New beginnings

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it
John 1: 1-5 (NIV)

Twelve years is a long time. A lot of water has passed under the bridge since my last post. In many ways my life is completely different to the way it was when I started this blog. My Mum, afer many years of Alzheimer's passed away in 2017. I miss her but I said my goodbyes a long while before that.

In other ways life is much the same; I still find myself seeking the Kingdom. It still seems as slippery as ever. Sometimes absolutely, visibly breaking out around me. Other times tantalizingly just out of reach.

When I started this blog in 2007 I was planning to look at all of the references to Kingdom in the gospels. It was a task I never completed. In restarting the blog I hope that it is a task that I will return to. But there are other priorities as well. A broader look at the life and commands of Christ. As someone seeking for the kingdom it is to the Gospels that I return!

Contentment

"I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through him who gives me strength" Philippians 4: 12-13 (NIV)

A few weeks back I was privileged to hear Lord Carey speak on this passage. On the Christian calling to be content. It is not a promise that we will perpetually be blessed so that there is nothing that could make us discontent, but rather that we will be provided the strength to remain content in whatever circumstance we find ourselves.

As I reflected on this I realised with surprise that was becoming my experience. I have visited my mother many times since the onset of her Alzheimer's. Whilst I still struggle often with what has happened to her I look forward to these visits. More than that. I enjoy these visits. Spending time with her is tinged with sadness, yes, at all she has lost. But it is still a joy.

In thinking this I wonder how many other joys I miss out on because I am not able to persevere through pain to that place of contentment.

Beyond healing

"But Zion said, 'The LORD has forsaken me, the Lord has forgotten me.'

'Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are ever before me.'" Isa 49: 15-17 (NIV)

My mother's Alzheimer's continues to progress. Each time I see her she seems to shrink a little. There are simple things that she used to do that she no longer does. Sometimes it takes a few minutes work to get a spark of recognition. Yet, somehow albeit down at a visceral level, she still seems to know who I am. She would never say my name. If anyone asks her who I am she replies "I don't know". Yet her eyes light up when I talk to her. She giggles with me as I gently tell her stories from her past. She happily puts her hand in mine and walks with me - or kisses me on the nose as I lean forward to her.

Over the last few weeks I have been quite low - my thoughts and faith spiralling slowly round this single question. Do I believe in a God who can heal and yet chooses not to? Because if he cannot heal then he is not God.

This morning's sermon was some comfort. Isaiah 49 - an ideal passage for Mothering Sunday - seems tinged with bitter irony when faced with the reality of Alzheimer's. And yet it brings me back to the cross. My name, my mother's name, carved on the saviour's wounded hands. It makes me look back at the prayers that have been answered. Yet it is small comfort for the ones that have not...

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune...

"We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus' sake, so that his life may be revealed in our mortal body." 2 Cor 4: 8-11

The last few days have been quite hard. A series of items of bad news from different directions. I guess that is the experience of many in troubled times. I'm still not sure that I know how to deal with any of it. In the midst of all the bad news though I read the passage above. Paul sounds so confident. He states the case as fact. We are not crushed, not abandoned, not destroyed and not in despair. Perhaps he's right. But I would be lying if I said I was not discouraged.

A couple of times this week I have muttered under my breath "It would be nice to have some good news for a change, Lord." And I know that sounds almost like sacrilege, because what is the Gospel if not good news? But that is not entirely how I meant it.

This weekend I visited my mother again. Yesterday she seemed very low. She almost didn't engage. As I have said before (in my posting the Long Defeat) it is heart-rending to see her slowly slipping away. Today by contrast she seemed happier. We sang a bit. We walked. I quoted old films and made her giggle. She even managed a sentence of four words at one point. It was nice to see her smiling. I guess this is good news. But somehow it doesn't quite feel like it.

Christmas presence

One of the many television advertisements which bombard our conscience to conform at this time of the year has the slogan "Christmas Solved". It plays on the feeling that Christmas represents a problem. It is as if somehow going to a particular website to order all our presents in one go can take a weight off our minds and free us to get on with our lives.

Yet this year I feel some sympathy with that. This year Christmas does feel more of a burden than a blessing. Not because of a list of imaginary tasks I have to accomplish, however, but rather in coming to terms with reality. My Christmas day will be spent in a care home with my Mother. In many ways it is as far away from an ideal Christmas as I can imagine it to be.

In my childhood the future possibility of Christmas with relatives in care never occurred to me. Whilst I may not wish for a return to a childhood Christmas, I do wish that she were better. That she understood more of what was going on around her. That I knew that she was happy (or at least contented - I'd settle for that).

Yet in another sense, however, it is closer to ideal. Christmas will be simpler. Many of the unnecessary distractions will no longer be there. Instead it will be about family. About love and care. About presence rather than presents.

This morning I was faced with the reality of Christmas for millions round the world. Refugees in Congo. Political prisoners in Zimbabwe. Peace on earth seems a distant dream in uncertain times. But in struggling myself to locate the joy at the heart of the Christmas story I find myself closer to their experience, and closer to the original story. Christ comes into an imperfect world not to cure it, but to care. To live and suffer alongside a broken creation. To offer a glimpse of a hope that is to come.

Faithfulness down the years

"Listen to me, family of Jacob, everyone that's left of the family of Israel. I've been carrying you on my back from the day you were born, and I'll keep on carrying you when you're old. I'll be there, bearing you when you're old and gray. I've done it and will keep on doing it, carrying you on my back, saving you." Isaiah 46:3-4 (The Message)

Many years ago I came across the opening verses of Isaiah 43 ("Fear not for I have redeemed you. I've called you by name. You are mine.") under circumstances which made them feel like a direct promise to me. Since then the verses have cropped up at significant moments. Over the last few weeks my attention has been directed to the broader context. Isaiah 43 sits at the heart of a passage which stretches from Isaiah 40 to 48 (and possibly beyond). Within the passage several themes emerge. God's continued desire and ability to look after his own; the foolishness of trusting in things which are not God; and the need for repentance and whole-hearted service.

Last weekend I visited my mother once again. Her Alzheimer's has robbed of her so much. This time she seemed particularly lost and forlorn. I wondered again about the place of God in her life. Where is the good in her current situation? Yet Isaiah prompts me to look at the past. Our history confirms God's ability to be active in both our lives.

Since my entry on the sufficiency of grace I have been pondering the difference between faith and trust. My faith is firmly rooted in seeing God's hand in my life. Trust, however, implies an acceptance of the outworking of his purposes in situations which make no sense. Perhaps faith is the confidence to move forward knowing that God can act, whilst trust is an acknowledgement that even if he doesn't, he still has our best interests in mind.

The sufficiency of grace

An out of the blue comment spurred me to look back at what I've written here. It's been a long time since my last post. That's not because the quest for the kingdom has been abandoned. It is just an increasing realisation that so much of the journey is intensely personal. My energies have been directed more toward private journal than public blog. So what has changed? In many ways not a great deal. I'm still in the same job. My mother still has Alzheimer's - she is now transitioning into full term care. I'm still searching for vision. I'm still shouting at God. He's still being gracious enough to whisper back occasionally. Health, stress and circumstances I don't like (but can't change) still cause me more worry than I believe that they should.

Some things, however, have changed. Just slightly. Perhaps even I've changed a bit. It feels like I've learned lots. My language has changed. It's almost as if I've run out of words. I no longer know what to say to God. That does not stop me going into his presence. If anything it spurs me to spend more time there. I cannot quite unpick whether this lack stems from the noise of the city and the cares of the world pushing them out - or a realisation that so many of my words of old were a futile attempt to control God rather than let him control me. Now when I find my prayers relating to my perception of my needs and the request for my solutions I feel this little voice in the back of my head saying "Do you trust me, Ian?" to which I can but reply "Yes Lord, I trust you. (Or at least I'd like to)". The other phrase which is resounding in my mind is that wonderful promise from 2 Corinthians. "My grace is sufficient for you." The only reply I can frame to that runs roughly thus: "Yes, Lord, but sometimes it really doesn't feel like it."

Blurred vision

Last weekend I was home again. My mother was much the same. She has little panic cycles in which she repeats a set of questions several times. No matter how many times you answer them and comfort her, she returns to them. It's really hard to know whether she understands the comfort that is offered. Sometimes I wonder if she really even understands the questions.

It made me think once more about how I relate to God. There are a number of questions that I am forever asking him. Am I missing his answers, and failing to understand completely the hints and directions I do receive?

This week my exploration of Henri Nouwen's writing unearthed the following

The main questions of religion - Who am I? Where have I come from? Where am I going? - are not questions with an answer but questions that open to us new questions which lead us deeper into the unspeakable mystery of existence.

And also this one

Theological formation is the gradual and often painful discovery of God's incomprehensibility.

Which square very well with my experience, if perhaps not being wonderfully encouraging!

Unconditional love

"We can understand someone dying for a person worth dying for, and we can understand how someone good and noble could inspire us to selfless sacrifice. But God put his love on the line for us by offering his Son in sacrificial death while we were of no use whatever to him." Rom 5: 7-8 (The Message)

This weekend I was once again looking after my mother. There is very little now that she can do or wants to engage with. She cannot read, and does not want to be read to. She has very little conversation - and quickly loses the thread of anything that you tell her. About the only thing she enjoys is going for a walk. So, despite the cold, we did a lot of walking. Most of it in silence - because it becomes hard to hold a conversation with one who has so little to say. It's heart-breaking to see how much she has lost. I realised once again just how much I miss her. Yet despite all of that I still love her and treasure the time we spend together. Just to give her a hug, or hold her hand. To share a little silliness and raise a momentary smile.

It got me thinking a bit about the way that God loves us. Since finishing Finding Sanctuary I have been working my way through an Henri Nouwen reader, Seeds of Hope. It is a collection of snippets from his various writings. This morning I came to the following:

The great temptation is to use our many obvious failures and disappointments in our lives to convince ourselves that we are not worth being loved. Because what do we have to show for ourselves?

But for a person of faith the opposite is true. The many failures may open that place in us where we have nothing to brag about but everything to be loved for. It is becoming a child again, a child who is loved simply for being, simply for reaching out.

This is the way to spiritual maturity; to receive love as a pure free gift.

It made me stop short again. God's gift of love does not depend on what I achieve for him. It does not depend on my search for his kingdom. It is not reduced by the set-backs and failures I encounter. The fact I've hurt him or missed a few quiet times does not make him feel awkward or sullen in my presence.

I wonder, ultimately, if this is what the kingdom is. To be accepted for who I am not what I can do. Maybe the best I can ever do for anyone else is just that...

The word made flesh

"I seek you with all my heart; do not let me stray from your commands. I have hidden your word in my heart that I might not sin against you. " Ps 119: 10-11

It's been a while since I have written. Moving house, a bout of ill health and other preoccupations have kept me away. The last few weeks have been a spiritually dry place. I have yelled at God a lot. His answers are, more often than not, non-answers. I see this often in scripture. God does not answer man's direct question, choosing rather to focus his replies on strengthening our relationship with him.

Last weekend I was home again, helping my father look after my mother who's Alzheimer's continues to get worse. During this time he told me how little time he had to himself these days. He hardly even finds time to read his bible. Here is someone who has a real cause to yell at God. And yet his words were tinged with hope and joy not sadness or anger. He went on to tell me that many days he just picks a story in his mind and goes over what he knows of it. He has read the bible so many times it has become part of his thinking. So deeply ingrained in his soul that being deprived of the text is no hardship.

As I left, I stole two of my mother's Henri Nouwen books. She cannot read more than a few words without losing the thread these days so I figured she would not miss them. In one of them I found this.

The purpose of a fish trap is to catch fish and when the fish are caught the trap is forgotten. The purpose of a rabbit snare is to snare rabbits and when the rabbits are caught the snare is forgotten. The purpose of the word is to convey ideas. When the ideas are grasped the words are forgotten. Where can I find a man who has forgotten words? He is the one I would like to talk to.

In my thinking about the sermon on the mount I am drawn to conclude that the words are not the important thing, beautiful though they are. It is the lifestyle that is important. The concepts need to be so deeply carved into the fabric of our souls that we live that way without thinking. Looking at the example of my father I fear I still have a long way to go...

The long defeat

"Together through ages of the world we have fought the long defeat." Galadriel (The Lord of the Rings)

Tolkien's Elves are strange creatures. Jolly yet serious, mischievous yet wise, joyful yet without hope. Over long ages they have witnessed the decline of all they hold dear, and yet still they sing. Treebeard the Ent says this of them. "They always wished to talk to everything , the old Elves did. But then the Great Darkness came, and they passed away over the Sea, or fled into far valleys, and hid themselves and made songs about days that would never come again."

Sometimes life seems like a long defeat. Fighting a battle where no victory is possible but which is still worth fighting. Like the fight to keep the quality of life for a slowly declining patient. I spent this weekend looking after my mother again. It's hard to see her looking so lost. She descends into panic so easily. No matter how much time you invest, she always reverts to it. And yet still I strive for hard-won smiles, even if they are all too soon replaced.

In contrast last week I was encouraged once again upon Romans 8 in the Message:

That's why I don't think there's any comparison between the present hard times and the coming good times. The created world itself can hardly wait for what's coming next. Everything in creation is being more or less held back. God reins it in until both creation and all the creatures are ready and can be released at the same moment into the glorious times ahead. Meanwhile, the joyful anticipation deepens.

All around us we observe a pregnant creation. The difficult times of pain throughout the world are simply birth pangs. But it's not only around us; it's within us. The Spirit of God is arousing us within. We're also feeling the birth pangs. These sterile and barren bodies of ours are yearning for full deliverance. That is why waiting does not diminish us, any more than waiting diminishes a pregnant mother. We are enlarged in the waiting. We, of course, don't see what is enlarging us. But the longer we wait, the larger we become, and the more joyful our expectancy.

That sounds more like a "Long Victory" to me. Somehow - I don't know how - I hope Paul is right. That the expectation is valid and all will come good. Maybe it's in those times when things don't seem to work together for good that we need to believe it most.

Transformation by service

Last November my mother was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's. Over a period of a few short months she deteriorated from very tired and mildly forgetful to being almost incapable of looking after herself. In the early days before a care plan was established things became a little fraught at home. To help my father I spent some time looking after mum. Part way through this I found myself washing her (very dirty) feet. It was not a task that I would have naturally chosen.

It was not an easy few days. I had very little sleep and was emotionally and physically exhausted. Yet those moments stick out in my memory as immensely special times. In caring for someone I loved, I found myself able to do jobs which under any other circumstance I would have found distasteful and looked back on in horror. On reflection it was not really my mother who benefited. Certainly her feet were cleaner and her toenails cut. She would have been more comfortable for a few days at least. I doubt that she has any recollection of it now. The impact on me runs far deeper. I learned things about myself I never knew. It made me think in new ways about what it really means to love my neighbour.

Each evening after I had settled my mother to sleep I read a bit from The Jesus I Never Knew by Philip Yancey. One chapter talks of an encounter with Henri Nouwen. Yancey was staggered to find that Nouwen had given up a high-profile job to look after mentally handicapped patients.

Nouwen told me it took him nearly two hours to prepare Adam each day. Bathing and shaving him, brushing his teeth, combing his hair, guiding his hand as he tried to eat breakfast - these simple, repetitive acts had become for him almost like an hour of meditation.

I must admit I had a fleeting doubt as to whether this was the best use of the busy priest's time. Could not someone else take over the manual chores? When I cautiously broached the subject with Nouwen himself, he informed me that I had completely misinterpreted him. "I am not giving up anything," he insisted. "It is I, not Adam, who gets the main benefit from our friendship."

Now, nearly six months later I am still absorbing this. Nouwen was a well-known author and theologian. He had earned world-wide respect for the insight of his books, and yet he dedicated the last ten years of his life to the direct care of others. This takes me back to the idea of living sacrifice I started with. And yet losing his life to serve others Nouwen gained so much. Yancy goes on to write "He had learned to love Adam, truly to love him. In the process he had learned what it must be like for God to love us."