27 December 2008

A Christmas Reflection

Archbishop of Canterbury's Christmas sermon 2008

Thursday 25 December 2008
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'There went out a decree from Caesar Augustus'; we've very likely heard those words many, many times in carol services, like an overture to the great drama of the Christmas story. The emperor Augustus would have been delighted, I'm sure, to be told that his name would still be recalled after twenty centuries - but more than a little dismayed that it would be simply because he happened to be around at the time of Christ's birth. There were all sorts of things for which he would have wanted to be remembered, and many of his contemporaries were not slow in telling him about them. And in fairness he had quite a good claim to fame: he had, after all, restored order to the Roman state and consolidated its global influence as never before. For many decades, a kind of peace prevailed from Germany to Syria – enforced by typical Roman brutality when any signs of dissent appeared, but still probably better than the chaos of the Roman civil war that had been going on before. It made sense to hail him as restorer of peace, and to look forward to a long period of stability and prosperity.
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It didn't turn out quite like that, of course; but Augustus's reign was for many people a sort of golden age. In later generations, new emperors set themselves the goal of bringing back something of that stability and confidence, and they would describe themselves on their coins and statues as the rescuers of the world's good order – as 'saviours': something that had already been common among the kings of the Middle East in earlier centuries.
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So if you'd asked people of Jesus' day what the word 'saviour' meant, the answer would be pretty plain. It was someone who would bring back the golden age, who would put an end to conflict; you could almost say it was someone who would stop things happening. Salvation was the end of history, brought about by one unique charismatic leader.
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Curious that, all these years later, the same language still survives. Twentieth century totalitarian systems looked forward to a state of things where all conflict was over and change and struggle stopped. On the other side, after the end of the Cold War, some scholars were writing about the 'end of history', and an American President spoke of a 'new world order'. In recent weeks, we've seen some of Barack Obama's advisers and colleagues warning about the level of messianic expectation loaded on to the President-elect - wisely recognising the risks involved in tapping in to this vein of excited imagination always just below the surface of even the most cynical society. We have certainly not, as human beings, grown out of the fascination of saviours who will restore the good times. The Lord has bared his arm and is once and for all returning to Zion; surely that is real salvation?
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And as always the gospel comes in with a sober 'Yes, but...' The saviour arrives, but goes unrecognised. He is hidden in the form of poverty and insecurity, a displaced person. Instead of peace and the golden age restored, there is conflict, a trial, a cross and a mysterious new dawn breaking unlike anything that has gone before. He was in the world and the world did not know him. Yet to those who recognise him and trust him, he gives authority (not just 'power', as our translations have it) to become something of what he is – to share in the manifesting of his saving work.
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So what's happening here to the idea of a saviour? The gospel tells us something hard to hear - that there is not going to be a single charismatic leader or a dedicated political campaign or a war to end all wars that will bring the golden age; it tells us that history will end when God decides, not when we think we have sorted all our problems out; that we cannot turn the kingdoms of this world into the kingdom of God and his anointed; that we cannot reverse what has happened and restore a golden age. But it tells us something that at the same time explodes all our pessimism and world-weariness. There is a saviour, born so that all may have life in abundance, a saviour whose authority does not come from popularity, problem-solving or anything else in the human world. He is the presence of the power of creation itself. He is the indestructible divine life, and the illumination he gives cannot be shrouded or defeated by the darkness of human failure.
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But he has become flesh. He has come to live as part of a world in which conflict comes back again and again, and history does not stop, a world in which change and insecurity are not halted by a magic word, by a stroke of pen or sword on the part of some great leader, some genius. He will change the world and – as he himself says later in John's gospel – he will overcome the world simply by allowing into the world the unrestricted force and flood of divine life, poured out in self-sacrifice. It is not the restoring of a golden age, not even a return to the Garden of Eden; it is more – a new creation, a new horizon for us all.
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And it can be brought into being only in 'flesh': not by material force, not by brilliant negotiation but by making real in human affairs the depth of divine life and love; by showing 'glory' – the intensity and radiance of unqualified joy, eternal self-giving. Only in the heart of the ordinary vulnerability of human life can this be shown in such a way, so that we are saved from the terrible temptation of confusing it with earthly power and success. This is, in Isaiah's words, 'the salvation of our God' – not of anything or anyone else.
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For those who accept this revelation and receive the promised authority, what can be done to show his glory? So often the answer to this lies in the small and local gestures, the unique difference made in some particular corner of the world, the way in which we witness to the fact that history not only goes on but is also capable of being shifted towards compassion and hope. This year as every year, we remember in our prayers the crises and sufferings of the peoples of the Holy Land: how tempting it is to think that somehow there will be a 'saviour' here – a new US president with a fresh vision, an election in Israel or Palestine that will deliver some new negotiating strategy...It's perfectly proper to go on praying for a visionary leadership in all those contexts; but meanwhile, the 'saving' work is already under way, not delayed until there is a comprehensive settlement.
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This last year, one of the calendars in my study, one of the things that provides me with images for reflection every day, has been the one issued by Families for Peace – a network of people from both communities in the Holy Land who have lost children or relatives in the continuing conflict; people who expose themselves to the risk of meeting the family of someone who killed their son or daughter, the risk of being asked to sympathise with someone whose son or daughter was killed by activists promoting what you regard as a just cause. The Parents Circle and Families Forum organised by this network are labouring to bring hope into a situation of terrible struggle simply by making the issues 'flesh', making them about individuals with faces and stories. When I have met these people, I have been overwhelmed by their courage; but also left with no illusions about how hard it is, and how they are made to feel again and again that they come to their own and their own refuse to know them. Yet if I had to identify where you might begin to speak of witnesses to 'salvation' in the Holy Land, I should unhesitatingly point to them.
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In any such situation, the same holds true. In recent days, I have been catching up with news of other enterprises in the Holy Land, especially from the Christian hospitals in Bethlehem and Nazareth, struggling with all kinds of pressure on them from various sources and with the chronic problem of desperately small resources, yet still obstinately serving all who come to them, from whatever background. And last week I spoke with someone helping to run a small community theatre project in Bulawayo, supported by local churches, working to deepen the confidence and the hope of those living in the middle of some of the worst destitution even Zimbabwe can show. Signs of salvation; not a magical restoration of the golden age, but the stubborn insistence that there is another order, another reality, at work in the midst of moral and political chaos; the reality that is the eternal 'Logos', St John's Greek term that means not simply a word but a pattern of harmonious relation.
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That is what is made flesh at Christmas. And our own following of the Word made flesh is what gives us the resources to be perennially suspicious of claims about the end of history or the coming of some other saviour exercising some other sort of power. To follow him is to take the risks of working at these small and stubborn outposts of newness, taking our responsibility and authority. In the months ahead it will mean in our own country asking repeatedly what is asked of us locally to care for those who bear the heaviest burdens in the wake of our economic crisis – without waiting for the magical solution, let alone the return of the good times. Internationally, it is remembering that our personal involvement in prayer and giving is utterly essential, whatever pressure we may rightly want to bring to bear on governments and organisations.
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Isaiah looked towards the day when the guards on the deserted city's wall would see the return of the Lord 'face to face'. So much of our witness to salvation depends on this face to face encounter (and yes, that was one of the ideals that helped to shape the work of this year's Lambeth Conference). We can't pass the buck to Caesar Augustus, Barack Obama or even Canterbury City Council – though we may pray for them all and hope that they will play their part in witnessing to new possibilities. To follow the Word made flesh is to embark, with a fair bit of fear and trembling, it may be, on making history - not waiting for it to stop. And that means speaking and working for Christ in the myriad face to face encounters in which he asks us to be his witnesses – to see and to show his glory, the glory as of the Father's only Son, full of grace and truth.
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© Rowan Williams 2008
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17 December 2008

But I Don't Dream in Colour...

[this is taken directly from my journal].

10-12-08 12:35pm.
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I just woke up from another dream which suggests that my dream world doesn't consider Rexville [where my grandparents live in New York, USA] and Bukoto [the village in southern Uganda where I currently reside] to be so far apart. In this one, some aunt and uncle--not sure who and can't remember their names, but I half-recognised them, just as I do every time I go to Lewis family reunions. They were driving from New York to visit Heatwoles in Virginia, and they had room in their mini-van, so they gave Melissa a ride here. How Uganda is on a driving route between Rexville and McGaheysville, or why Melissa was in NY in the first place were not relevant questions until I woke up. As I was talking to this aunt about some mundane topic of American life, who should wander down the hill (our compound isn't actually built on a slope), but Amber. Stan and Diane had stopped, too. I returned to the house to find a large contingent of my Lewis cousins eating matooke and beans side by side with my brothers and sisters. Strange wonders from this scene: Maama was not at all surprised by their presence, had enough food for all these extra people, and was letting guests eat on the floor with our family. When I asked Maama if they knew what they were eating, she said no, but they seemed to be enjoying it. The last thing I remember is me saying, to the great amusement of my Ugandan family, "Tugenda kulya ensenene"* and not translating into English. Oh, the strange wonder of dreams.
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*In English: "We're going to eat grasshoppers."

Contemplating MCC...

I frequently realise that I really like MCCers...

Then I remember that I am an MCCer...

And yet, still I contemplate, whatever does it mean to be an MCCer?

I've been in a poetic mood lately...

Jangua Tugende Kusoma
(Quickly, We Go to Study)

Morning breaks lightly among the hills.
Dawn rises quickly as I step amongst dew
and dust.
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Too early for the young mechanics,
but I bend my knee and speak loudly
to greet the mad woman
and deaf dry cleaner.
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The night was beautiful, peaceful, restful,
as I slept with those I call
brother, sister, mother.
"Nasuze bulungi"-I slept well,
is all I say.
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A few steps through town--
burning trash,
babies crying,
children buying chapatis
or washing utensils.
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Waves and greetings.
"Bye-ee muzungu."
"Bye-ee," I respond,
"Bye-ee, muganda muwana,"
dear brown child.
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Past the coffee plant,
where young men sweep beans
into the morning sun.
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Smoke rises as tea boils
on rekindled cooking fires.
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Now I wander through gardens
of cassava, beans, and g. nuts.
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A palm tree, tall along the path.
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Banana plants,
simple in their sustenance,
providing food, fibre, water,
whose leaves take a part
in the dance of life and death,
love and loss.
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I watch the sun climb above the farthest green hills,
awestruck by the daily beauty.
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"Good morning Aunt,"
children pull me from my contemplation.
"How are you?"
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They are fine
in their many-coloured uniforms,
barefoot as they carry
paper-wrapped books,
capless pens,
plastic containers packed with
cassava and sweet bananas.
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"Quickly," I tell them,
and "study well today,"
drawing happy laughs
as I speak their tongue.
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Returning again to the road,
remembering childhood folk tales,
I imagine I'm playing a pipe
and wonder how far they would follow me.
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Greetings continue.
Boda drivers racing to their posts.
Cyclists starting the long trek to Town,
green bananas piled high as they trudge uphill.
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We all cover our faces
and dodge to the side
as heavy lorries speed toward Tanzania.
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As we reach the parish hill,
I urge my children onward
and upward.
"Quickly," I remind them,
"lessons are beginning now."
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Father Grandfather is giving mass up the hill,
the youngest children tidy the compound
with brooms and hoes.
Already teachers are in their classrooms,
the cook's toddler twins splash water in a saucepan.
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I pull out chalk and a book.
"You are most welcome,
dear Auntie Chrishtine"
as I cross the threshold from dirt to dirt.
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I smile crosses my face as the 7:00 bell
resounds across the grass.
It is the first hour of the morning,
I am exactly where I belong,
and my day is beginning again.

Unexpected Comfort

I have a green shirt I like to wear on somehow chilly mornings, often over one of my blue dresses. It has 3/4 length sleeves and a v-neck. It is heavier than my long-sleeve shirts, but fits tighter than my fleece. It must have some measure of spandex--or simply be really tightly woven cotton--because it still fits well, even after months of hand washing. On the left side, in gold thread, is embroidered the logo for Sight and Sound Theatre in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, USA. Never been to one of their shows, though I've heard they make quite an event. This shirt, which I picked up during orientation week in Akron, and which didn't take part in the agonising process of deciding what clothes to pack for a year abroad, has provided both emotional and physical warmth and comfort on many cold and lonely mornings.
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I like it not just for the way it feels on my skin and the ease with which it offsets my tanned skin and sometimes green eyes, nor for the sense of confidence and at-ease-ness it somehow always manages to bring with it [why am I more aware of the emotional impact of my clothing choices these days?]. I like it also for the memories it recalls of a rainy August night and of the many things I like about the organisation I work for.
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This shirt came into my possession one evening in August, toward the end of orientation. After saying farewell to IVEP participants, all of us SALTers and YAMEN boarded a bus and rode to the MCC warehouse/distribution center (I don't remember the actual name of this place, and my journal is light on entries from that week, probably because I was meeting and interacting with so many new people, as well as writing the last of a long list of thank you notes). This was the place where they pack all sorts of supplies to ship around the world as well as prepare items to be sold in thrift shops throughout the country.
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First a tour: we saw the looms where weavers make braided rugs from strips of excess donated clothing; the sewing room, where volunteers make beautiful quilts and other items; the tables for checking and properly packing all of the donated kits; a warehouse full of packed kits, bundled clothes and comforters, and canned meat; the shipping decks, where tractor trailers are filled with these same items; stacks of books which come from my own corner of the world, Harrisonburg, Virginia. We saw the kits MCC sends around the world--school kits with basic school supplies (trust me, a working pen and empty notebook can make quite a bit of difference in a child's scholastic performance), AIDs kits accompanied by financial donations for (expensive) medical supplies, and the relief kits given to refugees and families displaced by natural disasters. We learned about the food for work projects MCC participates in, providing both work and protein to people who do sustainable and locally beneficial projects.
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After the tour, we were put to work. At a long table, about ten of us sorted through hundreds of school kits, checking that the items fit MCC specifications, adding missing items, and repacking everything perfectly in the colourful drawstring bags. We enjoyed ourselves so much (for many of us, it felt really nice to finally "do something" after days of sitting around talking about all the wonderful things MCC does), they had to tell us repeatedly to stop. They then gave us a snack of biscuits and juice, though I didn't know then how very much I'd soon appreciate such simple fare, and pointed out a few shelves of books and a table of shirts (donated by Sight and Sound)--all free for the taking as we headed out to our respective assignments. I can't remember who all took shirts, but I had already put mine on as we dashed through the rain back out to the bus.
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And so, now anytime I wear my dark green shirt, I'm reminded of so many good things...
  • of the many friends I made that week of orientation, some of whom now wear matching shirts as we serve and learn all over the globe,
  • of the friends I've packed MCC kits with, both in and beyond Akron,
  • of the foundational principles of my organisation, with our emphasis on practical love and peacemaking, our commitment to simple living, and our creative attempts at wholesome and sustainable development projects,
  • and of the countless other volunteers and service workers who work alongside me all over the world in our shared attempt to bring the kingdom of god to earth in all its fullness.
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Okay, well honestly, I probably don't think about all these things all the time that I wear the shirt, but yes, it really does remind me of them.

16 December 2008

Another Poem from a Few Weeks Ago...

[note: at first, I wasn't sure that I wanted to post this one, but I've since decided to.]

The Echo
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Say that you love me.
And I will love you too.
Let life take us where it will.
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The softness of the wind
breathes softly through my hair.
But you dislike the breeze.
You cannot see where it ends
and so you fear its magic.
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Take my hand
in your own strong grasp.
And we will walk together.
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The path stretches before me,
and I journey beyond the signposts
that I couldn't even read.
You demand a map
and always seek the destination.
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I would offer you my heart.
(You already live inside it.)
Would you guard it well for me?
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And I dance,
twirling soft and free,
not thinking, only living.
It is reckless, you say, dangerous.
You dare not loose control.
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For love of you, my heart aches.
If I whisper,
will I hear your echo?

09 December 2008

Hearing Christmas Carols on the Radio...

I keep having to remind myself that it is really December. The weather and the recent "summer holiday spirit" of my kids has made it difficult to contextualise the approaching holiday season. However, the Christmas carols currently playing on the radio do help a bit.
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I must say, though, as comforting as it is to hear Bing Crosby wishing for a White Christmas, I don't bear such hopes myself...
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Personally, I'm looking forward to fresh bananas, pineapple, mangoes, and grasshoppers for Christmas :)

08 December 2008

Contemplating Miracles...

What are your thoughts on miracles? Do they exist? If so, what qualifies something as a miracle?
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The reason this is on my mind: the power has been on and off (off more than on) daily for the last week, with power shortages suggesting that this problem will get worse before it gets better. Unfortunately, we don't have a generator at the parish, and the school was counting on me to prepare certificates for our speech day on Saturday. The power went off sometime on Wednesday morning, but finally came back Friday afternoon, so my friend and I went to prepare the certificates. It took two hours of playing around on the laptop, searching for paper, and being frustrated with the printer, but finally they were finished, so I left for home. Sometime during the first half of my 20 minute walk home, the power went out (it was on when I left the parish, but off by the time I got to town 10 minutes later). (Last night, the opposite phenomenon happened: the power came back on while I was walking home... both are strange occurrences).
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I don't believe that god intervenes in the simple daily affairs of individuals (as an example, I don't put much weight into prayers for a parking space close to the front doors of the mega-supermarket whose unethical and unjust business practices cause suffering around the world), but the realisation that we had only just managed to finish this important project in time brought an immediate prayer of gratitude and thanksgiving to my lips. And then, it made me start thinking about miracles and divine intervention in human life and activity (of which, judging by the amount of suffering in this part of the world, I tend to believe there is not enough of, if it truly does happen).
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So, I'm curious what you all think.
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And, as another piece to think about in relation to this issue, I once shadowed a pastor who warned his congregation not to consider as divine favour blessings which are simply part and parcel of middle class western developed nation life. That is, be careful before you attribute all of the good things in your life to god's looking kindly on you, when, after all, your material blessings, good health, long education, employment stability, and life expectancy might just be rolled up into the package of your American lifestyle.
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Oh, and yes, I know these thoughts will be probably strike some of you as inherently heretical. If so, feel free to judge and pray for me as much as you wish, but know that I'm more interested in critical thought and experiential insight than ideological debates.