourish my hope, and to encourage me in the vocation of loving whosoever in Jesus' name. Nor does it fail to remind me that at best, we can only ever be wounded healers, unprofitable servants who have received more than we could ever give.
And this is the thing. Jean Vanier didn't only envision and bring to fruition an international network of L'Arche communities. He also modelled for so many a way of being, and of being together in community, that demonstrated the love of Jesus for the lost and the unwanted, the weak and the afraid, the struggling and the broken. And in that modelling he inspired the kinds of human interchange where sadness is able give way to joy in the sharing of life, where commitment of people to each other in love and responsible reciprocal caring enables everyone to grow, and change, and find their place. Vanier held it as a fundamental observation that all human beings have disabilities, we all struggle, everyone has weaknesses, each one of us suffers and needs friends, love and safety. In that sense in Vanier's worldview, we all have invisible disabilities, and therefore all are in need of compassion, understanding and the freedom to acknowledge our need,
There is deep sadness that Jean Vanier has died. But what a life he has lived! And what light he shone into many, many lives. As a man of profound faith and open armed compassion, he has inspired one of the richest models of what can happen when Christian love, human disability and hopeful vision coalesce into community. May he rest in peace, rise in glory, and be met in heaven with the volumes of laughter and celebration he inspired in the lives he touched to their blessing.
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