It has happened. Already.
The caustic has become run of the mill. Normal. Acceptable.
I had a hunch this would happen.
Paris.
Beirut.
And a hundred places I don't even know about.
The numbers too dense to bother noticing.
Because I no longer care.
I have become immune to the brutal deaths.
Sacrifice is not always a good thing.
A man sacrifices himself to kill others.
I sacrifice my grief and despair for a clammy mind.
I sacrifice love for indifference.
Brussels.
31 dead. At least.
I barely flinch.
Be careful now.
This means they are winning.
Wednesday, 23 March 2016
Wednesday, 23 December 2015
The Kettle
Once upon a time a rich man looking for the meaning of life decided that several experts in different professions should set up an experiment in order to observe a man for a period of time through a one way mirror. He thought this would help him find the answer.
During this period, the man, who had agreed to be observed, filled the kettle and switched it on.
"What is happening now?" said the rich man.
"He is meeting the physical needs of his body through replenishment," said the biologist.
"He is reasserting old habits so that he feels more at home," said the psychologist.
"The electricity is causing energy to be transferred to the water molecules, which means they are gaining kinetic energy and heat energy," said the physicist.
"The man is escaping the problems of his mind by ignoring the silence and distracting himself," said the philosopher.
Confused by the abundance of answers, the rich man went into the room and asked the man being observed, "What is happening now?"
"I'm making a cup of tea," said the man. "Would you like one?"
During this period, the man, who had agreed to be observed, filled the kettle and switched it on.
"What is happening now?" said the rich man.
"He is meeting the physical needs of his body through replenishment," said the biologist.
"He is reasserting old habits so that he feels more at home," said the psychologist.
"The electricity is causing energy to be transferred to the water molecules, which means they are gaining kinetic energy and heat energy," said the physicist.
"The man is escaping the problems of his mind by ignoring the silence and distracting himself," said the philosopher.
Confused by the abundance of answers, the rich man went into the room and asked the man being observed, "What is happening now?"
"I'm making a cup of tea," said the man. "Would you like one?"
Wednesday, 30 September 2015
3ww The Old Man Sleeps
They were going to sedate the pathetic old man, and they had the cheek to think themselves righteous in their cowardice.
Wednesday, 23 September 2015
3ww The Robber
His preparation had been haphazard and now his breathing laboured as he ran through the streets, breathing the noxious fumes and fleeing for his freedom.
Thursday, 10 September 2015
A journey to South Africa
It is a little while since I wrote a mildly amusing story on here. Here is one that is true (as pretty much all of my amusing stories are).
I am a youth worker. I have the wonderful yet dubious privilege of working with young people.
Two years ago I decided I would take some young people to South Africa in 2015. It has the highest murder rate in the world, so I thought there was a good chance of having at least one less annoying young person to bring back. Turns out I am too good at making sure people stay safe, and everyone is back in the UK safe and sound.
Nine young people decided to go on the trip. We had an amazing time full of learning and transformation. It was also full of stories.
The first of which was the journey there.
Apparently unfortunate events happen in threes. What superstitious nonsense! Well, in this case, maybe not.
It began with me forgetting my passport. Not clever as one of two 'responsible' adults taking the group. But, having left plenty of time before check in I was able to have my passport delivered (thanks go to my Uncle) well before we could even send our bags on. One problem created and one problem solved. So far only mild stress caused by my own absent mindedness.
Next was the second problem.
To take young people to South Africa who are not your children you have to have a signed birth certificate, signed copies of parental passports and an affidavit confirming you have permission to take them. This all has to be countersigned by a solicitor to verify the authenticity of what you are taking. Basically, it is a massive amount of paper work. But it is to help stop human trafficking, so I am morally obliged to say it is necessary. I spent an awful lot of time making sure we had everything done correctly. I even asked a solicitor from my church to sign most of the documents to make sure I knew it was correct. At the moment he doesn't work for a solicitors office, but he is still able to offer this kind of service under UK law. It turns out British Airways are unaware of this.
When we got to the check in desk there were cries of 'Jonny! Jonny!' within seconds of each young person going to check in. They had been told, flatly and outright, 'You are not going to South Africa today.' Obviously the check in staff were mistaken. They seemed to think that without a stamp the affidavits were worthless. How wrong they were! It took about half an hour of refusing to move before we finally established that the solicitor I had consulted was, unsurprisingly considering his profession, correct about the law. So, having had young people crying about this, we had met another problem and solved it.
'These things come in threes!' said the young people.
I scoffed at the idea.
Then the third thing happened.
This is a story all on its own, a little gem of embarrassment and misfortune to worry about next time you get on a plane.
As we boarded the plane and got to our seats (a very comfortable Airbus 380 I think) there was a woman complaining to the air stewards that they had directed her down the wrong aisle to her seat.
When she did find her seat it was next to the window, about two rows forwards, three seats and one aisle across from me on the right. Sitting next to her were two of the young people. Oh, those poor young people! That woman would not stop talking. The flight was a night flight, and the young people would shut their eyes, and this woman would tap them on the shoulder to wake them up to tell them about her two step fathers, or how she was actually whiter than they are (although she was a black Ugandan woman), or how she needed to go to the toilet so please excuse me.
The flight was scheduled to be ten and a half hours long.
That pity you feel? I felt it for those young people. Being kind and responsible adults (I was prompted by the kinder and more responsible adult with me) we decided to swap with the young people so that they could actually attempt to rest without interruption.
They gladly accepted the swap.
I sat in the middle seat, next to the woman, and my colleague sat next to me, in the aisle seat.
As I sat I noticed a stench in the air, the unmistakeable smell of alcohol reached my nose.
That explains a lot I thought to myself.
The woman started talking to me. It was then I made my mistake. A glaring and hideous error.
I tried to be a nice person.
I tried to live up to Christ's call to love one another and I responded and spoke with this woman. I learnt her name is Kimoli, that her Aunt died in a plane crash (good enough reason to get hopelessly drunk on a plane, maybe). I learnt that she liked to say 'What the f***?' repeatedly and that her home was in Uganda. So far, not too terrible, except for the swearing. "Why was this a mistake?" I hear you ask, "she's only talking.".
She offered to satisfy my addictions.
She offered me marijuana, alcohol, anything I could want, if I would visit her in Uganda. Oh. Great.
Being in the drunk state that she was I figured she was malleable (not malleable enough to stop swearing when I asked her to later) so I suggested she should sleep.
She kindly listened, and slept. With her head resting on my shoulder.
I swallowed, took a deep breath, and tried to shrug her off. Unsuccessfully. I move into present tense because to think about it is to relive it.
Another deep breath. Acceptance of the way it is going to be. A sacrifice worth making for relative silence.
She strokes my shoulder.
Shock and horror run across my face, as the watching young people giggle at my predicament.
She strokes my shoulder again. And again, her hand is resting there now.
I ask my colleague if she would mind moving to the one spare seat we have seen on the plane. She goes and asks the stewards and they allow her to move. I move up one so there is a whole chair between Kimoli and I. What blessed relief! I turn on the screen and try to watch Kingsman. The headphones don't work. Fine. I will just sit and ponder life.
Oh look, Kimoli is leaning over across both chairs. Oh look, Kimoli is resting her head... against my leg!
Utter terror sweeps across my face, beyond uncomfortable and beyond speech. No words can describe my feelings during what happened next.
Her head still resting against my leg whilst I am frozen in shock, her hand moves in an uncannily sober way towards her head, beyond her head, and to my leg.
<gulp>
Then she starts stroking.
My eyes open wider than ever before and I decide I must move. I must get away from these sleepy and creepy advances. I retreat to the back of the plane, and relax.
I move back into past tense as it becomes memory again rather than reliving.
I enjoyed my time at the back of the plane, in the seat the air stewards have for take off and landing. It was a little cold, and right next to the toilet, but I went seven times during that flight (stress makes me go) and I had a little curtain to hide behind. I relaxed and managed to enjoy breakfast sitting in that seat which was free of anyone stroking me on shoulders or legs!
Twenty minutes before landing the air steward asked me to return to my seat for landing. At least she apologised, having had to deal with Kimoli herself during this flight.
Returning to that seat was like being forced to pick up a burning coal for a second time, when the first time you did it was just an accident!
Still, Kimoli was very happy to see me. She made me take her number, she ignored my pleas for clean language and then she asked me if I liked white chicks. She had seen some of the girls in our group and had realised they were with me. She even asked me if one of them was my girlfriend. I pointed out that they were too young for this to be the case and that this was an inappropriate thing to talk about.
The plane landed. I retreated, rapidly, to where I had stowed my bag overhead. Then she called, across the plane in a loud voice with a drunken Ugandan accent,
'Jonathaan! Are you a peemp? Jonathaan!! Are you a peemp!?!?'
Thanks Kimoli. For the next three weeks that was the catchphrase of the young people.
"Jonathaan! Are you a peemp? Ha ha ha!"
Then she followed us through the airport, somehow despite her drunkenness keeping up with our speed walking, our escalator dodging and our asking her to leave us alone. Finally, we reached security, and we asked them to save us. Save us they did. Then the three weeks of real adventure began.
I am a youth worker. I have the wonderful yet dubious privilege of working with young people.
Two years ago I decided I would take some young people to South Africa in 2015. It has the highest murder rate in the world, so I thought there was a good chance of having at least one less annoying young person to bring back. Turns out I am too good at making sure people stay safe, and everyone is back in the UK safe and sound.
Nine young people decided to go on the trip. We had an amazing time full of learning and transformation. It was also full of stories.
The first of which was the journey there.
Apparently unfortunate events happen in threes. What superstitious nonsense! Well, in this case, maybe not.
It began with me forgetting my passport. Not clever as one of two 'responsible' adults taking the group. But, having left plenty of time before check in I was able to have my passport delivered (thanks go to my Uncle) well before we could even send our bags on. One problem created and one problem solved. So far only mild stress caused by my own absent mindedness.
Next was the second problem.
To take young people to South Africa who are not your children you have to have a signed birth certificate, signed copies of parental passports and an affidavit confirming you have permission to take them. This all has to be countersigned by a solicitor to verify the authenticity of what you are taking. Basically, it is a massive amount of paper work. But it is to help stop human trafficking, so I am morally obliged to say it is necessary. I spent an awful lot of time making sure we had everything done correctly. I even asked a solicitor from my church to sign most of the documents to make sure I knew it was correct. At the moment he doesn't work for a solicitors office, but he is still able to offer this kind of service under UK law. It turns out British Airways are unaware of this.
When we got to the check in desk there were cries of 'Jonny! Jonny!' within seconds of each young person going to check in. They had been told, flatly and outright, 'You are not going to South Africa today.' Obviously the check in staff were mistaken. They seemed to think that without a stamp the affidavits were worthless. How wrong they were! It took about half an hour of refusing to move before we finally established that the solicitor I had consulted was, unsurprisingly considering his profession, correct about the law. So, having had young people crying about this, we had met another problem and solved it.
'These things come in threes!' said the young people.
I scoffed at the idea.
Then the third thing happened.
This is a story all on its own, a little gem of embarrassment and misfortune to worry about next time you get on a plane.
As we boarded the plane and got to our seats (a very comfortable Airbus 380 I think) there was a woman complaining to the air stewards that they had directed her down the wrong aisle to her seat.
When she did find her seat it was next to the window, about two rows forwards, three seats and one aisle across from me on the right. Sitting next to her were two of the young people. Oh, those poor young people! That woman would not stop talking. The flight was a night flight, and the young people would shut their eyes, and this woman would tap them on the shoulder to wake them up to tell them about her two step fathers, or how she was actually whiter than they are (although she was a black Ugandan woman), or how she needed to go to the toilet so please excuse me.
The flight was scheduled to be ten and a half hours long.
That pity you feel? I felt it for those young people. Being kind and responsible adults (I was prompted by the kinder and more responsible adult with me) we decided to swap with the young people so that they could actually attempt to rest without interruption.
They gladly accepted the swap.
I sat in the middle seat, next to the woman, and my colleague sat next to me, in the aisle seat.
As I sat I noticed a stench in the air, the unmistakeable smell of alcohol reached my nose.
That explains a lot I thought to myself.
The woman started talking to me. It was then I made my mistake. A glaring and hideous error.
I tried to be a nice person.
I tried to live up to Christ's call to love one another and I responded and spoke with this woman. I learnt her name is Kimoli, that her Aunt died in a plane crash (good enough reason to get hopelessly drunk on a plane, maybe). I learnt that she liked to say 'What the f***?' repeatedly and that her home was in Uganda. So far, not too terrible, except for the swearing. "Why was this a mistake?" I hear you ask, "she's only talking.".
She offered to satisfy my addictions.
She offered me marijuana, alcohol, anything I could want, if I would visit her in Uganda. Oh. Great.
Being in the drunk state that she was I figured she was malleable (not malleable enough to stop swearing when I asked her to later) so I suggested she should sleep.
She kindly listened, and slept. With her head resting on my shoulder.
I swallowed, took a deep breath, and tried to shrug her off. Unsuccessfully. I move into present tense because to think about it is to relive it.
Another deep breath. Acceptance of the way it is going to be. A sacrifice worth making for relative silence.
She strokes my shoulder.
Shock and horror run across my face, as the watching young people giggle at my predicament.
She strokes my shoulder again. And again, her hand is resting there now.
I ask my colleague if she would mind moving to the one spare seat we have seen on the plane. She goes and asks the stewards and they allow her to move. I move up one so there is a whole chair between Kimoli and I. What blessed relief! I turn on the screen and try to watch Kingsman. The headphones don't work. Fine. I will just sit and ponder life.
Oh look, Kimoli is leaning over across both chairs. Oh look, Kimoli is resting her head... against my leg!
Utter terror sweeps across my face, beyond uncomfortable and beyond speech. No words can describe my feelings during what happened next.
Her head still resting against my leg whilst I am frozen in shock, her hand moves in an uncannily sober way towards her head, beyond her head, and to my leg.
<gulp>
Then she starts stroking.
My eyes open wider than ever before and I decide I must move. I must get away from these sleepy and creepy advances. I retreat to the back of the plane, and relax.
I move back into past tense as it becomes memory again rather than reliving.
I enjoyed my time at the back of the plane, in the seat the air stewards have for take off and landing. It was a little cold, and right next to the toilet, but I went seven times during that flight (stress makes me go) and I had a little curtain to hide behind. I relaxed and managed to enjoy breakfast sitting in that seat which was free of anyone stroking me on shoulders or legs!
Twenty minutes before landing the air steward asked me to return to my seat for landing. At least she apologised, having had to deal with Kimoli herself during this flight.
Returning to that seat was like being forced to pick up a burning coal for a second time, when the first time you did it was just an accident!
Still, Kimoli was very happy to see me. She made me take her number, she ignored my pleas for clean language and then she asked me if I liked white chicks. She had seen some of the girls in our group and had realised they were with me. She even asked me if one of them was my girlfriend. I pointed out that they were too young for this to be the case and that this was an inappropriate thing to talk about.
The plane landed. I retreated, rapidly, to where I had stowed my bag overhead. Then she called, across the plane in a loud voice with a drunken Ugandan accent,
'Jonathaan! Are you a peemp? Jonathaan!! Are you a peemp!?!?'
Thanks Kimoli. For the next three weeks that was the catchphrase of the young people.
"Jonathaan! Are you a peemp? Ha ha ha!"
Then she followed us through the airport, somehow despite her drunkenness keeping up with our speed walking, our escalator dodging and our asking her to leave us alone. Finally, we reached security, and we asked them to save us. Save us they did. Then the three weeks of real adventure began.
Mysterious Glimmer 3ww
He ignored the mysterious glimmer, and instead took the fatal and well trodden path of the impartial man.
Wednesday, 9 September 2015
Themba's Story
My life is full of stories.
Stories full of sadness and longing, stories of redemption and salvation, stories of forgiveness and hopelessness, healing and wonder.
Stories full of sadness and longing, stories of redemption and salvation, stories of forgiveness and hopelessness, healing and wonder.
But this story is a story of violence.
It used to happen when I was five. It makes me shudder to
think of it, let alone tell it again.
I have lived in rough areas for almost my entire life. I
have lived near bars and pubs, heard the screams and shouts of anger and hurt
at night. I have felt terror before sleep, and I have known mindless violence
for no reason.
It was when I lived a bit further out that it happened
though. One of my chores was to go and buy bread each morning. Lots of children
hate chores, but this one chore made me hate bread.
I used to step out of the house to walk to the shop, and as
I walked I would notice a trail on the ground. I remember the first time I saw
it. I was quite excited – I didn’t know it was blood. I followed it eagerly, a
dark trail of brown drips, wondering what could leave such a trail. The first
time it led to a house, and I dared not enter there. But I soon saw a similar
trail again, and once, it didn’t lead to a house. Instead, it led to a man.
Covered in blood and contorted into the strange shape that the agony of death
brings to a person, hands clutching, desperate for something his now unseeing
eyes must have hoped was there. I don’t know how many times I saw a body when I
went to get bread in the morning when I was five years old. I don’t know how
often blood spattered the way there. I know only that it wasn’t good. That it
isn’t right for children to see this. It cries out of me that it cannot be so.
I use this story of violence and sadness as a springboard. A
motivation to see my country and this world changed. A world where violence is
no longer present is, I believe, possible, and I strive for it each day. I
wonder, would you strive with me?
Based on a true story.
Thursday, 8 January 2015
What if these tears are not enough?
It's happened again!
The black cloud of terror,
on the news at ten.
This time it's artists,
Of a creative nature
Drawing pictures that make
some say 'I hate ya!'
Twelve more lost
in this futile war
where only hate wins
each day more and more.
I keep trying to love,
trying to say,
STOP! this killing,
hate cannot pay,
but I'm shouting at stones,
hitting a brick wall,
what I have to say
makes no difference at all.
So instead I cry tears,
they run down my cheek,
I cannot help thinking,
the future is bleak.
So the tears will still fall,
wetting the page,
and love shivers in me,
an inescapable cage.
I want to roar at the sun,
beat the earth to the ground,
but my feeble attempts
are ignored all round.
God's abandoned us here,
here with this stuff,
this hate and this fear,
can these tears be enough?
They're an expression of grief,
and therefore of care,
without these tears,
love isn't there,
so I will cry at this wrong,
I will cry at this hate,
for while tears fall,
it is not too late.
By this they will know you,
that you love and still love
when you are abandoned
and there's no heaven above.
It is in moments like these,
when hate seems to have won
when the tears are falling
and love is undone
that hope remembers,
that faith still lives on,
so we can keep going,
we can still cling on.
The black cloud of terror,
on the news at ten.
This time it's artists,
Of a creative nature
Drawing pictures that make
some say 'I hate ya!'
Twelve more lost
in this futile war
where only hate wins
each day more and more.
I keep trying to love,
trying to say,
STOP! this killing,
hate cannot pay,
but I'm shouting at stones,
hitting a brick wall,
what I have to say
makes no difference at all.
So instead I cry tears,
they run down my cheek,
I cannot help thinking,
the future is bleak.
So the tears will still fall,
wetting the page,
and love shivers in me,
an inescapable cage.
I want to roar at the sun,
beat the earth to the ground,
but my feeble attempts
are ignored all round.
God's abandoned us here,
here with this stuff,
this hate and this fear,
can these tears be enough?
They're an expression of grief,
and therefore of care,
without these tears,
love isn't there,
so I will cry at this wrong,
I will cry at this hate,
for while tears fall,
it is not too late.
By this they will know you,
that you love and still love
when you are abandoned
and there's no heaven above.
It is in moments like these,
when hate seems to have won
when the tears are falling
and love is undone
that hope remembers,
that faith still lives on,
so we can keep going,
we can still cling on.
Wednesday, 17 December 2014
New Year Restoration
Yesterday at least 130 Palestinians were murdered, most of them children, in the name of God. The day before three people died in Sydney, also in the name of God. On the same day threats to the lives of gay people in Russia were made, in the name of God.
I perceive God to be a God of restoration. What God made was good; he said so. What we have now shows we have wrecked it.
I think God might be fed up with his name being associated with such atrocities. Instead, I think God wants justice.
In my view justice is not about punishment, justice is about restoring. Justice is about restoring humanity both to victims and to offenders. Justice is about restoring the world to something God can look upon and call good. Justice is what Jesus is about.
So, I pray fervently that those who seek to maim and kill others in the name of their God will instead be restored. I pray fervently that they will be restored to humanity, to a place where love is the highest virtue and forgiveness the vengeance sought. I pray that justice will come through healing for survivors, for the families of those targeted and killed, and through change in the hearts of perpetrators and their guides.
I pray also that I may be restored to humanity; that I may be completely human, seeking love as the highest virtue and having willingness and ability to forgive those who wrong me.
Instead of making new year resolutions this year I am seeking new year restoration. Would anyone like to join me?
Wednesday, 3 September 2014
Love not just yet
It is of course made up on the spot, this poem, not these feelings.
These feelings that writhe in an agony of hope,
painful in their potential joy,
hazardous to the heart and risky to a relationship,
Torn in two I am,
broken by indecision and unsurety,
not knowing how and who to talk with,
screaming for help in a silent plea for love,
Crying myself to sleep for what seems an impossibility but is just possible enough not to ignore
So take your shallowness,
your fondness for being appropriate,
and shove them up your
Asked I wish I was,
but ask it seems I must.
But I can't.
Not just yet.
Did you spot this week's three word Wednesday words: bribery, clobber, sceptical ?
These feelings that writhe in an agony of hope,
painful in their potential joy,
hazardous to the heart and risky to a relationship,
Torn in two I am,
broken by indecision and unsurety,
not knowing how and who to talk with,
screaming for help in a silent plea for love,
Crying myself to sleep for what seems an impossibility but is just possible enough not to ignore
So take your shallowness,
your fondness for being appropriate,
and shove them up your
Asked I wish I was,
but ask it seems I must.
But I can't.
Not just yet.
Did you spot this week's three word Wednesday words: bribery, clobber, sceptical ?
Wednesday, 16 July 2014
Honour isn't easy 3ww
The honourable way is fraught with nocturnal terrors, creeping up in the night, doubt seeping into the soul, weeping misery in the storm, sweeping away the wonder of the stars with reckless disdain.
Wednesday, 5 February 2014
3ww 5.2.14
The rogue will ever accelerate past the passive person in this life.
There is nothing like laziness to hold a man in his place, except too much hard work.
There is nothing like laziness to hold a man in his place, except too much hard work.
Wednesday, 29 January 2014
Over and out
Oh! If only I could galvanize myself to be affable to that rangy man who shreds my nerves.
But I do not wish to be! Let me run and hide. No more of this friendliness. Enough is enough.
Over and out.
But I do not wish to be! Let me run and hide. No more of this friendliness. Enough is enough.
Over and out.
Sunday, 19 January 2014
Humanity Eliminated
It is with rage
this uncontrolled violence
diminishes humanity
love has been crushed
joy extinguished
terror seeps into the soul
Desire degrading, destroying, denying
Fermenting pain
weeping of the mind
An endless cycle
ever darkening
ever tightening
vicious grip
Despairing. Lost. Empty.
Humanity eliminated.
this uncontrolled violence
diminishes humanity
love has been crushed
joy extinguished
terror seeps into the soul
Desire degrading, destroying, denying
Fermenting pain
weeping of the mind
An endless cycle
ever darkening
ever tightening
vicious grip
Despairing. Lost. Empty.
Humanity eliminated.
Wednesday, 15 January 2014
3ww Scrawny Faith
I have been anxious and the scrawny state of my faith has made me question how devoted I am.
Wednesday, 18 December 2013
3ww It cannot be so
It is a difficult thing to do. Represent someone, I mean.
It involves a deep understanding of the person being represented, and an intricate knowledge of who they are.
To represent someone in a negotiation is to know their wants very well indeed. To represent someone always is to know their whole being very well indeed.
So I wonder about Jesus. I wonder about what he represents. He represents God to the world. He represents God's love, God's justice, the rebirth of God's kingdom.
But Jesus also represents me. He represents me when God would be sorry to look at me. He pleads for me, dies for me and bleeds for me. Once he has finished representing me God smiles upon me once more.
It is typical of the human condition (if one can make such a generalisation) that we are combative about this. We question whether this can be, we wonder at a God who would forgive all, and then we discover others wondering at a God who does not punish enough. We fight grace and our sluggish minds think not of the wonder of it, but at the lack of reason behind it all. We say to ourselves,
"This is not logical. It cannot be so!"
This would be correct in a world only of logic. But this world has other attributes too. There is beauty, elegance, art, music, love, laughter, good food, friendship, hope and humanity. My faith permits me to marvel at these things, to worry not about explanations but rather to enjoy the gossamer thread of this moment.
May I remember this each day over the coming festive period. May I have the patience with others and myself to enjoy each moment as it comes! And may you find it too.
It involves a deep understanding of the person being represented, and an intricate knowledge of who they are.
To represent someone in a negotiation is to know their wants very well indeed. To represent someone always is to know their whole being very well indeed.
So I wonder about Jesus. I wonder about what he represents. He represents God to the world. He represents God's love, God's justice, the rebirth of God's kingdom.
But Jesus also represents me. He represents me when God would be sorry to look at me. He pleads for me, dies for me and bleeds for me. Once he has finished representing me God smiles upon me once more.
It is typical of the human condition (if one can make such a generalisation) that we are combative about this. We question whether this can be, we wonder at a God who would forgive all, and then we discover others wondering at a God who does not punish enough. We fight grace and our sluggish minds think not of the wonder of it, but at the lack of reason behind it all. We say to ourselves,
"This is not logical. It cannot be so!"
This would be correct in a world only of logic. But this world has other attributes too. There is beauty, elegance, art, music, love, laughter, good food, friendship, hope and humanity. My faith permits me to marvel at these things, to worry not about explanations but rather to enjoy the gossamer thread of this moment.
May I remember this each day over the coming festive period. May I have the patience with others and myself to enjoy each moment as it comes! And may you find it too.
Wednesday, 11 December 2013
Friday, 6 December 2013
3ww: A brief exposition
A brief post to insist that we expose the brokenness of this world, that we may weep for it and begin some reparations.
Wednesday, 27 November 2013
Wednesday, 16 October 2013
Sick in the Sink
I am a bit odd.
That's what people tell me, anyway. I don't really like people sitting on my bed and I certainly don't like people resting their head on my pillow. I have no idea why this is a daunting situation for me, but it is. Something about it makes me squirm. I am fastidious about keeping my hands clean as well. Generally I wash them several times during my bed time routine.
I am also someone who despises vomit. I don't think this is that odd, to be honest. It strikes me as pretty normal.
Last night I was going to the toilet to clean my teeth (in the left of the two sinks randomly in the toilet where I live) when I noticed a funny, eggy smell in the air. This created a feeling of queasiness in my stomach. Upon arrival at the toilet, to my surprise, someone was there. It was one of the girls who had left the door open. I asked if she was all right, but got no response other than a door closing slowly in my face. I waited.
A few minutes later she emerged, and I stepped into the toilet to use it. I was greeted by the most unpleasant of sights. As you will know plugs are used in sinks when we want to keep water in the sink for things like shaving or hair washing. I have never before seen a plug used to keep sick in the sink. Until yesterday. A thin, yellow liquid dappled with colours once vibrant, but now victims of stomach acid. Lovely.
No doubt you will understand this did nothing for me but intensify feelings of queasiness, and you will realise why I left the toilet quite so rapidly.
Fortunately, I did not have to brave the sick again. I was a valiant coward and asked the mother of the house to sort out the situation. What a blessed relief she did, otherwise I might still be cleaning my hands!
That's what people tell me, anyway. I don't really like people sitting on my bed and I certainly don't like people resting their head on my pillow. I have no idea why this is a daunting situation for me, but it is. Something about it makes me squirm. I am fastidious about keeping my hands clean as well. Generally I wash them several times during my bed time routine.
I am also someone who despises vomit. I don't think this is that odd, to be honest. It strikes me as pretty normal.
Last night I was going to the toilet to clean my teeth (in the left of the two sinks randomly in the toilet where I live) when I noticed a funny, eggy smell in the air. This created a feeling of queasiness in my stomach. Upon arrival at the toilet, to my surprise, someone was there. It was one of the girls who had left the door open. I asked if she was all right, but got no response other than a door closing slowly in my face. I waited.
A few minutes later she emerged, and I stepped into the toilet to use it. I was greeted by the most unpleasant of sights. As you will know plugs are used in sinks when we want to keep water in the sink for things like shaving or hair washing. I have never before seen a plug used to keep sick in the sink. Until yesterday. A thin, yellow liquid dappled with colours once vibrant, but now victims of stomach acid. Lovely.
No doubt you will understand this did nothing for me but intensify feelings of queasiness, and you will realise why I left the toilet quite so rapidly.
Fortunately, I did not have to brave the sick again. I was a valiant coward and asked the mother of the house to sort out the situation. What a blessed relief she did, otherwise I might still be cleaning my hands!
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