Diary of a pandemic - Day 19# hope among the ruins

A lone poppy  caught my eye as I wandered among the ruins of the Pools of Bethesda some years ago.  All around me lay remnants of what had been a place of healing and hope in first century Palestine. There was no sign of either now, apart from this bright red poppy which had managed to find sufficient nourishment to reach maturity and fling its colour into the greyness of the surroundings.   

This location in  Jerusalem was the site of one of Jesus' healing miracles. The Gospel of John, chapter 5 opens with the story of an unnamed man who had been paralysed for thirty eight years. He was one of many  who hoped that they would be cured when the water was 'stirred up'... but, as he will soon describe to Jesus,  he had no-one to help him reach the water in time. His life was severely limited and frustrating.

Into this place Jesus wanders. He learns of the man's longstanding disability and asks him what seems  a pretty obvious question: 'Do you want to get well?'  
The man is taken aback. He doesn't answer Jesus directly; he can't  turn his mind to what is being offered. Instead he looks backwards at what he thinks has been hindering his healing: the lack of aid from others.

It's an intriguing response isn't it? This relating back to what has been; this seeing others as bearing responsibility for one's predicament; this slowness to take a life-changing opportunity. 

Would I, would you respond any differently?
Well, we have a chance to see.

As we endure days or even weeks of frustration and limitations on our freedom because of the Covid-19 pandemic, we have the chance to take a look at how we've been living - individually, in kinship groups, as a nation, as a world. 
We have a chance to consider our inner lives and motivation - for example, do we habitually look for someone to blame whenever things turn to custard?
We have the chance to reassess priorities as we are confronted by both the disproportionate impact of this pandemic on the poor and disadvantaged AND the fragility and preciousness of all life, including our own.
We have the chance to slow down, to spend time with those closest to us, to dream up little acts of kindness, to recover the pastimes that used to give us joy, to play and be creative in all sorts of ways, to look at what it really means to be made in the image of God.

Some would say they just want to 'get back to normal', but there are others who are saying that maybe it's time to examine our 'normal' and see how we might better live our lives for the good of the whole planet.

What had been 'normal' for the paralysed man, certainly wasn't the life that Jesus opened up before him. Jesus offered him and offers each one of us a new way of being ourselves. We might even call this new way  'resurrection', 'being born again', even 'repentance' - turning towards Jesus so we can grasp the healing and new life being offered and be guided by his Spirit in the pathway ahead as it unfolds.

Take a moment to imagine Jesus standing in front of you, as he did with the paralytic at the Pools of Bethesda. He looks at you with deep compassion:

'Do you want to get well?'

WAITING ...

Advent  -  that season in the Christian church's calendar marking the four weeks of waiting and preparation before the birth of the infant Jesus  - coincides in the southern hemisphere with the start of the monarch butterfly's active cycle. It's a telling parallel - a visible reminder of the value of waiting in a world that has become so desperately impatient.

I went to town today to do some banking ... there were lots of people queuing - a few waiting with good humour but most others with impatient looks and much shuffling of papers or exasperated sighs. When my transaction had been completed, I walked to the stairs taking me back to my car, and saw a young father, toddler at hand, walking slowly down the stairs. Waiting for the little one to navigate each step, he patiently encouraged his child's tentative progress without a hint of annoyance or rushing. No wonder the little boy was full of smiles when they reached the bottom of the stairs.

Waiting is not popular in our wild western world - we are hurry sick - we want everything 'now' -  smart phones to connect us instantly with anyone, anywhere; we expect immediate aid when disaster strikes, or central or local government is blamed; we speak more quickly and eat 'fast food', get involved in 'road rage' and seek high speed air or train travel; and, ironically, we marvel at how quickly the months are passing, as if somehow time has changed its pace and we have no say in the matter.

Is it surprising then that, coupled with our fast-paced life and impatience with anything that stops us doing what we want to do as soon as we want to do it, we are seeing a decrease in mental health and overall well-being. Are we so out of touch with the natural rhythms of creation that we fail to see the virtue of waiting?

And is it surprising that a 'push-back' is emerging - people opting for 'slow food' and a quieter lifestyle, yearning for simplicity and putting quality time into building relationships with others, with themselves, with the land and environment, and for many, with something or someone they might consider 'sacred'?

So it's back to the monarch butterflies - a newly-hatched monarch butterfly emerges from its cocoon wet and wrinkly. It can take hours for the wings to dry, gently unfurl, plump up and gather strength ready for the miracle of flight. If we try to hurry this waiting process by 'helping' the butterfly untangle itself, irreparable harm is done - and all that time in the cocoon will come to
nothing but damage and death.

Each year in the season of Advent we are reminded of the value of waiting, of anticipating, of letting ourselves hope and yearn and look forward. And for those who follow the Way of Christ, waiting brings into sharper focus the coming of God into the world in a form we can all embrace - a tiny child  - Jesus -  through whom the vulnerability and power of  Love could be expressed in the context of an ordinary human life  - just like yours and mine.

That's worth waiting for!

Making space

Perched peacefully on the lamp post in the early light, the portly wood pigeon was sunning his white belly, his small head pulled into his body, dreaming, dozing ...
What a lovely sight to start the day I thought, until, out of the sky flew a large black-backed gull.
And the reverie  - the pigeon's and mine  -was ruined.
There was no kerfuffle; the  pigeon didn't stop to fight for his ground but jumped into the air's embrace and let it carry him away as the stronger intruder perfectly mastered a post-top landing, and, without a feather ruffled, claimed the desired space.

Sometimes it seems as if all over the world, in all sorts of contexts, a similar exchange is playing out - individuals, groups, organisations, regions, even whole countries struggling to claim, grab or retain what they believe is their 'space'. What conflict is not fired by competition for space and what that space means : security, resources, tradition, power, a future?

Even in our own lives, when we reflect on it, we can be space-protective:  sitting in a particular chair in the staff room or pew in a church, booking the same caravan site at the holiday park,  unconsciously guarding 'our patch', and rarely letting anyone into that most secret of spaces - our inner thought-life with its mixture of darkness and light, familiar and forbidden places.

It could be easy to think that stealing, coveting or protecting space motivated all human interaction - on a micro or macro scale. But that's not the whole story.

Later that same day my mate and I ambled downtown to attend a piano recital - we found our seats and smiled at a few people we knew around us before the concert quickly got underway. It soon became apparent that, while his view of the pianist and the wonder of hands doing the beautifully impossible, was unimpeded, mine was not. I spent the first movement of the Tchaikovsky First Piano Concerto wriggling my head first to one side of the back of the woman in front's head, and then to the other side, seeing two hands flashing at one end of the keyboard and then at the other end until my neck got sore and I sat back and closed my eyes and just listened, resigning myself to the reality of our location.

But in that sometimes awkward pause between movements, when the uninitiated or very enthusiastic start to clap, my mate tapped my knee and quietly slipped to his feet, so that I could take his space. And so I did -  with surprise and gratitude for his awareness and generosity. For the remainder of that magnificent composition, I sat  in awe as the passion and sheer brilliance of the pianist unfolded, until the music brought tears to my eyes and I glimpsed the mystical marriage of contemplation and action.

I was blessed that evening - not just by witnessing the glory of God in the  pianist fully alive, but by that simplest of gestures - the selfless sharing of space, as my mate saw my need and responded in love. He made a space for me and I got to thinking that the Loving Presence does that for us too.

Whenever we feel excluded, God welcomes us in.
Whenever things crowd in on us and we feel overwhelmed, Jesus offers us rest and refreshment.
Whenever we are wondering about the uncertainties of the future and the regrets of the past, the Holy Spirit within, reminds us to live fully in the present moment, that space in which we can meet God and ourselves, that space we too often avoid because of the challenge of intimacy it presents.

Just as God makes a space for us in all sorts of ways,
may we make space for others,
and for ourselves.

Duckling time again

It's duckling time of the year again.

Across the road in some vacant land, we saw a female duck sitting awkwardly in the grass. For a moment it looked as if she'd been hit by a car as her legs were stretched out behind her and we could see her webbed feet.But, as we waited and watched, she got up and, slowly, from under her broad body, emerged duckling after duckling after duckling  - eight in all - fluffy, adorable, vulnerable.

Half an hour later, as we returned from our walk, we came across a woman, pushing a pram and trying to control an enthusiastic little dog who mistook our labrador for her best friend, much to Lara's bemusement. As dog-owners do, we got talking and found that the duck and her brood were on this woman's mind too. In fact, we learned that, every day she was doing what she could to protect and feed the little family as they grew and started to walk up and down the street near where she lived.

This woman made an impression on us both - her own evident encounter with serious health issues hadn't stopped her 'going the second mile' to care for these little creatures, We both felt humbled by her courage and compassion.

And I was reminded of the gospel passage in which Jesus speaks of his enduring desire to gather Jerusalem's children 'as a hen gathers her brood under her wings' (Luke 13.34b) - but they were not willing.

Free will - ducklings have it and sometimes it leads them into trouble...
We have it, and with it the choice to move closer to God or further away, little by little, day by day.

Are you, am I like Jerusalem's children - unwilling to be gathered under God's wings?
Or are we increasingly drawn to Jesus, keeping close to him day by day, warmed, nurtured and then freed to live an abundant life?

Shells

SHELLS ...

When I was younger I loved walking on the beach and collecting shells - large or small, so long as they were uninhabited!
Maybe you did that too, or have introduced grandchildren, or friends visiting from overseas, to the beauty of the shells beside your favourite piece of coastline. .
Maybe you even have a collection of shells stored away or enhancing the watery theme of your bathroom!

Back then, I used to keep only the shells that were perfect  - no bits broken off by the action of waves or rocks;
no rough edges or holes spoiling the smooth shapes.

My collection - like my life - had to be 'perfect'.

But over the years that has changed.

As I've got older I've come to realise that broken shells have a beauty all their own.
They show the reality of the environment in which they find themselves - the effects of powers far stronger than their own; the cracks made by the impact of events beyond their control; the holes in the exterior worn through to reveal something of the complex shapes hidden within.

And that's what matters to me now - to be able to catch a glimpse of the inner beauty  - the curves and spirals and the shining surfaces revealed as the exterior shell crumbles.

So next time you are feeling a bit rough around the edges, or buffeted by events or forces beyond your control, you may like to think of these less than perfect seas shells and be thankful  -
that  something of your inner beauty - and the beauty of others - can be revealed through brokenness;
that God chose to reveal the extent of God's love in the brokenness of Jesus the Christ, God with us.

Out on a limb

Our adventurous young cat, aptly named 'Pickles',

is centre stage in this photo, although her tabby and white stripes make her initially hard to see.

I took the picture from  a second storey window when she'd scampered up the kauri tree outside, spurred on by my husband. 

She'd never been up this tree before - she'd never been this high before  - and we both watched with some anxiety as she spent the next ten minutes carefully moving four paws and her useful tail 

around, over and through the narrowing branches. At one stage she even let out a plaintive, though restrained, meeaow and I could tell she was having second thoughts about her rash dash upwards.

Finally after realising that she could not jump onto the roof, and the birds watching her from a safe distance were not going to move any closer, she carefully reversed, and very slowly navigated the descent. 

No need to ring the fire brigade after all!

But her predicament made me think about the proverbial 'going out on a limb'. I could see how easily it happens - perhaps inspired by others we start off with great enthusiasm to achieve a goal, without stopping to consider what might lie ahead. We think we have what it takes, but suddenly find ourselves doubting our abilities or wondering whether we should proceed or retreat. 

Yet how often have people who are willing to 'go out on a limb' made lasting changes or achieved outcomes beyond their or others' expectations? People like explorers, inventors, artists and writers, people working for justice, and anyone who risks stepping out in faith, not knowing where that step will lead them. People like Jesus , who stepped out on a limb by challenging the prevailing religious and political authorities in the name of the God whom he revealed as Love. 

Next time you feel as if you're out on a limb, remember you're in good company.

In the company of a kingfisher

I love birds.

Perhaps I should have been an ornithologist  - although science wasn't my strength.
Or perhaps a dedicated 'twitcher' - although I haven't got the telescopic cameras that provide exceptional glimpses of a bird's feathered beauty for those patient enough to wait and wait and wait.

There's something about watching birds  - the way the large fledglings pester their parents for food, the squabbling over crumbs by the bins near the beach, the delicate courtship dances, the swoops and stall dives of the resident wood pigeons - that makes my heart lighter.

And there's something about listening to birdsong - the morepork's haunting,  repetitive notes echoing through the darkness, the racket of sparrows sorting out their sleeping arrangements in the roosting tree, and the tui's trills and whistles just before dawn - that makes my spirit sing.

The kingfisher or, in Maori,  'Kotare'  is my all-time favourite. Years ago its coming and going with flashes of brilliance reminded me of the way the divine entered my life - sometimes bright and clear, at other times fleeting and mystical.

In September 2006,  I had an encounter with  a kingfisher that left me blessed and grateful.
My husband and I were a long way from home. Diagnosed with dangerous blockages in his heart only a week before, he was in a specialised hospital undergoing a quadruple bypass operation. It was a long operation and so I went for a walk to the playing fields nearby to occupy some time and get some respite from hospital walls and the heaviness of my thoughts.

As I walked into the field, a flash of turquoise caught my attention - a kingfisher was sitting on a tree about five metres away. Nothing unusual about that.

But what happened next remains with me to this day.

As I began to walk, the kingfisher flew a little way ahead of me. And each time I caught up with this brilliantly beautiful bird, it took flight again and settled a a few metres ahead. This happened several times until I reached the big field. The kingfisher by then had settled on the higher vantage point of a power line and stayed there while I made a couple of circuits , my steps and thoughts lightening as I got some much needed exercise and released some of my anxiety into the care of the great Love some of us name as God.  As I turned to go back to the hospital, I looked at the kingfisher expecting it to stay where it was - but instead it flew ahead of me. And so we repeated our outward journey's pattern - I walked and the kingfisher kept me company until it was time to leave the park.

Now you may think me fanciful but for me that bird was a Godly messenger - reminding me that I was not alone in this ordeal, that God was in so many ways keeping me company - through the beauty of the creation, through the prayers of friends all over the country, and through the Spirit at work in the world - in the medical team whose efforts saved my husband's life, and in the kingfisher's soothing presence as I paced and prayed.

I did not know it at the time, but the kingfisher takes its name, Halcyon sacra from a mythical bird who was able to calm the wind and the waves as it nested on the sea during the winter solstice.

I think of the One who calmed the wind and waves on the Sea of Galilee.

Between them, Jesus and the kingfisher certainly calmed the storm in me and allowed hope to be born from heartache.