dirty pretty precious

dirty pretty precious

Treasure!! Oo-arrr. It’s all a bit pirates really. The hoard of Anglo-Saxon gold discovered recently and in the news today, has been officially classified as ‘treasure’ (instead of…??) and will apparently ‘redefine the Dark Ages’ (to “Dark with a Golden-Hue Ages”, perhaps?), I couldn’t help but see some parallels. It ties in with yesterdays thoughts on beauty in unlikely places.  So I wrote a thing.

treasure in a field
has much power to wield over many jealous
zealous
precious
treasure-in-a-field
hunters

with their beep beep treasure detectors
looking for shiny metal reflectors
the treasure-in-a-field collectors
modern day gold prospectors

treasure in a field is buried so no-one finds it and the Man he told a story about it
someone who is so excited when he un-hides it
he sells all he has to buy it
not just the treasure but the whole muddy field

the treasure in a field
all covered in mud and weeds
the kingdom of heaven in beauty revealed
dirty pretty precious

so much more than golden saxon treasure
the treasure of a distant heaven
plummeting to earth and being discovered
in a muddy field
and we discover it was there all along

only we hadn’t noticed
doh

I don’t want the treasure I want the whole muddy field

(Matt 13.44)

your beauty is there to be found...

beautiful. sparkly. graffiti. people.

What is beautiful? Not what building or person or cat is beautiful; but what is it that makes them beautiful, or not? What shape or lines or colours makes one thing beautiful and another thing not? There’s probably a scientific formula, but that’s just being silly.

beautiful...

We are surrounded by different people’s views of what beauty is. One person’s beauty is another person’s porn; one artist’s beauty is another’s graffiti; one building’s beauty is another’s Gherkin. Retaining something called beauty is massive industry.

There is a lot of snobbishness about beauty. In the world of ‘church’ where I spend a lot of my time there are endless debates about the ‘beauty’ of certain buildings (usually old ones), the ‘beauty’ of certain songs (usually old ones), the ‘beauty’ of certain worship styles (usually old ones).  Perceived wisdom is that ‘old’ is ‘beautiful’. If old is not beautiful, it is certainly ‘proper’. As if Jesus came in 1872 and said “Stop what you’re doing and look dusty”.

Many people who don’t go to church often have strong opinions about what a ‘beautiful church’ is; my last church St Mary’s Southgate and my new one here in St Helier both have few weddings, because the churches are not considered good enough for wedding photos. Many people want ‘proper’ looking churches, that contain dark wooden pews and stained-glass windows and have no heating. They, of course, aren’t the ones trying to do kids church and cafes and not die of hypothermia in the winter.

So what makes a ‘beautiful church’? It’s a cliché if you’ve been around church for years but it’s new if you haven’t – the building is irrelevant. It can be old and beautiful or old and ugly; new and beautiful or new and ugly. Who gives a monkey’s.

Here are 2 photos. Which church is the most beautiful?

I am beautiful…

…no matter what they say

Jesus comes to show us beauty. His beautiful love is not love of bricks and mortar in the same way his beautiful love is not love of religion or anything especially ‘solid’. The beauty he came to show us is locked away deep within us all; the beauty of a created person he looks at and says “This is good!! You are good!!”.

So what makes a beautiful church? PEOPLE!! Wonderful, sparkly beautiful people who know they are loved and forgiven and released and changed and transformed and who have God the Creator living in them and seeping into every crack and crevice of their lives like the flowers that cannot help but sprout in the cracks in the concrete or the spray-can that covers an age of decaying and depressing brickwork with beautiful mesmerising and wonderful colours.

the one with the beautiful mural...

I belong to a beautiful church in a beautiful place. The 20,000 strong south London estate of St Helier (once Europe’s biggest council estate) might not seem so beautiful to many. The buildings might not win any awards. My church building is certainly distinctively designed. But the people! Each one loved and precious, and some so full of sparkle that it makes me smile. And some with the potential to sparkle like the most beautiful diamond you’ve ever seen. A beautiful church is a people that love and are loved. Yes, heating helps, cushions help, movable seating helps, data projectors help. Not being bored certainly helps. The Victorian Society generally do not help.

No matter how crusty or crumbly or badly-drawn we feel, may we know we are beautiful people being beautiful church that cannot help but spill out and make everything else beautiful like the best graffiti in the crumbliest place. In big words, that is the incarnation, the resurrection, the Immanuel. Spray me beautiful! And smile.

beautiful immanuel

a (nun)conventional habit

Where is the internet? This keeps me awake at night. It must be somewhere. Is it underground, like the water pipes? Is it suspended in the air like the telephone wires? It seems to be in my computer, but it can’t just be there; if it was, when I turned mine off, the whole internet would go off. It does seem to follow me though. I’m not one to brag, but it is even in my iPhone. Does it just exist; is it formless and void like the world before creation; does the spirit hover over its waters, or would that cause an electrical fire? Is it even electric? What sort of plug does it use? And who owns it? Does it have edges? Will it get full?

Questions like these are best left to certain people who we used to laugh at in school because they loved maths, and who now have the last laugh because they run the world. “The internet” (I’m now wondering what it is, let alone where) is a strange mixture of people; an eclectic community of geeks, who learn a special language and make it work; of artists and designers, who tell the geeks what it should look like; and the writers, those who fill the text boxes with words and pictures.

People who ‘do’ the internet though have a certain image.Think of people who work for Google or Apple and I imagine an impossibly trendy group of 20-30 year olds with perfect hair, scruffy dress-down-but-expensive suits and a keen eye for the cutting edge. So it was with intrigue that I attended the Christian Web and New Media Awards last week, desperate to a) do some minor Christian celebrity-spotting (a dismal failure) (no offence to the Bishop of London) and b) see who the movers and shakers are in the world of Christian web-work. I was actually representing my bishop, Nick Baines, whose blog was up for Most Inspiring Leadership Blog – and who, deservedly, won. So I got to collect an award from a Coptic Orthodox Bishop, even though it wasn’t for me. A moment to savour! Should I ever win anything, even the raffle at the Christmas fayre, I will send him to collect mine.

The most fascinating thing about the evening though was the breadth of people who now ‘do’ the internet, and do it pretty well. There were Pentecostals, free churches, Anglicans, Methodists and Catholics; old(er) people, teenagers; big churches, small churches; some impossibly trendy people and some downright ordinary looking people.

The highlight of the evening, (apart from Nick winning, of course) (and a competition between a black Pentecostal minister and Coptic Orthodox Bishop about who’s definition of a minute was longer), was the presentation of the People’s Choice Award for best website.

Nun the wiser

This was voted for by Premier Media listeners and viewers (which may explain it!) but it was a stroke of genius. A community of 3 elderly Benedictine nuns, who make their money through selling jam, marmalade and  – of course – running their own web design company! They couldn’t come to collect their award because they are a closed community and cannot leave. So maybe the internet is where they live, because they are allowed in it.

Their home-made video acceptance is amazing! And they are proof that stereotypes are made to be broken and preconceptions are so often wrong. The trendies at Google and Apple had better watch out, because the nun-conventional habits are taking them on and here, at least, are winning.

9/11, jesus and a honeymoon stuck in the looe

Honeymoons are meant to go with a bang. Ours was certainly memorable. For many reasons. Including getting the car stuck in the Looe. We thought September 8th would be the most memorable date in 2001, but it was not so. Whilst relaxing in the calm of a Devon cottage, 3 days after our wedding, we first heard the newsflash on Radio 1 – an explosion in New York. Minutes later, an update – early reports were coming in that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Centre. Another update. Another explosion. Definitely planes. A coincidence? Air traffic control asleep? Could it be…? September 11th rapidly overtook September 8th as the memorable date of 2001.

The Iconic Image

It became the “Where were you when…?” moment for a generation too young to remember presidents being assassinated. It changed everything.  Everything.

Everything?

It certainly changed our news broadcasts. I started buying Private Eye. We first heard phrases like “pre-emptive strike”, “axis of evil” (now including Scotland), “regime-change”. And “freedom fries”.

8 years on, who has ‘everything’ changed for? My life hasn’t significantly changed. I don’t buy Private Eye very often now. I do hand in my illegal Evian when I go through airport security. I am told to live in fear of bombs and death, obviously; but since the IRA terrorist threats of the 70′-90′s, that is not such a big thing. Yes, global politics have changed significantly. But what about us, on the ground? How much has actually changed in daily life?

Probably not a lot.

Everything has changed most significantly not for most of us, but for people thousands of miles away. For ordinary people in Iraq. For ordinary people in Afghanistan. Ordinary people. In many, many ways, for the better. But at severe cost. Severe cost. Many soldiers have been killed. According to www.antiwar.com almost 5000 US and coalition troops in Iraq and 1,300 in Afghanistan. That is significant.

Everything has changed here

But how about these numbers. Iraq Body Count, who obviously have an agenda to push, reckon something between 93,000-102,000 civilians have died in Iraq as a direct consequence of the war.  And in Afghanistan the numbers are much higher, though I have struggled to find a website that looks sensible to quote a figure. It may be in hundreds of thousands.

What do we do with these numbers? We compare them with the 2,993 civilians who died on 9/11. Why? Because we must. Because the difference is disproportionate, and must make us uncomfortable. Even if it doesn’t change the fact that we are at war; even if there was no option other than military action; even if there was no choice. One thing that faith in Jesus shows us is that there is no point, and no possibility, of hiding from uncomfortable things. We must face them. We must look them in the eye, or we cannot look him in the eye.

So also we cannot hide from the stories in the Old Testament that detail war and death and make some of us extremely uncomfortable. To be honest people, honest to ourselves and to God, we have to take the bad stuff out from where we like to hide it and look at it. There can be no brushing under the carpet, no pretending things aren’t as horrible as they are, even if there is no other way for them to be. I am taught that by Jesus and his camper van full of grace. He sees all the bad stuff, and it pains him, but it does not make him turn his face away. He opens his arms wide and still loves. Looks upon us. Walks with us. Bad stuff and all. There cannot be forgiveness if there is no recognition there is anything to forgive.

So as we reflect on 8 years of painful consequences so many thousands of miles away, hopefully the numbers can help us. Help us to be honest. Help us to get angry. Angry about something worthwhile instead of Katie&Peter™ or Adebayor’s stamp or whether Sam Mitchell should have come back to EastEnders. And then turn that anger into responsible action. And help us feel and know the extent of God’s incredible love for us, broken humanity.

As Arsene Wenger said yesterday, “With human beings, you can never rule anything out, good or bad…” And with God, you can never rule forgiveness out, however big the tally of our badness. Which is also frightening, and wonderful, and liberating, and grossly unfair, and that is grace. And it actually makes me smile.

And by the way, we had a lovely honeymoon, after retrieving the car from the River Looe.

bras rubbing in a cathedral of cynicism

How would you respond to the idea of a cathedral running sessions for rubbing bras? It would, even to the most open-minded, seem a little odd. Where do the bras come from for a start? Do you bring your own? Then the simple misunderstanding is realised, the ‘s’ is restored, and wholly more innocent past-time of brass rubbing is revealed.

Simple emphasis can make a huge difference. Wherever you are, say “bras rubbing” and then “brass rubbing”, and you will see what I mean. Obviously the context makes a difference to the understanding.

When the story broke about the government introducing more checks for parents who drive children to sports clubs, the press reaction was interesting.  The checks are being considered in light of the Soham murders, in which someone with previous convictions was able to slip through the net and continue to work with children. Seen from the perspective of protecting children, these checks are a good thing. And the news-breakers, so critical of social services, government, and anyone who can be blamed when something goes wrong, surely would support it. A positive emphasis expected, though obviously not uncritically.

But intriguingly, the checks were immediately branded as ‘paedophile checks‘, surely too much of a tabloid phrase even for the BBC. And all the problems were pointed out, with all the cynicism we come to expect from our news media. A negative emphasis. This makes any who think uncritically and accept what they are told that these checks will be an invasion of privacy, a hassle, unnecessary. Complain, complain, complain.

For me, this isn’t really about whether these particular checks are right or wrong. It is about emphasis. When we are told things, are we told within a cathedral of cynicism – of politicians, of establishments; are we fed comment and opinion in the guise of news; are we aware of the need to filter all that we hear.

If so, what filter should we use? For followers of Jesus, the same old filter of love, joy, peace, patience, gentleness, goodness, self-control. It applies to all things. To stories from the BBC, the Daily Mail, the bloke down the pub. It does not mean we cannot be vocal in our support or opposition. It does not mean we should not stand our ground. It does give us a responsibility to listen well, to hear the emphasis, to discern whether it is a worrying case of bras rubbing or a simple case of brass rubbing. I hope that is worth our (under-wired) support.

eduardo and the dive to meet granny

Eduardo auditions for Strictly

Eduardo dived. We all know that. Drogba dives all the time. We all know that. Owen dives. But not very often (he’s usually injured). Rooney dives. But we may choose to overlook that. Torres never dives. Torres is lighter, he  simply falls more easily.  He may tumble in challenges, but merely to avoid damaging his beautiful legs.

Anyway, diving is only cheating when the other team do it. When our team does it, it is merely cheeky, a fair attempt to win a free kick, or even a penalty. A lucky break, we may say, like Rooney’s against Slovenia on Saturday, when even Clive Tyldesley couldn’t make it fair.

Some play more cynically. As long as it gets you the result you need, and you don’t get caught, it is ok. As long as it looks like you were ‘going for the ball, ref’, then it’s ok. As long as the blood looks like blood and the ref thinks its blood, it’s ok. Because it is the end result that matters, not how you get there.

Who stole my PE shorts?

If England win tonight, then they are guaranteed qualification to the World Cup. Hooray! After the debacle of qualifying for the Euros, anything goes. Even playing Heskey. And being run by an Italian. And wearing school PE kits.

How many of us, without realising it, think that following Jesus is about guaranteeing qualification. It is about doing enough to get to the top of the group and scrape through into heaven. By any means, really. Getting the baby baptised is one. Tick. Regularly going to church at Christmas is one. Tick. Being a good person is one. Tick. Maybe convincing the vicar we mean the promises at baptism when we don’t really is a bit like a dive in the penalty area – we want guaranteed qualification, without the hard graft; we want the 3 points, and its looking a bit tricky; so bend the rules a bit and it’ll be fine, convince the vicar, and they’ll go with it. After all, everyone else does it.

Jesus told a story about the sheep and the goats, in which the sheep, who had fed the poor and visited the sick and criminals, were guaranteed qualification into ‘the kingdom’, whereas those who had not, were not passed fit to enter. This is a complex story, but one of the points here is that Jesus isn’t simply interested in the final qualification tables showing how many points we have earned. He is interested in how we got there. So the dive does matter. It is not irrelevant. We cannot con our way to qualification. Questions will be asked. There is a video review panel. The end result isn’t the most important thing; it really is about the journey. And, thankfully of course, grace.

Because, contrary to what many of us think, ‘the kingdom’ is not ‘heaven‘, as popular culture thinks of it, i.e. life after death, spirits floating in a happy place where we are with granny again. It is far deeper than that, far more profound. ‘Eternal life’, or ‘life of the ages‘ as it is better translated, begins now. So tonight hopefully England will play the 90 minutes like they are in the World Cup already, playing in the final; because every game is important, not just the ones after the final whistle. And hopefully, we will engage with Jesus now, fully and wholeheartedly, and not just do our best to get through the 90 minutes of life unscathed, because the kingdom is here now, and we are living it, not just aiming towards it as a future hope, but living it as a present reality.

And as for qualification? Take up your cross and follow me. Live in my grace. And that’s way more than just ticking the right  box. Or even diving in it.

just jack and the burnt-out shell of my ambience

“The day I died was the best day of my life,
Tell my friends and my kids and my wife
Everything’s gonna be alright,
The day I died was the best day of my life.”

Quiet buses, no roadworks, an empty in-tray and a colleague you don’t like getting fired. Good things (mostly!), but

It's only Jack

the best day of your life? Just Jack has a habit of wandering through a lyrical story like he’s a bit bored, some of which are profound and some less so – he did “Stars in Their Eyes”, and  I could never quite work out if it was profound or not. His latest song (The Day I Died) appears to be profound, yet at the same time strangely empty. With a catchy riff and a cheerful sound, it has a depressing take on what are the good things in life.

And perhaps most worrying is the lack of an idea of consequences. Life is life is life, nothing really matters, as long as the sun shines and my bus isn’t late. The not-so-hidden twist (plot spoiler!)  in this song is that he gets killed by a taxi – oops. But never mind -  we are asked to tell his friends, and his wife and kids, that everything is gonna be alright. It’s fine, chill out. The bus was on time.

Is it fine? But daddy is dead? Forgive me for over-reacting, but that doesn’t sound alright to me; and certainly isn’t on the same level of seriousness as the bus being late. The consequences of his death are lost in a predicable chord sequence; the musing on life and death so under-developed as to leave me thinking the song must have stopped half-way through.His theology of death leaves a little to be desired: apparently he has 99 red balloons floating in the summer sky, past his dreary eyes. Unless he was a pretty absent friend and father, I hope the consequences of his sudden death are a little more than that to them. They certainly will be to the poor taxi driver.

Aah well, maybe I am over-reacting. Maybe I should be glad that someone is at least trying to write stories in there songs. I will be singing along with everyone else, you can guarantee it. I’m all for ambience in songs, I’m all for chilled-out stories highlighting the absurdities and idiosyncrasies of modern life. Even Lily Allen manages that sometimes, weaving as she does dark, sinister lyrics (or are they also meaningless?) around tunes that sound like Telly-tubby songs. But ambience in songs like this seem so depressingly fatalistic, the hope so empty of meaning, containing about as much depth as the shallow end of an ice-cube. Like Emile Heskey, you know the potential is there it just doesn’t quite ever get there.

Burnt out shell of an ambulance

When discussing recently an incident at our local hospital in which an ambulance caught fire and exploded (! – it’s ok, no-one hurt…), someone spoke of ‘the burnt out shell of an ambulance’ – which sounded so like something profound I couldn’t help but use it. So, Mr Just Jack, please continue to write, please continue to tell stories; but please let’s not hear any more from the burnt out shell of your ambience, no more mediocre meanderings of little meaning; instead, give substance to your ambience, tickle us with tales of tenacity, amaze and amuse us with your anecdotes and prod and poke us with your poetry and philosophies and observations until we are uncomfortable enough to want to put something truly bland on. Suggestions welcome!

the unlikely profiterole

Mmm, tasty

There is something wonderful about profiteroles. Something enticing, enchanting… the darkness of the chocolate melting over the softness of the pastry, ebony against the ivory of the Devonshire cream… I can visualise the M&S advert now: “These are not just ordinary profiteroles…”

Yet behind every profiterole lies a dream dashed, a hope lost, a potential future lost like a kite torn from the hand of a child by a gust of wind… Ok, maybe not that bad, but do profiteroles not disappoint every time? Do they not promise greatness – rich chocolate, soft pastry, full cream – yet pretty much always leave you thinking “is that it?”

James Murdoch, son of Rupert and heir to the News Corporation (owner of Sky, The Times, The Sunday Times, News of the World, The Sun, HarperCollins Publishers, FOX TV), made a much publicised speech recently in which he decried the lack of ‘independent’ news coverage, because in this country, unlike the US, there are rules about having to give a balanced view. This makes him feel stifled, because he is forced to present news as opposed to opinion, and he wants a free reign.

Rupert's bear

James Murdoch’s argument seems to me a bit like a profiterole. It looks good on the outside. We need opinion, we don’t want over-regulation, we want a ‘free press’. Amen to that. But read his final sentence, and see where the lovely profiterole suddenly becomes simply a recipe for heart disease.

“There is an inescapable conclusion that we must reach if we are to have a better society. The only reliable, durable, and perpetual guarantor of independence is profit.”

What?! Seriously, you’re having a giraffe. And this profit is coming from where exactly? From advertisers, customers, subscribers. So who do we aim the news at? Those who the advertisers need, those who can pay the money to subscribe… So news is skewed because of the need to make money. It is not rocket science. It is not independence. Check out Fox News for all the evidence you’ll ever need.

I could say a lot about this. But instead of attacking him (or discussing him further), let’s see if we are any better.

Because churches can be drawn down this ‘profit’ road too. We have news to share. We need money to share it. So, are we tempted to tailor our (good) news to those who will keep us financially viable? Do we try not to upset the wealthier people because we need them more? Do we pray for the streets with new cars rather than mouldy sofas on the drive? Do we rejoice more at the thought of a Premier League footballer being told to sell all he has and give it to the poor (bingo!), or a delivery driver? After all, we need to pay the gas bill, the maintenance bill, the parish share. My church has a leaking cellar, no heating in the hall and a broken front door. Are we ever tempted… honestly?

To paraphrase Jesus, we’d better not be. I’d better not be. We spread the news of life to all, regardless of the depths of pockets. What we offer is a prophetic vision of lives transformed and fountains of hope springing up from barren places: we have the prophet’s role of good news of life in all its fullness, not the profiterole of hypocrisy in all its foulness. If we ever let the need for money in our churches influence our good news then we are, as Jesus called the Pharisees, no more than hypocrites, actors, pretenders; white-washed tombs, as in looks good on the outside but contains only emptiness and death.

Profit can be good, for it subsidises those with none, like the ancient OT laws about not harvesting the edge of your field, so the poor can come and claim some. But it comes with  a stark health warning. Thank you James Murdoch for reminding us, in an unlikely prophetic role.