Thieves and Angels

At “vicar school” I’ve been learning about a really helpful lifelong skill called Theological Reflection. It might sound dull but it’s not! Trust me, I’m an Ordinand. In essence it’s about us thinking about a certain experience in light of our faith. To put it rather simply it’s asking, “where is God in this?” and then… “what do I do now?”

In my first theological reflection class, I realised I already do it all the time, as most of us do. In fact, over the last 30 years versions of it have become popular in all kinds of fields like business, medicine and finance. You may know it as “Reflective Practice”. When we hear a story in the news and think “ah that’s just like the story of the Good Samaritan.” When a situation brings to mind verses from the Bible or we feel our church traditions and beliefs are shaping the way we respond to a situation, it’s all theological reflection.

Knowing how to do it well is so valuable. It’s such a great way to deepen our faith and fulfil our mission as disciples because it’s about working out where and how God is at work in our lives and how we can respond and act in a Christ-like way. Honestly, I love this stuff. I fear I might bore you to tears over the coming months, but I don’t think I can help myself. I’m an evangelist by nature, and this is my new thing to proclaim.

Anyway, I drew you in with a snappy title which promised intrigue and drama and I’ve delivered neither. So here it is: last night, Sunday 8^th November, something really awful happened which provided quite the opportunity for some deep theological reflection. At about 7pm as I was relaxing after an exhausting but wonderful Remembrance Sunday, my phone started buzzing. About 4 or 5 messages all at once from friends asking if I was OK or needed help. I saw some missed calls. I got an email. I got 3 Facebook Messenger alerts at once. My phone was blowing up. I got a notification that said the word “hacked” and my heart sank.

Immediately I tried to get into my account and change my password and alert my friends that my account had been hacked and whatever messages they’d received were completely untrue. At this stage I didn’t even know the nature of the messages. I felt sick. I was being contacted by former colleagues, school friends, parishioners, people I’d not spoken to for years. What had they been sent on my behalf!? I raced upstairs on tiptoes (not easy) so as not to wake Elizabeth and turned on my computer to deal with it more quickly at a keyboard.

Dozens and dozens of my contacts had received this from my Facebook Messenger account, “I’ve got some bills due tonight but locked myself out my online banking for 24 hours, if i send you details to my other account can you pay it for me? Its for £280 I promise to pay you back tomorrow morning with an extra £20 xx”

Some people who received it, like my old tutor from 6^th form, thought it was too unusual to be true and began asking her own questions, and soon realised it was false. Others know I’m a stickler for an erroneous apostrophe and thought “this just can’t be Rachael”, and one friend didn’t think I’d offer to give her £20 extra! But, sadly for one friend it was too late.

Truly believing I was in need, she gave. She just saw that her friend was in trouble and she willingly parted with nearly £300 as soon as she could because she loves me, because she’s a generous person, and because she tries hard to be Christ-like in her daily life. I was too late in getting warnings out and she’d transferred the full amount to the hacker’s bank. She was angry and mortified and stressed. She spent all night on the phone to her bank’s fraud investigation team, and meanwhile I spent all night contacting as many people as I possibly could to warn them. I felt absolutely terrible. Later that night she sent me a message telling me it’s “time to forget about it now, please, please don’t worry about it- we’re fine, we can take the hit”. Reluctantly I took her advice and turned off my phone and tried to forget about it.

Today I’m relieved that it seems, so far, no-one else has handed over money to the hackers, and my anger has given way to gratitude. As my mind turned to God, initially just to give thanks for my lovely friend, I wondered where God was in this whole picture. Theological reflection begins with understanding what led to the experience (social and cultural factors for example) and I reflected on the greed of some people who would con a stranger out of money to meet their own needs. I thought about how vulnerable even the smartest people can be. I thought of technology and how easy it is to manipulate to pretend to be someone you’re not, to transfer funds in an instant, to investigate the electronic footprints left behind.

And I then asked myself, how does my faith shape this? What does the Bible say? What would Jesus do? Where does God sit in this picture. I could have thought about sin and retribution and of Paul telling his mentee Timothy that “For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil.” But instead I went to the Gospel passage I’d preached on the day before, on Remembrance Sunday. John 15.17 This is my command: Love each other.

My friend did what she did out of compassion, generosity and love. She didn’t hesitate to act. She just gave. She gave a lot, and it has cost her greatly, not just in money (which hopefully she’ll get back) but in emotion and time, and in the bitter taste this whole saga leaves her with. God is the source of all love and generosity and Jesus teaches us to love one another as God loves Him. Like an angel, last night my friend was watching out for me (or whom she believed to be me) and she showed me what love looks like.

And folks, it just wouldn’t be good theological reflection if it didn’t culminate with action. So here’s what I think action looks like for me. I think the most appropriate thing to do to combat the thieves and fraudsters and the manipulative badness of this world is to continue to preach love. To live a life so sure of God’s love for me that it spills out and washes over others. Today I’ll be dedicating myself to thinking about all the love in my life. Love wins. Again.

RACHAEL INVESTIGATES: MORE REVELATIONS ABOUT ANGLO-CATHOLIC EVANGELISM PART 2 OF 2

“I said that in Anglo-Catholic expression of worship there’d be a dedication to Our Lady. But everything really is centred around the Mass and about the belief in the real presence of Christ in the Mass. So the bread and wine becoming the body and blood of Jesus. Mary is a high number two. But that’d be the number one.” She sits back in her seat and resumes eating, satisfied that she’s got her point across that the Mass is absolutely the key.

“I get it that the Eucharist is very important in Anglo-Catholicism, just as it is to me personally,” I say, “but it’s what happens in church and it’s important to your existingcongregation. How do you explain this to and share this with people who don’t yet know Jesus? What has this to do with evangelism?” It feels like we’re about to hit on something very important.

“I guess it’s by invitation. Relationship building. So I do a lot in the school and loads of the community are involved in the kitchen. Because the Mass is so central to what we do, the stuff in the school is centred on Mass, and in the kitchen everyone’s invited to stay and we do Mass at the end. I guess it’s learning by osmosis or immersion. People see and do. We wouldn’t have an all-age family worship service that was non-Eucharistic. That wouldn’t make sense to me. There has to be Mass.”

This is really challenging what I’d believed about faith sharing. The way I’d always done it up until now- and I say this as a self-identifying evangelist who believes she’s actually been called by God to tell people about Jesus- is potentially deeply lacking. Or at the very least, completely different from how others, such as Anglo-Catholics, do it.

I’ve always just been about words. Important, life-changing words yes. But in the four years I’ve been telling people about Jesus and why I’m a Christian, I don’t think I’ve invited any of them to specifically take part in the Mass. I think I’ve always seen that as something I do, personally, as a committed Christian when I worship God in church, and perhaps one day, they might find themselves doing it too. But I’ve never directly suggested to someone that the way to God is through encountering Jesus through transformed bread and wine.

All this has really opened my eyes. Not just to the beauty and significance of the different rituals that go on in these quiet, peaceful and often highly adorned church buildings (and indeed the highly adorned priests that serve in them). But also what lies at the humble heart of these churches. The desire to emulate and share God’s deep, deep love for his people.

What I’ve learned from Father Kyle is that evangelism is a slow burn thing achieved through long-term presence in a community, usually a pretty poor community. It’s about relationship building with the express aim of bringing them into church to share in Jesus’ body and blood. Church, community and Mass are all key.

What I’m learning from Mother Gemma is the same, just worded differently. Sharing one’s faith in this tradition is about showing, doing, inviting. It’s practical. It’s meeting a need. In her case, in her church, that’s the practical needs of the poor. Or in other words:

“BY THIS EVERYONE WILL KNOW THAT YOU ARE MY DISCIPLES, IF YOU LOVE ONE ANOTHER” (JOHN 13:35)

She feeds them. That’s how she tells people about Jesus, and part of that is the blatant and unashamed invitation to take part in the Mass. That’s Anglo-Catholic evangelism. That’ssharing one’s faith.

And it’s not what I expected at all. Probably because it’s not how I do it. I’m really feeling challenged that despite how much the Eucharist is a core part of my faith, I don’t habitually mention it to non-Christians. Yet I do believe it’s how we have the deepest relationship with and connection to Jesus. Maybe I ought to mention this sacrament to people more often when I’m telling them about Jesus! This is my biggest revelation.

Yet despite the fuzzy feeling that I’m getting somewhere, I’m still left pondering how I might serve the people in these pews. I think I get how the priests do it, but I still don’t really know to what extent ordinary Anglo-Catholic lay people share their faith, or if they even see that as something they’re called to do. So I don’t yet know how I’d go about supporting them in doing what we’re all called to do. The Apostle Peter wrote,

BUT IN YOUR HEARTS REVERE CHRIST AS LORD. ALWAYS BE PREPARED TO GIVE AN ANSWER TO EVERYONE WHO ASKS YOU TO GIVE THE REASON FOR THE HOPE THAT YOU HAVE. (1 PETER 3:15)

This need for actual words is reiterated by the Apostle Paul:

HOW, THEN, CAN THEY CALL ON THE ONE THEY HAVE NOT BELIEVED IN? AND HOW CAN THEY BELIEVE IN THE ONE OF WHOM THEY HAVE NOT HEARD? AND HOW CAN THEY HEAR WITHOUT SOMEONE PREACHING TO THEM?  (ROMANS 10:14)

Whatever flavour of God’s church we’re from, I still maintain that we need to each find a way of being able to speak about Jesus, about church, about what it means to be loved unconditionally by God, to be forgiven for all we’ve done wrong, and the hope that we have in eternal life, even if, or rather especially if this is to lead them to the sacraments. We all need equipping to do this because there are just so many people who will go to bed tonight not knowing.

My investigations must continue as, although I understand a great deal more, I don’t yet understand the perspective of the Anglo-Catholic lay people, so how can I support them? I don’t think I’ll find the answer by talking to any more priests, so my next venture surely has to be among the worshipping community. Onward I go.

GEMMA HAS ASKED ME TO ADD A LINK TO THE ORDINAL TEXT USED BY THE C OF E WHEN DEACONS, PRIESTS AND BISHOPS ARE ORDAINED, BECAUSE THESE PROMISES SUM UP HER APPROACH TO MINISTRY.

I DIDN’T REALLY KNOW WHICH BIT SHE WANTED, SO SHE LEFT ME A VOICEMAIL POINTING ME TOWARDS THE EXACT TEXT TO ADD.

BUT I DECIDED NOT TO ADD THAT TEXT. HERE’S HER VOICEMAIL MESSAGE INSTEAD. TISSUES AT THE READY.

RACHAEL INVESTIGATES: MORE REVELATIONS ABOUT ANGLO-CATHOLIC EVANGELISM PART 1 OF 2

My job is to support Christians in sharing their faith with others. It’s to keep evangelism on the table as a core thing that we do. It’s to help people to take every opportunity to appropriately, comfortably and lovingly give a reason for their faith in the different situations they find themselves; at the pub, online, at Nandos, in church.

And if I’m to be at all useful to the churches I serve, I need to properly understand if different church traditions approach this business of faith sharing differently. Logic would suggest they probably do, since they do most other things differently.

So, let me introduce to you Mother Gemma Sampson, Curate of St Aidan’s and St Columba’s in Hartlepool whom I’m visiting to grill her on this subject of Anglo-Catholic evangelism, just like I did Father Kyle McNeil in my last article. I wanted to interview them both, recognising that Traditional Catholics and Liberal Catholics may well have different approaches to this.

We’ve just got back from evening Mass at St Aidan’s, and to my delight, Gemma has provided a Chinese takeaway which makes me think Anglo-Catholics must be pretty magnificent people. Hanging out with them always seems to involve food.

As I munch on prawn crackers (Gemma would like me to stress that she wasn’t because she’s a vegan!) I start with some pretty basic questions, like this one, to set the scene: how would I know if I was in an Anglo-Catholic church?

“In Anglo-Catholic churches you’ll always find a dedication to Our Lady. The worship will be sacramental [there’ll always be one of the sacraments like Mass or a Baptism within the service. It wouldn’t ever be just preaching and singing for example]. It’ll also be liturgical [centred around a particular printed set of words]. It’s where you’ll find the bells and smells style worship. And you’ll often find Anglo-Catholic churches in places where poverty is higher.”

Our Lady (AKA Mary, Jesus’ mum) gets lots of attention in this tradition and Gemma absolutely loves her. She gets really animated at this point.

“Mary has a massive prominence in our worship. Asking Mary to pray for us is definitely one of the features of Anglo-Catholic worship. In a lot of churches there’ll be a Lady Chapel [a whole chapel dedicated to Mary], and in Anglo-Catholic churches Mary will feature in the Eucharistic prayer and intercessions. Plus the festivals of Mary will be observed, like the Annunciation, and Mary’s month of May [special devotions and services held in the month of May, sometimes outdoors].”

I’ve experienced this myself. I’ve preached in Gemma’s churches a few times and worshipped at St Aidan’s at Easter. It’s where I first learned to recite my Hail Mary. Mary’s everywhere.

“What else is distinctive about Anglo-Catholic worship?” I ask.

“Well,” she leans in over the noodles and does her best serious face “the other thing about Anglo-Catholic worship is it’s all about reverence and awe. There’s no talk about Jesus being my personal Lord and saviour. It’s about the whole church. Community. It’s more God almighty than God all matey.”

I snigger. I love this line. And I know what she means. In Anglo-Catholic churches I always feel very wowed by the experience. It feels formal but in a good way. Awe-inspiring. I love that feeling. It’s brought me to tears so many times and feels incredibly special. I don’t get the same feeling (or at least haven’t yet) in evangelical churches. Yet, I can’t help but also lean comfortably towards the idea that Jesus is my best buddy. Anyway, moving on…

“So bearing all of this distinctiveness in mind, and as I’m here to explore evangelism, tell me Gemma, how do you share your faith?” She thinks for a moment then begins,

“Historically, in the Anglo-Catholic tradition there weren’t things like Alpha courses or Home Groups or that sort of thing. What you’ll find more of is the practical meeting of human need. So, like feeding the hungry.”

Feeding the hungry? Even though I’ve already heard what Fr Kyle had to say on this subject, this kind of answer still stumps me. When I think of sharing my faith, I picture me talking to a person or group of people about how, where and why I became a Christian. I think about story-telling and conversations. Testimony. Words. The Word. So the answer “feeding the hungry” is confusing. It seems to not actually answer the question I asked.

But I trust Gemma so I think maybe I’m asking the wrong question. Or maybe my whole understanding of sharing faith is just completely different from hers. So I press on because I honestly think I’ve misunderstood,

“OK, feeding the hungry… but what about deliberately and obviously talking about or telling people about Jesus? Would you do that? Do you do that?”

“Yes.” She tells me, very matter of fact. I’m confused. I still think we have our wires crossed. “Could you describe that?” I ask.

“Well when we’re feeding the hungry [she means literally, at the kitchen they’ve set up in her church which feeds hundreds and hundreds of local poor people] I bang on about how Jesus thought this was really important and how it’s a Gospel imperative. I tell people about how much he did it.”

Could you help them reach their target so they can get a proper kitchen instead of just containers? Click here.

Hallelujah. We are on the same wave length. This wonderful, intelligent and deeply committed priest does know what I’m asking, and does, literally, tell people about Jesus. She simply tells the hungry people who turn up at her church’s kitchen why she’s caring for them in the first place.

Mother Gemma elaborates,

“So what I wouldn’t say is, ‘Oh you’re hungry, what you really need is to know Jesus and then you won’t be hungry anymore.’ I think the Pope says something like ‘You feed the hungry and then you pray for them and that is how prayer works. You don’t just pray that God will end poverty. You meet the need then you pray.’ I think that’s a very authentic expression of the Christian faith. People want to help those in need. I just connect the dots by saying ‘Well I feed hungry people because I love Jesus and Jesus massively cares for the poor. And Jesus is food and we’re fed in the Mass so we can feed other people.’”

And then her eyes properly light up and she puts down her fork. She’s just mentioned Mass, and as an Anglo-Catholic, she definitely has more to say on this topic.

“I haven’t mentioned the real presence yet! I have to tell you about that. It’ll blow your mind.” I put my fork down too. It’s about to get serious.

(here’s part 2 but warning… it gets pretty weepy at the end!)

RACHAEL INVESTIGATES: ANGLO-CATHOLIC EVANGELISM PART 2 OF 2

Read Part 1 here where I had to get my head around some basic assumptions of Anglo-Catholic worship, in order to set the scene.

We’ve been chatting in the vicarage for a couple of hours now and mostly Fr Kyle has been leading the conversation and teaching me some important things about his tradition, but most of what he’s prepared (yes of course he’s prepared hand outs and a reading list! Have you met Fr Kyle?) has been exclusively on mission, and yet I came here to talk about evangelism. I might not be a theologian, but I know they’re not interchangeable words.

I tentatively mention this and he explains. This is partly because he had forgotten exactly why I said I was coming (!), but also because, for me to understand evangelism in the catholic tradition, I need to understand the catholic view of mission first. I need to understand the huge importance placed upon community, upon the Church as the collective people – a ‘communion’ of God’s people, living and departed. Because it’s not just about individual soul saving. By this I understand he is alluding to the caricature that, with mission and evangelism in the opposite end of the church – in the evangelical tradition, more emphasis is placed upon one’s individual relationship with Jesus as one’s personal saviour (this is something I intend to discover when I visit some evangelical churches to discuss the same topic).

Back to Anglo-Catholicism…

Fr Kyle says, “If God’s one plan for the world (and there’s no backup plan) is the mission of the Church, then mission is only ever done through the Church. Seeing where God’s prompting us to be and getting stuck in. That’s the (traditional) Catholic interpretation. Where God wants us to be he’s already sown seeds. He’s sown seeds everywhere. But for them to bear fruit, they must do so through the Church.”

I’m told the whole purpose of catholic evangelism is to bring people to a living relationship with Jesus in the Mass. I ask for clarification on the phrase “bring people to a living relationship with Jesus”. I want to know what that actually looks like; what it means practically. So I ask “What does the word evangelism mean to you?” After a long pause, and careful consideration, he says it’s “Announcing the Good News of God’s love and showing people how they can enter into it more deeply. That relationship of love begins with Baptism, and it’s achieved primarily by encountering Jesus in the Eucharist.”

The Eucharist, it’s no surprise, is key here. As I understand it, if you’re an Anglo-Catholic, to share your faith with someone isn’t simply so that their soul can be saved through hearing the Word, and you leave it at that. It’s about bringing them into the Church (the people and the building) so that they can experience Jesus through his body and blood in the sacrament of Holy Communion, which isn’t only about being part of a shared meal, being in community, but actually makes them a bit more like Jesus every day.

“So,” I press further, “Does it mean actually telling people about Jesus?” I want to really get to the heart of what evangelism looks like in Anglo-Catholicism.

“Of course,” he replies.

I want details. I want specifics. How does it happen? Fr Kyle begins his answer with a brief history lesson and I worry he’s being evasive, but he’s not at all, just setting the scene so that I understand:

“The main aim is to form people into communities that are Eucharistic and that invite people on a lifelong journey of sanctification. Traditional Anglo-Catholic parishes tend disproportionately to be in areas of deprivation, or that have a history of deprivation. This is because the C of E was not quick to plant churches in the new working class communities that came out of the industrial revolution in the 1800s. But at that time Catholic minded missionaries did, and staffed them. That’s why there are more Anglo-Catholic churches in deprived areas.

“This is not only a historic pattern when the movement was beginning, but is still the same now. So the method of evangelisation in such communities has been incarnational. Relational. It’s engaging in presence for the long haul. A slow-burn evangelistic method. That’s partly to do with the aim of taking people on a journey – of ‘conversion’ being a life-long process of becoming more like Jesus – but also to do with the sorts of communities that we’re serving.

“In the past when clergy numbers were higher it meant clerical presence. Being involved in the local community. Conversations. Connections.”

I’ve already seen this in action today. When we were walking through the parish I was very surprised to see how respectful, even deferential two youths were to Fr Kyle when we passed by. They were well-used to seeing a man in a long black cassock walking through the streets. The church still means an awful lot here. Whether they’re believers or not, it’s clearly normal to see your local priest out and about.

“So if anyone was telling people about Jesus it would be the priest?” I ask.

“In the past, yes. But since the object of the exercise is to form a worshipping community, historically a great deal of energy has also been invested by the whole congregation in social events and activities that benefit the local community.”

I get that it’s natural that the priest does it, but I want to know if the congregation ever do it themselves and if there are any particular barriers to sharing their faith – any barriers that are particular to Anglo-Catholics. I’m told there are no more than in any other tradition. There are the common barriers of talking about something deeply personal, which touches on emotion. People have a fear of rejection.

This is a very stark point and I know for a fact he’s right that these are the kinds of barriers faced by Christians of all flavours. Christian speaker Michael Harvey has written and said much on this tricky topic of our reluctance to invite people to church, and it seems to cross tradition boundaries. It’s something most of us find really hard.

But is our willingness or reluctance to share our faith really nothing at all to do with our theology or tradition? I put to Fr Kyle that surely it’s the theology which creates a culture of worship and “doing church” that feeds certain behaviours, and surely that affects how likely an ordinary lay person is to share their faith, and how they go about doing it. Could it be, that whilst it’s true that people from all traditions find it hard, some congregations are naturally more inclined to have conversations about faith with friends and strangers than others?

“Yes,” he agrees. “It is possible that, because the Christian life as an Anglo-Catholic invites you to explore it – requires you to experience it – it makes the Christian life more difficult to just explain. You can’t just lay it out on a stall.” We’re back to the importance of community again and the Eucharist. It’s much more than words. I’m beginning to understand, I think. Evangelism looks very different in traditional Anglo-Catholicism because how it understands and does mission is so different from other traditions. It’s a slow burn thing. Perhaps less explicit?

We leave it there for now but my investigations into Evangelism in different church traditions is far from over. My next stop is dinner with Mother Gemma Sampson, Curate of two Anglo-Catholic churches in Hartlepool; St Aidan’s and St Columba’s. I’m keen to see if she can shed any further light on this topic. I’m off to find out, and could be coming to a church near you soon.

RACHAEL INVESTIGATES: ANGLO-CATHOLIC EVANGELISM PART 1 OF 2

THERE’S STILL LOADS I DON’T KNOW ABOUT WHY WE DO WHAT WE DO, AND I KNOW FOR A FACT THERE ARE OTHER CONFUSED PEOPLE LIKE ME OUT THERE.

“RACHAEL INVESTIGATES” IS A MINI-SERIES I’M WRITING ABOUT ALL KINDS OF FAITH TOPICS, AND THOSE SPECIFICALLY ON EVANGELISM WILL ALSO BE SHARED HERE

I’M ON A MISSION TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT HOW DIFFERENT TRADITIONS DO CHURCH.

This one is about how Anglo-Catholics approach evangelism, so I’m catching up with father Kyle McNeil, the priest of St Andrew’s Blackhall and St Mary’s Horden, diocese of Durham. Before I can understand Anglo-Catholic evangelism, I need to understand more about the tradition itself.

Today I’ve come to St Mary’s for midweek Mass. It happens to be the Feast of St Mark, the day in the church year when we remember the Gospel writer. He was an evangelist. It feels like it’s meant to be.

As I walk in to the very beautiful and striking church on the green, I spot Fr Kyle. We greet each other in whispers. I don’t know who starts it, but we both do it. I’m not sure why, but there’s just something about the place. It seems fitting to lower our voices from their (OK, my) usual decibel.

I take my seat and my eyes wander over the statues of the Virgin Mary and the beautiful architecture, and then something really gets my attention. Fr Kyle comes out of the vestry to begin the service, wearing a very smart, white lace garment called an alb. It’s like a surplice but longer and with sleeves (I had to look up the word, so for those of you for whom these religious words are also a mystery, it’s a “white linen vestment of ankle length, worn over a cassock”). He’s also wearing a square black hat with bobbles on called a biretta. These things are very eye catching, and to someone unused to seeing them, they also seem strange. But a far better word for strange is special. He’s dressed in very special clothing, because he’s about to do something very special. He’s about to lead us in worship.

Pic from “IN DEFENSE OF LACE ALBS”

I think I get it for the first time.

A bell rings from somewhere. I’m hoping there’ll be incense too, but alas there is none. I later learn it’s because incense is used at Solemn Mass – services that include chant and hymns on Sundays and major feast days. This Wednesday, like most weekdays, was a shorter, said service (sometimes called ‘Low Mass’).

I turn to my service booklet and to my delight it’s full of helpful instructions and guidance. Even certain words have their meaning explained, like “brethren”. It’s hands down the most informative service booklet I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot.

As we go through the service I don’t catch everything the priest says. It seems some prayers and words are private in some way. I don’t get to join in. At other times, he’s saying stuff perfectly audibly but not according to the words in the service booklet. He’s saying extra stuff from the Missal – another book that only he has sight of. I’m not used to this. Usually the churches I worship in have pretty much everything typed out in the booklet or on a screen, or they’re fully public messages for everyone. He’s also really, really far away at times, and I’m sitting near the front.

This perturbs me a bit. Like a super energetic toddler, I just want to be involved in everything. I want to hear and see and smell and experience every bit of worship. I love the mystery of Anglo-Catholic worship because it’s a sensory delight, but it seems today it’s more mystifying than mystery. What’s he saying? Who are all those saints he’s listing? What’s he doing now? He’s so far away up there at the altar. Over lunch (a great steak pie and veg that Fr Kyle throws together back at his vicarage), he explains to me why it’s OK that I’m not involved in everything.

“The Catholic understanding of the Mass is the re-presentation [he pronounces it like this because he means the presenting again, rather than the usual way we say representation, though in a sense both words work. I love it that Fr Kyle is a self-confessed pedant like me] of Christ’s sacrifice from Last Supper to Resurrection. There were parts of Christ’s last days when he was alone, doing things privately, praying intimately to his Father. And some of it was fully public, as he hung upon the cross. The priest is standing in his place. As a priest, some of what I do is personal, intimate, and some is public for the whole congregation to see”.

It makes perfect sense to me now. My inner child who wants to have sticky fingers in every pie whilst having a good nosy round at everything that’s going on, is placated. I’m reminded of the words “Great is the mystery of faith.” Indeed it is. And I like that.

Back in the church we’re getting to the bit in the service where the priest delivers a homily (talk). It’s all about evangelism, of course, because not only is it the Feast of St Mark the Evangelist, but he’s got a visiting evangelist who’s come along especially to discuss evangelising. It’s evangelism-tastic. He encourages us, the congregation to share our faith in simple ways with our friends and neighbours and reminds us of the perils those first evangelists faced and lengths to which they went to share the Word. It’s really uplifting and, I admit, unexpected. I wonder what it would look like in practice as I stare at the backs of the heads of the other worshippers.

Photo by Sacred Destinations at flickr.com

The service is over and I’m treated to wonderful hospitality in their church hall. I can see that the social side of church life is very important to these people. Friendship groups bond over tea and biscuits and Fr Kyle does the rounds, visiting different tables and catching up with his flock.

After enough shortbread, we go for a walk around the parish boundaries so that I can get a feel for the context in which this Anglo-Catholic priest ministers (ex-mining coastal village, high unemployment, lots of empty houses, pretty tough for everyone) and then we go back to his for the aforementioned lunch and a long chat.

I comment on the service booklet and how good it is. He says it’s partly about hospitality; something very important in his tradition. It explains things well enough for people to be comfortable with the mysterious environment that is Anglo-Catholic worship. “But,” I note, “it doesn’t have everything in it does it?”

“No,” he says.

“That’s so you can look up from the words and let the experience wash over you. You’re not tied to the script. Often in C of E service booklets every word of liturgy is typed out. But this is often deliberately not done in churches of the Catholic tradition. If you’re tied to the book you’re being short-changed. There’s things to see and experience. Today the church vestments were red as we remembered St Mark. Tomorrow night it’ll all be gold for our dedication festival. There’s a lot to take in: you miss that if every word is typed out. If there are words said that aren’t typed out, it encourages people to listen to the words in a different way.”

Again, this makes perfect sense to me. I can’t hear everything he says as some of it is intentionally private, and I can’t follow some bits that I can hear so that I can concentrate better with my head and eyes up. I am not a slave to the words of the service book.

This leads him onto his second point about hospitality; community.

“Not being able to follow everything creates spaces for people to experience the mystery. But it can make a newcomer confused, and this is where it’s important to show people what to do, explain where they are in the order of service. Placing the mystery in the context of community. Getting that balance is very important.”

“That sounds good.” I say. “Does it actually happen?” Fr Kyle hasn’t been in post long so perhaps it’s an unfair question. He diplomatically answers that, as with all things, it’s a work in progress. “It’s aspirational.” He says.

I think it’s a brilliant sentiment though; experienced members encouraging and guiding those less experienced. Sounds to me like sharing one’s faith. Which brings me back to why I’m here. Evangelism…

Winning at Aqua-Natal

Pregnancy is a new world to me and, due to previously mentioned fertility problems[1], it’s a world I never imagined I’d have the fortune of inhabiting. So that’s my first excuse for why I suck at aqua-natal. Secondly, it’s the realisation (come on let’s be honest here) that I’m just not like most women. And I’m fine with that. It just needs saying.

I was reminded of this the exact moment I rounded the corner at our local leisure centre onto the training pool, where a line of yummy mummies sat elegantly at the pool-side waiting for the session to start. I was first of all aware that my costume was different to theirs. Mine was by Speedo and in sensible shades of blue and navy (so I could be camouflaged in the water?). Theirs were colourful, pretty and frilly and all halter-necks, underwired and showing off voluptuous pregnant breasts. Mine was designed for swimming galas.

Manicured and painted nails tipped feminine limbs, attached to slim and pregnantly curvy bodies, and smiling gossiping faces beautifully adorned in makeup. Their immaculate hair was done stylishly above their heads. I was briefly confused and worried on their behalf about how much their makeup would run once we were in the water. Hmmm. As my goggles swung from my hand I noted I probably wouldn’t be needing them. I felt relieved I’d left my swimming cap in my locker. It’s not one of those classes. I sensed I was in completely unfamiliar territory.

My walk from the end of the pool to where they were all sitting seemed agonisingly long and I became aware of every muscle in my body for some reason as I walked sheepishly past them to take a seat. Be graceful, Rach. Try.

When the instructor (or class leader or midwife or whatever you want to call her) told us the session was beginning, I successfully resisted a strong urge to jump into the pool. Instead I watched the other mums-to-be carefully descending the pool steps. I never use pool steps, I dive. And I was only half paying attention, so I got it wrong. I descended them facing into the pool rather than facing the steps so I couldn’t possibly achieve gracefulness. Plop. Water everywhere. Some may even have touched some of the other women. Bloody hell.

We arranged ourselves in a circle and the exercises began. I pumped my arms and legs enthusiastically, enjoying the feeling of being pregnant in water for the first time. A really funny feeling. My hair was drenched in moments, of course. My eyes stung. I wished I hadn’t self-consciously left my goggles by the pool-side.

The women chatted. They all seemed to know each other. I looked for a face I might know, a girl I perhaps went to school with. It’s not a big town. But alas, all strangers. So instead of trying to catch the eye of a friendly face I concentrated on the exercises. I listened out for the instructor so I could quickly change direction when she shouted “change”. More splashing.

After our warm up we had to pick a float and we began doing various gentle exercises over lengths of the pool in shuttles. After the third length, I realised to my horror that I was winning aqua-natal.

Far, far too late I realised that I was arriving back at the side much quicker than everyone else, sometimes an entire length ahead, even beating the instructor. I looked over my shoulder and saw a tableau of pretty colour and dry heads paddling serenely towards me as I stood there, hair dripping, patiently waiting.

It’s not that I thought it was a race… as such. It’s just that it’s hard to swim really, really slowly. Besides, I’d assumed this class was for fitness so I had to push myself, right? Well yes, if you want to look like a competitive tw*t.

What on earth did the seasoned aqua-natal mummies think of the new arrival in her needlessly streamlined swimsuit? I could just tell they didn’t like me. I’d read the situation completely wrong. And I was going to pay for it. The instructor told us to get into pairs and obviously no-one wanted to go with Rebecca Adlington over here. I had to pair up with the instructor. The shame.

Eventually my excruciating ordeal came to an end as the clock struck seven and we got out of the pool. I at least remembered to use the steps the right way round, rather than heaving myself out of the pool via the side. Every face was still immaculate and every hair in place. I marvelled at their self-restraint and care as my own hair dripped into stinging eyes. So as to avoid not being included in post-aqua-natal small talk (if that’s even a thing) I headed straight for the changing rooms alone.

I did not win at aqua-natal. I suck at aqua-natal. Next week I’ll try harder. Next week I might wear a bikini and mascara which may help me bond with other expectant mums. Or maybe I’ll just do an hour of lane swimming before the class starts so I’m suitably knackered in time for our gentle and dignified floaty activity. We’ll see. I know one thing for sure; I won’t be bringing my goggles.

[1] A proper update on how we got from there to here via IVF is coming soon.

Is God There? Separation Anxiety and The Fear of an Absentee God

I’m preaching this sermon at St. Aiden’s Church in Hartlepool on 29th March at 1900, at their Maundy Sunday service led by my dear friend Revd Gemma Sampson. It’s based on this Bible passage from John 13. 1-17 and 31-35

 

 

I’ve no idea what it’s like to be a child and know God loves me. Or what it’s like to be a Christian teenager. I have no idea what it’s like growing up in a Christian household or saying grace at mealtimes because that’s just what Christian families do. I have no concept of what a steady, deep, wind-swept lifetime of worship and faith is like.

Some of you here will. Some of you are Cradle-Christians.

Others will be like me. You’ll have gone from not knowing God in your life at all, to realising God has always been there, since the very beginning of time. Like me, you’ll have discovered Jesus and you’ll have become a Christian. Some of you are Convert-Christians.

There’s another group too. People who’ve come back to faith after a time away, after walking a different path. For a time you may have felt that God wasn’t for you or you weren’t for God, or the whole thing was a sham. But you came back. You’re a Come-back-Christian.

I think this group also includes Cradle- Christians and Convert-Christians who’ve ever felt, for a period, that God wasn’t obviously present in their lives, that God wasn’t there.

Perhaps this group may really get what scares me. This thing that, as a newish Christian convert who came to faith later in life and didn’t grow up with it, I really, really worry about.

And that thing is separation from God.

It’s not the same as “not- knowing- God- and- then- knowing- God.” I spent 27 years not believing that Got existed and I didn’t feel like I was missing out. God’s absence from my life felt OK because I had absolutely no concept of how much Jesus loved me. To me that’s not painful separation from God. It’s having blinkers on.

But to know it, and then to be separated from it? That’s desperate. It’s the thing that scares me most. Ever feeling God’s presence slip away from me.

When I first became a Christian I was so worried I’d wake up one day and would no longer believe. I was so worried that my faith was shallow and fragile and could be easily unpicked. I was so worried that my belief, even though it felt firm, might float away, and it might turn out I just got a bit swept up in something.

But I now know that my love for Jesus isn’t some temporary madness, some passing phase or fling. I now know my love for God is deep and strong. I know in turn what it is to be loved by God. I know, even though at times I find it hard to comprehend, that Jesus knowingly and willingly went to his death for my sake. Broken and misshapen as I am, dirty as a disciple’s foot before it’s washed, he died for me all the same.

So it is all the more terrifying when I think of what those first disciples went through. What must they have felt when Jesus told them he was leaving? What must they have thought when the guards took him away? What depths of desolation and fear and darkness does a person feel when their Lord and Saviour dies on a cross and is placed, cold and lifeless, in a tomb? Gone. Silent. Absent.

It’s why I find this part of Easter so hard and why I feel so moved reading the passage we heard tonight. The scene the Gospel writer paints is littered with phrases pointing to Jesus’ absence, which I find heart-breaking.

For me, the most poignant and uncomfortable thing is what he says to Peter.

“Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.”

Because this one’s about choice. Peter is told his actions matter, and he either lets Jesus wash his feet, because of what it symbolises, or he risks being separate from Jesus. Peter needs to understand this. Jesus is teaching him and all of them something very important.

“So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.  For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you.”

He goes on:

“I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

How we live matters. When we love one another with acts of service, which is what foot washing represents, we are with Jesus and Jesus is with us.

This is how, even on Maundy Thursday as we see this church visibly transformed, stripped bare as a reminder of Jesus leaving, of God made flesh dying a human death, this is how we know we can still always share with Jesus, be with God.

We reflect Jesus’ love for us and how he lives in us by how we love one another. Loving one another… really, truly, loving one another. Even in the darkness of this night, that’s how we know Jesus lives in us.

By our love for one another, everyone will know that we are His disciples.

∞ 

I’d like to now leave some space for prayer, particularly for anyone currently having a bit of a crisis of faith and who feels God’s voice is very, very quiet in their lives…

Come Lord Jesus.

For anyone, even a cradle-Christian, who has yet to fully experience a Jesus-filled life in all its fullness…

Come Lord Jesus.

And to anyone who has yet to feel God’s absence, because you haven’t yet felt God’s presence…

Come Lord Jesus.

For anyone else who wants more…

Come Lord Jesus.

Lord Jesus show yourself to us, be obvious in our lives. Help us to see. Draw us in. Tell us you’re near. Be alive in us this day. When we fear you’ve gone out of our lives, remind us of your promise that you’ll never ever leave us. Be in the water our feet are washed in. Be in the hands of those doing the washing. Be in the peace. Be in the tears. Be in the waiting. Lord Jesus Help us to be open to you. Show us how to share in you so that you live in us. Break down any barriers we have so we can allow ourselves to be loved by you and to love one another. Christ live in us, always. Amen.

Epiphany Sermon: Wise Men and Jigsaws

A short sermon based on Matthew 2. 1-12

“When they saw that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy. On entering the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother; and they knelt down and paid him homage.”

Astonishing. I find every detail of this story astonishing. These men, probably astronomers, or scientists as some researchers have deduced, these non-Jews, believe they’ve been given a message. These men have seen a sign about the birth of such a special person… that they need to go to him.

So they set off from their homeland on foot or on camels and they travel a very, very long way over field and fountain, (moor and mountain) following this rising star they’ve seen.

How long was that journey? Several months? Possibly longer? Jesus may have been as old as 2 when they finally got there. (So yes I’m afraid, the traditional nativity scene of the wise men standing beside the shepherds in the stable is fake news).

What drove them on all that time? What made them leave their home country to visit a foreign baby? And what did they find when they got there? I wonder what they thought when they saw that toddler. His ordinary parents. Their ordinary house.

Well, here’s something else extraordinary: These travellers, weary and dusty from their epic journey finally arrive at Mary and Joseph’s house, and what do they do? They get down on their knees! They’ve arrived at the home of the King of the Jews, and humble as he looks, they recognise who he is. They know they were right about that star. They get down on their knees and they pay him homage.

They then offer the little boy expensive gifts that they’ve riskily been carrying all this way. And then they depart. They return to their own country.

What an amazing story.

It seems like quite a leap of faith, to follow a star all that way. But something drove them on. They had a piece of the puzzle and had the faith that the bigger picture existed, even if they couldn’t see it, even if they’d never see it. They just had to go and find out. So they got up and went.

Just like Mary. She had to take a leap of faith after her piece of the puzzle was revealed. She was visited in person by an angel and told the baby she was going to give birth to will be “great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.”

Not something you hear every day! Yet she replied, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” She was given a piece of the puzzle. Yes a more detailed and perhaps larger piece but still not the whole picture. It was enough for her to go on.

And Joseph. He had a piece of the puzzle too. An angel came to him in a dream and told him “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” That’s a bit of a weird and vague and frankly extreme claim. And again, not the full picture. Joseph took what faith he had, what piece of the puzzle he had and waited faithfully to meet his future son cum Messiah.

Then there’s the shepherds. They were absolutely terrified when their bit of the puzzle was given to them. An angel visited them in person and said “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people:  to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.” They went.

All of these people, humble shepherds, a carpenter and his fiancé, the foreign astronomers… something significant was revealed to all of them. King of the Jews, Saviour, Messiah, Jesus who will save people from their sins, Son of the most High, he will reign forever and his kingdom will have no end. Each was told something different about the little boy and together they build a much clearer picture of who this special child would be. I wonder if they swapped stories. I wonder if they conferred. They’d have got a better understanding if they had.

Each of their experiences was different. And strange or frightening, overwhelming or obscure as these messages were, they were the right messages for each of these people. Joseph wasn’t told to follow a star. He probably knew very little about starts. The scientists weren’t visited by an angel from heaven. They mightn’t have believed their eyes. Their pieces of the puzzle were as incomplete and they were right for them.

I wonder if it’s like that for us too. How did, or how might we come to know who Jesus is? None of us can see and figure out the big picture. The enormity of who he is and what he’s done for us. But some of us know a bit, and that bit’s right and unique to us.

Some of us might not even know we have a tiny jigsaw piece in our hand. Some of us might have been carrying a piece of the puzzle for years but have no idea where to put it, or what to do next. But whatever we hold, it’s the right piece for us. It fits. And one day, if we choose, we can add it to the rest and reveal someone beyond our imagining.

But it’s completely up to us. God doesn’t play with us like puppets on strings. We are free to choose to know God or not. To set off, like the wise men, with our piece of the puzzle and to seek out the bigger picture. Or not. We can choose to put our faith in the God we don’t fully understand, and we can spend our lives being enriched and blessed by what we learn as the pieces are revealed to us. Or not.

Our epiphany moment probably won’t be an angel or a star or a dream. It might be years of faithfully collecting puzzle pieces that are revealed to us at difficult or confusing or joyful times of our life, until one day we can just about make out the border.

Fortunately, although the full and perfect picture of God in Jesus might not be revealed to any one of us, it is revealed to every one of us. We each have a piece, we each know a bit, we each see and understand an aspect or a viewpoint or a characteristic or some truth, and together, the people of God make up this picture. Because Christ exists in all of us. Jesus said “abide in me as I abide in you”. Jesus is in us and we are in Jesus.

Whether we’re a humble artisan, a young woman, a farmer, a scientist, a foreigner, a person who’s never stepped foot into a church until tonight, we were each born with a piece of the puzzle that will be revealed to us when we’re ready. God abides in each of us:

“For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” (Psalm 139.13-14)

Now it’s up to us to decide what to do with our insight, our faith, our puzzling questions. Will we go and find out more about this Jesus, whose star shines so brightly?

What They Did Next

Occasionally I publish sermons I’ve preached. Usually they’re about generosity as that’s what I do for a living (The Generous Giving Project).

Here’s one such sermon I preached at St Gabriel’s, Bishopwearmouth, Sunderland back in March 2017

It’s based on these two passages: John 4:5-42 and also Luke 19: 1-10

“The woman at the well” from John’s Gospel is that dodgy story with the serious blurring of social boundaries, misunderstandings and depending on your interpretation, a strong hint of a dubious past. A juicy bit of gossip straight out of (Middle) East Enders. A story of loose morals and forgiveness. Isn’t it?

Personally, I’m not so sure – after all it the passage doesn’t mention sin anywhere. I wonder whether we might get side-tracked when we see this as a story about a sinful woman. So that’s not what I want to talk about today. What I am going to talk about is what happened when this woman met Jesus; what she did next.

The story starts:

So he came to a town in Samaria called Sychar, near the plot of ground Jacob had given to his son Joseph. Jacob’s well was there, and Jesus, tired as he was from the journey, sat down by the well. It was about noon.

When a Samaritan woman came to draw water, Jesus said to her, “Will you give me a drink?” (His disciples had gone into the town to buy food.)

Women and men in this culture didn’t usually mix. They kept a safe social distance from each other. So the woman is probably a bit shocked when Jesus addresses her directly. And what he says is even weirder. He asks her for a drink.

She can’t believe it. She says something like:

“Well this is odd, a Jew asking a Samaritan for a drink!”

Jews and Samaritans didn’t associate. When the woman at the well asks Jesus what on earth he’s on about, why He, a Jew, is asking her the Samaritan for a drink, Jesus answers,

“If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that asks you for a drink, you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.”

“Living water” was a local expression for running water. So she thinks he’s on about a stream or river, and wonders how on earth he can provide this water when she knows fine well there’s no running water nearby. If there was, why would her ancestors have built this well? Was this man trying to be funny with her? Thinking he knows better than the locals?

But when Jesus talks of “living water”, he’s talking about himself. Living Water. Jesus Christ. The only one who can satisfy every need and be the source of all life. And over the course of their conversation, this truth dawns on her. She believes. She identifies Him. He is the Messiah.

Unlike the religious leader Nicodemus who met Jesus in the previous chapter, who just couldn’t get his head around who or what Jesus was, this Samaritan woman clearly gets it. She sees and accepts Him for who He is, just as He’s seen and accepted her. In fact it seems as if He’s always known her. And importantly she understands what he offers.

Armed with this knowledge she dashes off to play a unique role in Jesus’ ministry. She’s one of first characters in John’s gospel to seek out others to tell them about Jesus. She’s the first evangelist to the gentiles.

Her gender, her past (whatever it was) and the fact she’s not Jewish have no bearing whatsoever on her ability to see, receive and then act. In this story Jesus shares this living water, the truth and the life, with people whom Jews considered detested enemies and outsiders.

So I think this story makes it clear that since Jesus, the people of God is to consist of all of us, whoever we are. Jesus died for the sins of the world so that we can all be included in His Father’s generous love. And, no matter how late it is, or who we are, it’s never too late to receive this living water, if we acknowledge Jesus for who He is. It’s our opportunity to have a fresh start and change our lives.

So this is a sermon (I said I’d eventually get to the point) about the transforming nature of discovering who Jesus is and what we do with that knowledge. As soon as the woman at the well realised who Jesus was, she sprang into action. She literally left her water container at the well and dashed off to tell others, so they could share in Him. So here’s the question for us today: if we know what Jesus has freely and generously given us, how do we respond? What do we do next?

To assist us with that question, let’s meet Zacchaeus the tax collector. He’s the wealthy Jew from Luke’s Gospel who collected taxes for the Roman oppressors. He’s that traitor who got rich by extortion and embezzlement. By taking advantage of the elderly, and exploiting the working poor. Not a nice man. He’s the bloke who, when Jesus saw him, he called him down from the tree that he’d climbed, and said to him “invite me to stay at your house”.

Painting by Joel Whitehead

And after Jesus spent some time at this shady character’s home, Zacchaeus declared:

“Look, Lord! Here and now I give half of my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount.”

When Zacchaeus recognised Jesus, when he accepted him at the Messiah, he felt absolutely inspired, driven, compelled even, to completely turn his life around. His discovery led him to extraordinary generosity. He gave away his possessions.

We’ll never know what Jesus said to Zacchaeus in that house, but we do know what he said to the woman at the well about being the living water that will sustain forever, that will prevent us from ever thirsting again. And we do know that with this knowledge she ran to tell anyone who would listen. Maybe he said something similar to Zacchaeus. We’ll never know.

So what can we learn from these two people who met Jesus? I’ve learned that when I said yes to Jesus Christ, my life changed. And it doesn’t matter if your story of discovery is nothing like mine or theirs. Because even if we’ve grown up knowing Jesus we can still have light bulb discovery moments and choose to make a greater commitment. This can happen at any time. Maybe we haven’t yet had that discovery moment, and we’re still faithfully waiting for the day we’ll know in our hearts that Jesus Christ is our living water. Wherever we think we are with faith, the offer is always there. God won’t go away.  Every day the choice is ours to invite Jesus into our lives and to see what happens.

And when this happens, when we start to comprehend and accept that he gave everything for us, and he sustains our every need like pure, cool, life-giving water… when we properly get it that God loves us and gives us more than we could ever ask, and that God will keep on meeting us when we are still far off and will bring us home…. when we accept this level of generosity I firmly believe our hearts and our behaviours are transformed.

I just don’t think we can stay the same, once we discover Jesus for ourselves.

And when we discover (or rediscover) who Jesus really is, like the woman at the well, or like Zacchaeus, what will transformation look like? What will be noticeably different about us? What is God calling us to do? What is the Holy Spirit nudging us to share? How will we give of ourselves once we know Jesus Christ is the living water?

Will we be like sturdy reservoirs, collecting and storing this living water? Or will we do what these people did, and share this discovery with others? Will we let God’s love and light and generosity pour into and then out of us to other people? Will our faces shine with the light of this discovery? Will we go out and share this news with our neighbours like the Samaritan woman? Do we feel prompted to be like Zacchaeus by doing generous acts? By giving up some of our stuff? By generously giving away our money and possessions to those less fortunate?

How will our personal discovery that Jesus is the Messiah transform our lives? What will we do next?

 

 

 

Not Good Enough: When Enthusiasm Alone Won’t Do

Written in August. Mulled over ever since.

“Is now a good time to talk?”

“Well, I’m on a bus, and it’s very noisy, but I can hear you alright if you can hear me.” I was very excited to be getting this call. We’d been waiting ages.

The sounds of my team mates’ laughter and chatter filled the top deck of the city tour bus. We’re a rowdy bunch.

“It might be best to call me when you’re free. It’ll be a longer conversation.”

“Not a problem, I’ll call you when the tour is over. Speak soon.”

I thought nothing of it at all. A longer conversation? It didn’t register. I was so thrilled to hear from the clinic that I’d have happily taken the call on the tour bus as we zigzagged the city, peering out at the murals on the walls and the flags that seemed to adorn every lamp post. The clinic was ringing to tell us when we could start treatment. I quickly called my husband to ask if he’d contact the clinic instead, but there was no answer.

So at the next opportunity, as half the group alighted near our apartment block, I rang the IVF clinic back.

And that’s when she told me. “I’m sorry Rachael, but your eggs aren’t good enough.”

I didn’t understand. There was nothing wrong with me, our infertility was to do with antibodies on my husband’s sperm, and this was easily fixable with ICSI treatment. She was saying my blood test results showed too high quantities of something, and the acceptable level was 10 and mine was 12.9, and that meant my eggs weren’t good enough. She started telling me about how even if it worked, which was unlikely, she said, there’s a much greater risk of miscarriage.

I didn’t understand.

Whilst she was saying more things to me on the phone, my brain was reacting too slowly to keep up so I was stuck on my blood test result showing levels of something or other that were too high. So I was expecting we’d begin talking about some drug I could take to get them lower. Like when patients have their blood pressure taken but they’re nervous, so they get a high reading. They can just go back and try again another day. I thought the conversation would go that way.

I didn’t understand.

She was saying that although I produced a lot of eggs, they weren’t of a good enough quality. So, she was sorry but they weren’t going to be working with us as patients. She kept saying sorry, and so eventually it clicked that this was her telling me that we would not be going through with the treatment. We would not be going through IVF with this clinic. My eggs aren’t good enough.

Then, whilst these words rung in my head, she was saying something about donor eggs, and other possibilities, but also about risks and disappointments and cost and other things. I don’t know. Donor eggs? What did she mean? For a split second I thought she was referring to the scheme where you can donate your eggs to other women who can’t have children, thus reducing the overall cost of your own treatment. Some clinics offer this. It was something we’d considered early on in our treatment journey. But then that flash of a thought disappeared, when it became clear she meant we could use donor eggs. Because mine aren’t good enough.

It was too much. I’d slowed down and was now a dozen paces behind the group. I stopped by a low wall and leaned against it. She said sorry again and that I could call her back later in the week when it had sunk in. In a very small voice I told her I would. I hung up. And then I got a bit hysterical.

In a total daze I managed to calm my breathing and start walking again. One foot in front of the other. The group were now far ahead. One of my friends hung back to see why I was dawdling.

I cried and cried and in a crumpled mess she hugged me and listened. I told her what the clinic told me: that whilst I produce a lot of eggs, they’re not of a good enough quality. This fact seemed so horribly me. So characteristic of me. Bloody good effort Rach, bags of enthusiasm, loads of eggs, but the finer details aren’t quite there. It’s very much my rugby playing style. Natural strength plus lots of energy and enthusiasm, but little finesse or grace in passing the ball. No fancy footwork or finely tuned technical ability. Just big hits and determination. But that’s not enough here. Plenty of eggs. But not good enough quality.

The walk back to our apartment may have taken ten minutes or thirty. I don’t know. I cried. I walked in silence. I told my friend all the details I could remember in great big sobs, or in silent tears. There were long pauses. We realised we’d have to walk an extra ten minutes down Lisburn road to the gym my husband was at, so we could get the key. I wasn’t going to tell him until we’d all got back to the apartment but, as I stood in front of him in the warm sweaty gym, he saw something was wrong so I told him it was the clinic, and it was bad news.

My friend left us two to talk. I heaved sobs into my husband’s chest as he held me on the busy road in the afternoon sun; coffee shops and buses and pedestrians fading into the background. We went to the park over the road, where earlier in the week we’d taken part in a very wet rugby training session. It had attracted local attention. They love rugby in Belfast. I’d been so happy and carefree, sliding in the mud.

Not so much now. Sitting on a bench I recalled as much as I could remember but there were so many details missing and unanswered questions. What exactly was the thing in my blood that was too high? I couldn’t remember. Could nothing be done about it? Was it hereditary? No, all my family have had lots of children. What was the scale? 10 was acceptable but 12.9 was too high, but how high does it go? How bad is it? What do we do now?

Nothing. There was nothing we could do. We were in Belfast at the Rugby World Cup and in a group of 20 fellow Sharks. Whilst many of my team mates are very close friends that I’ve known for over a decade, this wasn’t the kind of news we wanted to broadcast, and put a dampener on everyone else’s summer holiday. We still had 5 days to go before returning home. We’d keep quiet about it.

In a bleary mess we got back to our shared apartment where my friend, who was with me when I got the news, was waiting. I informed the two other girls we were sharing the apartment with by text, and opened a bottle of Rioja.

We didn’t discuss it again. We didn’t call the clinic back. We didn’t even call my parents. It was too painful. We put this enormous sadness away in a box and shoved it right to the back of the cupboard. This was far too much to handle, so we’d deal with it when we got home.

Well, now we’re home. So we’re going to have to deal with it.

Note to readers:

If  you’re the praying type, then please pray. I’m not ready to discuss this in person yet, because I have to function at home and at work and I can’t do that if I have to confront it. Writing is cathartic, so I’ll continue to do that, for as long as it is helpful. Your patience, prayers, friendship and understanding are greatly appreciated.

“With God, all things are possible.” Matthew 19:26