It always starts with words

Currently pondering conflict, and the place ego and pride seem to play. Whether it's the smaller circle of family and friends, or the more large-scale... how to break the spiral of violence? It takes someone prepared to take a step back, and potentially put their reputation at risk, to push pause. How many lives have to be destroyed first, before reaching that place? Over the last few years, the term DARVO has become familiar. Standing for Deny, Attack, Reverse Victim Offender, it's often used in discussions around narcissism - and, politically, in reference to people such as Donald Trump or Boris Johnson, both of whom seem expert practitioners. The other word for the practice can be traced back to the 1944 film Gaslight from which we have gaslighting.

Given my research on verbal dispute, and knowing the old saying:
Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me

is a pile of nonsense, to me, the cycle of violence always seems to begin with words, used both to diminish the other, and justify one's own actions. Here, I'm thinking of Vladimir Putin's speech justifying war on Ukraine as just one example but it's been a classic strategy - from Athens v Sparta through to Hitler, and so on.

Words.

It always starts with words:

insults or propaganda.

Dehumanise.

Make them less than you,

not even worth sharing the same air.

Justify.

If beyond the bounds of family feud,

cite ancient empires and ‘taking back the land.’

Worst case: losing face.

Deny.

It never happened or,

that’s not how it happened.

Attack.

Perhaps begin with verbal volleys,

soften up the target.

Reverse.

‘Hey, I’m actually the victim here!’

Claim you’re not the offender.

Reconciliation, or retaliation?

Stuck.

Circle of life, or circle of death?

Brokering peace, or bodies, broken?

Unbending.

Stubborn pride ignores the lighthouse

and steers straight towards the rocks.

Pyrrhic.

At the carnival of carnage

no winners, only wasteland.

        Nik Mac June 2023

Of bad beginnings and happy endings

The story of Ruth and Naomi too easily rushes to the 'all's well that ends well' stage. And yet, what to do with the beginning of the story because by the time we reach the end of the first five verses, we're left with the remnants of a family that has suffered catastrophic losses? Having escaped from famine in their homeland, the family move to, hopefully, greener pastures. Conditions have clearly been dire for several years, given that the names of Elimelech and Naomi's sons are Mahlon and Chillion - meaning 'sickness' and 'wasting'.
Within ten years of having settled in Moab, Elimelech and the sons have died, leaving behind three widows - Naomi, and her two daughters-in-law. Having heard the famine in her homeland has passed, Naomi decides to return.
All of that, in just five verses.

We know, from later in the text that Naomi's daughters-in-law are given the choice to make new lives for themselves without the ties of obligation - to return back to their own families and start again. One chooses home, the other, to travel with Naomi. And, on the matter of their treatment by scholars down the centuries, poor Orpah is given quite the harsh treatment by both Rabbinic and Christian scholars (see the following excellent essay 'The defamation of Orpah' by Dr.Barry Dov Walfish). Given the writer of the story passes no judgement on her, and, given Orpah doesn't immediately leave, and when she does, it is with tears - demonstrating a hard decision, to condemn Orpah is simply unfair. But I digress - perhaps Orpah is a reflection in waiting!

Back to the temptation to read Ruth through a 'quick, let's get to the happy ending' lens...
my attempt, below, to put in some balance to address the accentuate the positive view (yeah, just call me 'Debbie downer'!).

Would I?

Would I do it again, knowing all that I know now?

So long since hunger rumbled in my belly.

Was it worth it – the wrench of leaving home

as the cost of living took its toll?

We walked into the unknown,

my man and I,

the boys dawdling behind

with their cries of

‘are we nearly there yet?’

and ‘I need to pee!’

and their stumbling sleepwalking

towards a different promised land.

Would I do it again?

There seemed no other choice;

starve, or leave.

It was as stark as that.

And having walked, we settled,

strangers in a strange land.

And there was food

and my man found work

and the boys set about 

the business of growing into men –

when staying behind meant only

sickness and wasting. (1)

Would I do it?

Even now, that familiar stab of pain;

that hollow place where love once lived,

the sting of salt in eyes.

We managed, 

but a widow’s life is made bitter (2)

by the platitudes 

and hurried awkwardness of grief.

We, who had already moved,

moved on with our lives

and the boys found wives

and the promise of life once more.

Would I?

Even when everything good and pleasant (3)

had dried up like sweat in the summer sun?

Broken. 

A wife without her man, 

a mother without her chicks.

The voice of home called weary bones to go, 

walk back where they belonged.

Releasing the girls from their obligations,

one left; I wished her well.

The other stayed, compassionate friend. (4)

Together, we walked from famine to a fruitful harvest.
    Nik Mac c. June 2023

(1) Naomi’s sons were Mahlon and Chilion, their names meaning ‘sickness’ and ‘wasting’. Apt, perhaps, if they’d been born in a time of famine.

(2) When Naomi returned to Bethlehem, she told those greeting her to call her ‘Mara’, which means ‘bitter’.

(3) The name ‘Naomi’ means ‘good’, ‘pleasant’, ‘lovely’.

(4) Ruth’s name translates as ‘friend’ or ‘compassionate friend’.

Senga, dancing

George Elgar Hicks:
The Lament of Jephthah's Daughter, 1871

I was tasked with writing a wee something on the story in Judges 11:29-40, of Jepthah's unnamed daughter - and the vow her father made. Thinking about that vow, I did wonder why he seemed so surprised and then struck by grief when his daughter came running to meet him. The vow was, after all, exceedingly specific: 
‘Whoever comes out of the doors of my house to meet me…’ 

Exactly who did Jephthah expect would come out of the house to meet him?
Not Nip the dog or Fluff the cat.
'Whoever', not 'whatever' - telling choice of word, that.
The text informs us that Jephthah's household is not exactly large: he has only one child. Presumably there's a mother... possibly some servants. Perhaps he had in mind a servant coming to meet his Master, to tend to him and the horse, then meet his Maker? Or, heaven forfend, Jephthah's wife - after all, only the one child, and a daughter at that...? He gets to fulfil his vow, and then replace the first wife with another more fertile companion? Brutal, but convenient.
But no, it's his daughter who meets him:
'Yay! Daddy's home!... You did what?!'

The unnamed daughter is sacrificed - after all, vows must be fulfilled and honour kept intact. She is the price to be paid to broker victory in battle, with no real agency of her own. And yet, for all that the outcome will still be the loss of her life, she speaks up:
she lays out her terms. If she's going to go, she'll go off and do what she needs to do - prepare in whatever way she needs to, hang out with her pals, perhaps have some big conversations where, whenever her Dad is mentioned, there's some serious side-eye happening.

I wanted this young woman to have a name... wondered about her response... thought about it in a more Scottish context. And the line wondered through my head:
'Wee Senga's off to the disco with her pals.'
So, below, a work in process. I'd quite like the finished product to be properly in Scots - we shall see!

Senga, dancing/
Wee Senga’s off to the disco with her pals.
They’ll dance around their handbags,
have a few swallies –
but not get too puggled, mind:
every moment, every minute,
meant to last a lifetime. 

Wee Senga’s off away soon.
They’ll dance like they’ve never danced before,
celebrate in style –
a cheeky Vimto and a stolen kiss,
and laugh to cover up the inner scream
at her body, brokered for him.

Wee Senga’s living like every day’s her last;
They’ll keep on dancing ‘til the party ends –
two months will go too fast –
an’ if anyone should tut and say:
‘but yer Da’ll kill you!’
She’ll just say: ‘Aye, so he will.’
     Nik Mac c.2023

Lottie, looking back

Lot's Wife Pillar, Mt Sodom, Dead Sea, Israel

A wee reflection sparked by Genesis 19:12-26 on Lot's wife, who looks back

Lottie, looking back

Lottie lifts the album

from its dustless shelf,

hugs it close,

places it on the coffee table – 

all in quiet tenderness.

It’s not a proper visit 

without the family on display.

And ach, how she loved them.

She was happy then,

fresh-cheeked, eyes twinkling –

eyes now with a soft light

as her finger moves slowly

to the children.

‘Ah, wee Callum - cheeky laddie; always the joker.

And Shona, forever making sandcastles – 

och, the sand got everywhere.

They loved the beach, eh.’

Seaside holiday snaps,

Christmases, birthdays,

a few anniversary celebrations 

in for good measure.

‘Would you look at Billy –

wearing that silly hat one Christmas:

he was always ‘silly Billy’ after that,

but there was no harm in it.’

Lottie strokes the close up face.

‘A good man,

a kind husband,

and a doting dad, that one.’

Always the photographs;

fading, dog-eared memories 

of days long gone;

smiles, frozen in time –

a past now only remembered by her.

And so she tells their stories,

while she still remembers:

when she goes

then they’ll all be gone.

‘What’s your name?’

‘It’s Shona.’

A page turns;

me, 40 years younger.

16 year old -

all excitement and puffy sleeves,

dressed up for my very first dance.

‘This is my girl, Shona – such a pretty one.

You’d like her, I think.’

Tears threaten, but I shake them off. 

‘Yes, Mum.’

My hand covers hers,

it’s warm, and wrinkled,

and still on the photo album

full of memories,

where her heart and soul,

and mind, now live.
                c. Nik 2023

She knows her place

The other day, writing a piece for a project on which I'm a team member, I had cause to ponder that much abused (and I use that word intentionally) verse from Ephesians 5:22-23 on wifely submission. For too long, it's been used as a pillar to support toxic masculinity, and a tool to keep women down - that they 'know their place' in the apparent ordained pecking order of life. It's seen, within some (and I hasten to say, not all!)

circles of Christianity as a way of control: guilting a woman to stay within a relationship that is physically, mentally, emotionally abusive. In those particular circles, the onus is on the woman to behave appropriately: if she just does as she's told, there won't be a problem - if behaviours occur that harm, then, it's her fault. Clearly, her attitude and actions are to blame, are provocative in some way. There's a whole theology around the submission of women that serves as a template for some to excuse unacceptable behaviour - more than that: to almost sanctify violence. A pious doublespeak of 'it's because I love you that I'm doing this; it's the godly thing to do.' Outwith those particular circles of Christianity, it's played its part in wider society through conversations and attitudes around the role, or place, of women... helping to create an unholy foundation for their diminishing whether by words, or mind games, or violence, or indeed, a combination of all.

As I said, I'm pondering... but within Scotland, the statistics around violence against women are horrific. Between one in three, to five, women will be subject to domestic violence at some point in their lives; around every 10 seconds, a report of domestic violence is logged with Police Scotland; in 2021-2022, nearly 65 000 domestic abuse incidents were reported. Legally, unlike England or Wales, in Scotland it's deemed reasonable to cite suspected infidelity as a justification for lethal violence as part of a plea of provocation. There's mention further below of 'a Diane, an Emma, a Nicole'. This is reference to women who died due to domestic violence: Diane Nichol, Emma Coupland and her daughter, Nicole Anderson. The day before he killed her, Nichol’s partner was overheard by witnesses ‘You’re useless, you don’t clean, you don’t make my lunch. You better make it tomorrow.' Nichol’s injuries were so severe, the attack so violent, that they were likened, by first responders at the scene, to those sustained in a road traffic accident.

Currently, we're in Eastertide - having walked through Holy Week, the violence and death of Jesus, and through to resurrection. Within the context of that week and, in particular, Friday and the cross, there are those who champion the penal substitution theory of atonement - 'every lash of the whip, every hammer blow, etc. was because of, and for you.' Taken to its logical extreme, there's an argument to be had here for the heavenly household being an divine example of domestic violence - in this case, cosmic child abuse. It provides a blueprint that ties in far too easily with the matter of wifely submission/ male headship: as God the Father punished the Son (on our behalf... it's your fault, etc.) so, the man, who is 'head' of the house has authority to punish the subordinates in his household... There's a bizarre cognitive dissonance with a theory that, at its core, affirms 'God loves you so much that he arranged for his child to be beaten, tortured, and killed' - that same classic dissonance of the abuser of a partner or child using the old, twisted line: 'I'm only doing this because I love you.' To me, that's at odds with what we see of the rest of Jesus' life and teaching - and, to only focus upon 3 hours of his life misses the wider context of seeing him as a model for demonstrating a life fully lived - and, what life in full relationship with God as parent looks like. Summing up this viewpoint perhaps as: this is how to live - in love: with God and neighbour. It can be costly, but it will overturn the mighty, and overcome injustice, and bring in God's kin-dom.

So, I lay my own theological cards on the atonement theory table: clearly, I'm more on the 'Jesus as an example for us on how to live' model, rather than following the road that leads to the problematic violence of penal substitution. We follow One who understood power not as dominance, but as vulnerability - of offering love and service to one another. This was to be the radical blueprint pointing to a life-giving way to dismantle toxic behaviours and build a life-affirming kingdom - a kin-dom - where all are valued, respected, deemed worthy, and where there will be no more tears, violence, or death; a kin-dom and culture that celebrates abundant life, in word and in deed. Until we challenge more readily some of our more toxic theology, and dare walk down that radical road of non-violence and love, we continue to be complicit in a culture of death, not life.

Certainly, historically, some sections of the church have been complicit, either overtly, or through silence. There is, however, some movement institutionally towards not only recognising violence against women, but setting up task groups and providing resources. It's a start, but the work is ongoing. How do we address the hermeneutics of power and violence within scripture, and embedded in culture? There's a whole lot of patriarchal dismantling to do. 

See article ‘As killings of women increase in Scotland, if femicide the real ‘F’ word?’ by Kirsteen Paterson in Holyrood 15 March, 2023. 
https://www.holyrood.com/inside-politics/view,as-killings-of-women-increase-in-scotland-is-femicide-the-real-f-word

For a starting place for further resources, see: https://www.churchofscotland.org.uk/about-us/our-views/violence-against-women

‘She knows her place’

She knows her place:

she needs to, for safety’s-sake.

And even then

as she diminishes herself,

becomes small,

invisible,

there’s no guarantee.

With provocation as a plea –

‘she made me do it!’

‘She deserved it!’ –

it will always be

her fault.

She knows her place

and so does he:

everywhere she goes

and who she meets;

how much she spends.

Every moment, every conversation,

accounted for

and, if not,

accusation and interrogation.

It’s because he loves her:

it’s for her own good,

the beating’s done.

She knows her place:

told by her pastor, father, man

to submit, be good,

obey.

She never measures up –

is useless, doesn’t clean, make lunch…

she’d better do, tomorrow.

She’s a Diane, an Emma, a Nicole:

she’s the 1-in-5, the every 10.*

But it’s a private matter, 

a women’s issue;

not a priority.

...She knows her place.

           Nik 2023

'Ark'

Reflection based on the women in the story... 
Exodus 1:8-2:10 

'Ark'
They placed the tiny cargo 

into the makeshift ark, 

pushed it out 

past the reeds 

hoping for salvation. 

No saccharine story 

filled with  

happily paired animals, 

no cheerful snatches of 

‘Arky, arky’. 

But perhaps, 

in its own distinctive way 

this, too, was a story 

of new beginnings: 

a reset. 

Mercy 

moved the midwives, 
not ambition; 

It was never about 

making a name for themselves 

in the larger story 

of a people 

and their god… 

Even so,  

the story lifts them above 

the nameless Pharoah: 

Shiphrah and Puah 

live on, 

named and righteous. 

  

Odd, how the ‘cull’ order 

seemed only to see 

an increase 

in the Hebrew birth-rate. 
If it was subversive, 

an act of resistance  

against state-sanctioned slaughter  

of innocents, 

so be it… 

‘The women give birth quickly, Sire,’ 

they lie 

to the old man on the throne, 

even as his daughter 

draws out 

the river-child 

from the basket that will bear his name, 

and takes him home.  
               c. Nik 2023

*'Ark' - from the Heb. תֵּבָה, tevah; 'box, or 'basket' - used only twice, the other reference: in the story of Noah. Both arks, in different ways, vessels built with the purpose of saving life.
n.b. the name 'Moses' sounds like the Hebrew for 'draw out'.

Lectionary leanings - Pentecost 18C: 'Boundaries'

Boundaries
a meditation on Luke 17:11-19

Crossing boundaries:
Galilee and Samaria,
Jew and Gentile,
clean and unclean.

Blurry boundaries
when those who were ‘in’
became those thrown out.
Expendable through disease,
they formed a bond
beyond culture,
out of need.
A community on the edge,
survival focused unity.
It was...
mutually beneficial.

Beyond boundaries
of time and space,
both divine and human,
he walked into the margins
of their lives.
Mercy transforming them,
nine hurried away
to move from 'out'
to ‘in’ again.

Boundaries broken
by love,
the one who would never be ‘in’
with those former comrades in crisis
returned,
thankful to be taken in
by the greater company
of God.
            c.Nik Mac 2022

Lectionary leanings - Pentecost 17C: 'Faith is...'

 Faith is...
a meditation on Luke 17:5-10

Faith is not believing six impossible things before breakfast.
Faith is not competing for a gold medal in the spiritual Olympics.
Faith is not about quantity, but quality:
less vast sea, and more, small seed.

Faith is a leap, or sometimes a foot planted hesitantly on the floor.
Faith is relational, a life-long process of learning how to be.
Faith is a growing knowing
into the heart of God.

Faith feels its way forward, tho’ sometimes falls flat on its face.
Faith feels wild, and free – moves mulberry trees; tho’ sometimes it’s shy and timid too.
Faith feels organic, authentic, real...
which, in the end, is all that we’re truly called to be.
                                               c.Nik Mac 2022

Lectionary leanings - Pentecost 16C: Purple

Purple
A meditation on the rich man and Lazarus - Luke 16:19-31 

Purple,
the colour of power, prestige.
Fine linen;
lush and lovely –
luxurious.
The daily feasting –
food piled high;
dainty and delicate,
exotic, enticing:
spices and sherbets;
tidbits to tempt the trickiest palate.
A good life, this,
wanting for nothing,
eyes dazzled by the glory
and colour and sumptuousness of it all:
so accustomed to privilege
that he cannot see anything
or anyone other than his own.
Nothing exists beyond his bubble.

Pale:
poverty’s power stunts all.
Rags and sores,
barely cover
his flesh.
Cold saps his energy –   
little strength
to keep the dogs at bay,
nipping, yapping:
ready to devour;  
while his own while hunger gnaws within.
A living death, this,
having nothing, always wanting –
eyes made sharp by serious lack.
So accustomed to invisibility
that he does not have the luxury
of choosing not to see.
Beyond the bubble, he is nothing.
                c.Nik Mac 2022

Easter 2 reflection: Thomas

Thomas based on Jn 20:19-31
Not for you 

the hiding behind locked doors:

Thomas, the doer;

practical, shrewd.

Even in grief –

especially in grief –

people have to eat

and food doesn’t just

appear as if by magic, 

does it?

Do you smile at the thought,

remembering a hill,

some loaves and fishes,

an unexpected, very large picnic?

Not for you

hemming yourself in from fear:

Thomas, the daring;

pragmatic, brave.

Even when risk –

especially when risk –

is looming,

you square your shoulders

and walk with him to Jerusalem

to die.

Do you wince at the thought,

remembering a hill,

a cross of wood and nails,

an unexpected, yet expected ending?

Not for you

closing yourself away:

Thomas, the anything but doubting;

prophetic, wise.

Even when faced –

especially when faced –

with the unthinkable.

Unlike the others, you worship,

for you see him as he is:

divine.

Do you laugh at the thought,

remembering the upper room,

his side, his hands,

an unexpected, yet predicted beginning?
     c.Nik Mac 2022

Maundy Thursday, in a time of pandemic...

Maundy Thursday, in a time of pandemic...  

This Maundy Thursday,
there’ll be no shared meal around a table
for there’d be more
than two households who’d gather;
no washing of feet,
nor a beloved disciple coorying in;
no touching, no hugging—
and where a kiss is a betrayal
on a variety of levels.

In a time of pandemic,
when simple touch
can lead to death,
how then to show God’s love,
to do as Jesus has done for us?

Loving one another is:
a facemask worn;
the skoosh of sanitiser,
falling cool upon hands
when making entries and exits;
making space—
at least two metres.

There are other ways to practice love—
to touch hearts without touching:
be deliverers of medicines,
of food,
of news,
or, stay home—
for that, too, is an act of loving service.

Support the local food bank.
Phone a friend,
ask them how they really are—
and give the gift of listening
when, timidly, they tiptoe past ‘fine’
and move into harder honesty.

This Maundy Thursday,
we follow the command to love
by touching other’s lives...
without touching.
                    c.Nik Mac 2021

'Have yourself an edgy little Christmas': a memory

Remembering a Christmas from long ago...  

She had wanted to be edgy, a wee bit trendy;
to deconstruct tired Christmas tree traditions.
Day by day, she walked the beach
eyes scanning shells and sand,
dismissing plastic bottles with peeling, faded labels,
ignoring soft pink jellyfish splayed out in hot summer sun.
Among the seaweed hummocks
she found what she was looking for,
felt the smoothness of sea-washed wood in her hand.
She nodded, pleased, gave a ‘this will do nicely’ smile.
Once dried and cleaned,
rustic natural charm was replaced –
overlaid by spray of glossy white paint.
Slung between two wall lamps by fishing line,
hung with assorted baubles, shining red,
driftwood that had once been part of something bigger
seemed to make the season strangely small.
There were presents, wrapped and stacked against the wall
but firm: ‘no room for a tree this year.’
It seemed oddly fitting:
in this deconstructed Christmas
there was little room for Jesus.

When the child grew up
and made her own way in the world,
she reconstructed what felt to her like Christmas.
No matter where she lived, 
how big or small her home,
there was always a tree to lay wrapped presents under –
room enough to remind her of that other gift:
of the babe wrapped in bands of cloth and laid within the manger.
   [c.Nik Mac]

'This year of cancelled things...' - Advent 1, yrB

Based on Isaiah 64:1-9; Mark 13:24-37
'This year of cancelled things...'

Watching and waiting,
wary,
and weary with it.
Even so:
'Keep awake!'
comes the prophet's cry,
ringing out 
this year of cancelled things:
concerts and carnivals,
chit-chat and dreams crushed;
losses, collected like unwanted trophies.
Time, suspended,
turns hours into eternities
of fretful forgetfulness;
blue regret
paints our days.
'Stay alert,'
the prophet whispers,
as if we were not already in a state of hyper-vigilance.
Yet, beneath the whispered warning,
something else:
a sliver of light,
a shiver of encouragement 
in one small, wondered 'why?'
To keep awake,
to stay alert 
means
that there is more.
These are watchwords of hopefulness.
Dawn follows dark.
All will fade, and all will be made new.
In starlight's glimmer we glimpse
a pathway to a stable
full of promise
and hear, in the near,
footsteps
pregnant with possibility.
     c.Nik Mac 11/2020

Imago Dei

Imago Dei 

We bear the marks
of grace upon our face,
carry within us God’s DNA:
God-made.
Sparks of divinity
course through our veins;
our warp and weft,
the stuff of stars.
God shaped...
and so,
we are.

Heaven-made creatures,
birthed from earth,
we dance between the world and universe:
God’s own.
Flesh and blood
and soul and bone
combined in
holy mystery.
God loved...
and we,
God’s mastery.
                    c. Nik Mac 2020

Emerging

Emerging from blog hibernation...
Emerging from lockdown...
and, trying to emerge from the bleakness...

I always set out with the best of intentions when it comes to journal or blog-keeping.
What I continually discover, is that what is consistent is my ad-hoc randomness.
Perhaps I work best to deadlines.
Perhaps I'm not one for finding a profound thought every day and proclaiming it;
sending it half-cocked, and not quite formed, out into the world.
Perhaps I lack ambition, perhaps I just get tired, and often, I just get distracted -
the joy and the curse of a butterfly mind...
As the great emergence from lockdown begins, its effects, for me, seem to be more tiredness, even more butterfly mind.
We all of us have our different reactions and coping mechanisms:
clearly, one of mine is napping and it's hard to focus when you've nodded off unexpectedly in the office chair.

Thinking of lockdown, of COVID-19, and of coping:
I've been curious to see how others have been affected, and their particular coping mechanisms and reactions. I listen to folk on the phone, or watch interactions in yet another 'zoom' meeting, or dig under the walls of dogma and political ideology that passes for news to try and find what the reality might be.
There is talk of collective trauma, lots of rage against 'the machine' of the Establishment.
There has been corresponding amounts of bluster and deflection by the Establishment.
There have been deaths, too many deaths.
When our PM talks of 'success', I think of the line from 'The Princess Bride': 'You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.'
Perhaps the toxic combination of the old British sense of exceptionalism and a Brexit-induced nostalgia for the glory of Empire is perverting something that has been so utterly devastating into something to cheer about.
Double-think and newspeak live, and Orwell was a prophet.

I yearn for government with conscience, that seeks the commonweal.
May your kingdom come, Lord...

Thresholds: an Advent memory

The ward is all bustle and busyness as I enter. M is there at the desk and we smile a greeting. A little banter and small talk, some seasonal chat, and then:
'Anyone in particular...' I trail off, enquiring.
'Yes. I wonder if you'd be willing to sit with Mrs B in Rm 3? It's...' she pauses, looking for words. 'Well, she's close now, and, I've phoned the family, but they just said to call back after it's done.'
Almost in unison, our eyes meet and eyebrows raise. Perhaps the implied judgement is harsh: who really knows what goes on in families?

With a small nod, and an 'of course,' I head to the room, accompanied by M. Over the short time I've been here, I've come to have immense respect for the medical staff. Their determination to do everything in their power not to let anyone die alone, if at all possible, is admirable. In the midst of machines and beeps, of needles and tubes, they are the beating heart of the ward. 
'I've tried to make her comfortable, put the radio on, y'know, to give her some small dignity. She's unconscious, but restless. We've given her morphine for the pain but...' An apologetic shrug of the shoulders finishes the sentence. We stand, pausing at the threshold, looking in upon the tiny human gathered into herself with pain. Classic FM is playing 'The Coventry Carol'. Sombre, haunting notes weave themselves in and around the room: Bye, bye lully, lullay. 

I catch myself taking a deep breath as I move across one threshold and into another: a liminal space where past, present, and future mix. Here, life and death reach out, fingertips seeming to meet with just the barest of touch. Hearing is generally the last of the senses to shut down. As I approach the bed and the unconscious Mrs B, I greet her softly:
'Hello, Mrs B, my name is Nik, I'm one of the chaplains. M asked me to come and to sit with you awhile. I hope that's okay.' I settle on the blue plastic chair at the bedside, glance across at M and we nod. She disappears along the corridor. The room is graced with a generous window, and so I describe the day and the doings that are going on outside. It is a glorious winter's day. High up, a dissipating vapour trail interrupts the clear blue sky. Closer to earth, a gentle wind eddies about bare tree branches, while an empty Gregg's bag is pushed in fits and starts along the path. Flashes of blue and orange float towards goal - the entrance to the other side of the hospital across the square. The timely exit of a nurse creates an opening and it's in. Not long after mid-day, and the soft sunlight fills the room. The music has moved on, and a chattering Mozart tinkles playfully, all bright and breezy.

Time slows. We two are floating on a raft, adrift somewhere between this world and the next. There are moments of calm as well as restlessness. Who is this woman, reduced so much by illness? I wonder about her life, her loves, dreams and hopes - who and what formed the person she has become? In this moment, however, with only a stranger beside her for company, she is only truly known to God. I suspect that it's the case for all of us. Occasionally, I speak, or gently touch a cold hand when the pain causes Mrs B to groan and shift fitfully on the bed. Mostly, we have moved into silence, with a reassurance: 'I'm here. I'm just by your side.'  I hope that if she is  aware in some way, that my presence is not intrusive, but welcome. Ancient words form a pattern in my mind and I realise that I am praying the Aaronic Blessing, pausing at length at the end of each bidding. There is the overwhelming sense that another has joined us on the raft, even as the silent prayer follows its course. A momentary jarring, as the strains of a pomp  and circumstance march parrumphs along its way energetically. Such an oddly mixed play-list. I let the thought pass. The march retreats into the background and we land on holy ground.

For all the restlessness, when the moment comes, it is a relatively peaceful death. A long sigh, stillness. Seconds pass. An intake of breath, and out, and then she is gone. I place my hand on her now peaceful head, pray a blessing on her, then walk out to find M. As I leave, I realise that 'O come, O come, Emmanuel' is playing. I walk along the corridor with the verse sounding in my ear:
O come, Thou Dayspring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here.
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death's dark shadows put to flight...
Rejoice, rejoice! Emmanuel 
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

Later, at home, as I light the Advent candles before dinner, I pause, think of Mrs B, her absent family, of M and the staff in the ward. I give thanks in this season of Advent for odd moments of grace in a strange world, liminal places, for the kindness and care of strangers, and for Mrs B - unknown to me, but in my own faith's understanding, known and named, and loved by God.
And, yes, for the curious privilege of this calling.

'She cannot throw his shoes away' - Martha and Lazarus

As a wee writing challenge to myself, I'm exploring different forms of poetry.
Earlier in the year, at writing group, we discussed the 'villanelle' -
think 'Do not go gentle into that good night', by Dylan Thomas, as an example.
One of our number had raised the subject, and then shared an attempt [brilliant]
that she'd written. It planted a seed. Now on holiday by the seaside, I've a little
time to write. In having a go at this form, I really enjoyed the winding thread of
rhyme and the pattern.

Below, my first attempt.
The subject matter is grief - with a nod to Joan Didion's 'shoes' in her superb
'The year of magical thinking.'  
Here, we have Martha, sister of Lazarus.
Perhaps this may come in handy over Holy Week, or at a bereavement service over Advent/Christmas.

Martha, on the death of Lazarus
She cannot throw his shoes away
and runs her thumb along the grooves -
perhaps he’ll need them back one day?

She feels the hollows toes have made,
and feels his presence in the room -
she cannot throw his shoes away.

She sits and holds her tears at bay
looks at his clothes, smells death’s perfume -
perhaps he’ll need them back one day?

She stumbles in her grief, feels rage,
feels numb, feels sad; how grief consumes -
she cannot throw his shoes away.

She rises, at the Rabbi’s gaze
and, shoes in hand, a small hope blooms -
perhaps he’ll need them back one day?

‘Come out!’ she hears the Rabbi say
and signs of life sound from the tomb:
she cannot throw his shoes away
perhaps he’ll need them back one day?
                                            ©Nik Macdonald, 19 Nov. 2019

#WordKindnessDay

'What is the quality of life on our planet? It is nothing more than the sum of our interactions. 

Each kindness enhances the quality of life. Each cruelty diminishes it.' 

                                                                                                       - Desmond Tutu and Mpho Tutu

According to the 'trends' bar on Twitter, yesterday was #WorldKindnessDay.
On Sunday, the not quite so United Kingdom saw Acts of Remembrance conducted all around
the four nations, reflecting upon that most unkind of arenas, war. This year, as I made preparations
for the four services that I'd be conducting over the day, it was the power of words that struck home.
Of the many weapons of war, one of the most powerful tools to create conflict is a word honed
and sharpened and polished to deadly perfection.

In research for my thesis, I did a good bit of work on the subject of verbal dispute and reconciliation.
For Early Modern Scots, the Victorian saying:
'Sticks and stones may break my bones
but names will never hurt me,'
would be incomprehensible - in an honour culture, they understood how the power of words
could ruin a reputation. They felt keenly the wounds that words could cause. I've come to the
conclusion that, in a sense, they were much more on point in their understanding concerning
the power of name-calling than the Victorians who made up a saying that is essentially tosh.
Words chip away at self-esteem, words/ name-calling can dehumanise, and words
were one of the first things that were employed by propagandists when war broke out.
It is easier to destroy a fellow human being once you've effectively turned them into a
'mad brute', or 'filthy Hun.' In the process of 'othering', the cogs of conscience are made smooth
and so the justification to eradicate 'vermin' and 'monsters' becomes a little easier.

Paul, the main protagonist in that excellent novel 'All quiet on the Western Front' like his
comrades in the trenches, has not been immune to the effects of 'othering'. Occasionally,
however, he has unexpected glimpses of shared humanity. On one particularly terrifying
night, while out on patrol, he gets confused in the mess and maze of shell holes and trenches
and sits out a bombardment in a crater. During the night, as he hides from an enemy patrol,
a soldier falls on top of him. Instinctively, Paul stabs him, mortally wounding the man. It is
the first time he has been involved in hand to hand combat. The man takes a long time to die.
Compassion compels him to help his enemy; Paul tries to comfort the man, offers him water,
sits with him as he dies. As Paul looks at him, the 'monster' disappears and is replaced by a
fellow human being, a man who, if circumstances had been different, could have been a brother.
Bit by bit, as Paul imagines who the man is, what his life was like, and wonders about his
loved ones, the power of his imagination rehumanises this enemy. A pocket book and
photographs complete the integration and Paul is filled with remorse. Beyond the jingoism
and pithy insults, here in front of him was just another poor soul who'd been caught up
in the horror of war, caught up in the words designed to encourage him to join up, to fight,
and to kill.

The 'war to end all wars' didn't, and over the decades since, words have continued to be a
powerful and deadly weapon. They are not just employed in the arena of war. I watch and
am alarmed at the growing polemic used within political debate and journalism. Words
used by those in power are tools of division, conflict, and disunity. They are used to deflect
the truth. They are used to bully, cajole, condemn, and intimidate. They are picked up
and used by others to destroy 'surrenderers', 'cowards', 'traitors' - all used of those in
the courts tasked with using the rule of law; used of those on different sides of the political
fence who may exercise their democratic right to disagree with a particular point of view.
They are the kinds of words that saw Jo Cox murdered, and are the kinds of words that
will continue to hurt, maim, and kill. They are the kinds of words that are deeply unkind.

And so, we come full circle, back to #WorldKindnessDay.
Perhaps the act of kindness begins by taking one letter out of the hashtag;
perhaps it begins with #WordKindnessDay?
If words can be used to dehumanise, they can also be drafted in to rehumanise.
The Early Modern Scots had quite specific rituals, used to recall 'wild words' -
to take them back out of the social arena, to put them away, and to use words
of reconciliation: confession, apology, taking responsibility, promising to do no further harm;
words making a beginning that recognised and affirmed the inherent humanity of the one
that they'd 'othered'; words even hinting at a possible future in which the relationship was restored.
Perhaps they were on to something.

Instead of breaking someone down with words, #WordKindnessDay would be a day where
words would be used to build one another up. Echoing the words of Desmond and Mpho Tutu,
each word would be carefully considered, each word chosen to communicate kindness, and so,
each word ultimately becoming a tool to enhance the quality of life for all.
Each word used would help to create a culture of kindness in which all are seen not as 'other',
but as precious, fragile, beautiful human beings.
All it takes is a little imagination to see beyond the 'other' and find yourself looking into the
eyes of an almost-familiar face, who with a little kindness, might well become
a friend, a comrade, a kindred spirit.
A simple, difficult task.
A reconciling task.
A task, I think, that faith calls us to, so to break the cycle of destruction and dehumanising.
There's a saying that often crops up:
'practise random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty.'
In one way, I like the feel of it, and yet... I think I need to work more on being more intentional
in the way I practise kindness.
And perhaps it's by making a start by using one - carefully considered - word at a time.

Of coffee, countryside and kirk...

My last post was a somewhat tongue in cheek ode to the wonders of coffee - the great life-giver, heart-starter, finder of lost brain cells, and mover of our bones.
I am a fan of the bean, the wondrous coffee bean, and the oh-so-many ways of drinking it in all of its fabulous, caffeinated glory. So, there was a slight pang of sadness when I was preparing to move to the rural wilds of the parish, knowing that my [insert coffee chain of choice in here] days of drinking such a variety of caffeinated beverages would soon come to an end. That was before I found [chain that must not be named] at the services on the motorway that passes through the area, and realised that if I sold my first-born or my immortal soul, I could still have all that happy caffeinated joy in my soul - or, the place my soul formerly occupied.

Out here, in the rural wilds [which are not quite as remote as some I've been through], there's less scope for spontaneity of the 'oh, I really fancy an avocado, I'll just nip to the shop' kind. The nearest shop of any description is the neighbouring village store 3 miles along the road. Alas, they don't sell anything quite as exotic as avocados. They do have a decent range of stock for a small establishment, and they've recently begun selling lattes [not bad, to be honest] and making soup and rolls in the new extension. It has become a haven for hungry, and usually very wet, cyclists who pedal the route from Land's End to John 'o Groats. For such hipster needs as an avocado, I need to drive 17 miles up the road to the nearest country town of 2 000. There, the wee town with a 'big' name, rejoices in having a decent array of actual joined up shops, one of which is a killer ironmonger's that doubles as an Aladdin's cave to die for [magic, yes, but no avocados]. The supermarket, as such is a small, but well-stocked Coop, where avocado joy abounds. It's also a useful place to stock up on ever-reliable frozen goods, in case of weather, for this is a place where the weather can hit hard in winter [well, by Scottish standards]. In the tricky winter of 2018, I was stuck in the house for 4 days at one point, and at least I live by the main road in the village, not down a lane or country track. You need to be prepared. If not, there's not so much of the 'blossom and flourish' but more of the 'wither and perish'... or it could be that way if neighbours didn't look out for one another, and it's great when the local farmers take turns on their tractors to try and keep the roads clear.

Scattered over many miles, there are still some very good community networks and yet, there's isolation too. The parish covers approx. 180sq. miles. Nine  small villages spread themselves about the hills and river valleys, with farms scattered around, often up single track roads way out in the middle of what some would consider 'nowhere.' While it's easy to be noticed within a village, it's also easy to be invisible - some move out here to do precisely that, disappear. One of the highest rates of suicide in Scotland is found within the farming community. Alcoholism and substance abuse happens in the beauty of the hills and glens just as it does in the inner cities. Domestic violence exists here as it does elsewhere. Poverty too. I write referrals for the nearest food bank which, mercifully, delivers, given it's 30 miles away from the village I happen to stay in. I'm continually astonished and humbled by members of the congregation and folk from the wider community who know we support the work of the food bank, and who are so generous with their donations. Initially, when we as the local parish church started up our very micro project of accepting items for the food bank, folk gave, but often with the comment
'but no-one around here uses it.'
To which my response was
'You'd be surprised, yes, they do.'
We get the goods up to the food bank, piggy-backing onto another church over in the big' town. It's a nice wee piece of collaboration.

Austerity cutbacks have hit hard in rural areas. With fewer services anyway, those we have are constantly under threat. In the five years I've lived in this village, we've lost the small Post Office, the village shop, and the surgery. Other villages tell similar stories. It means travelling further to get basic needs met. I'm still surprised by the number of folk who live out here who don't drive. If you do have a car, you find that you're paying at least 10p per litre more than in the larger towns. If you don't have access to a car, how do you get the 21 miles up the road to the Job Centre if you have an appointment that doesn't fit with the 3 buses that run [and those 3 buses don't run through all the villages]? If you miss your appointment, that's you, punished and cut off from any help from the Social. Another knock-on effect: if you only have the local store to rely on, sure, you'll have access to food and other goods, but of course, it costs more. The small stocks of Social Housing that have been built here and there, are often filled with folk who are placed from much bigger towns and cities, and who get easily lost. Fewer services, fewer distractions or places to spend time, coupled with feeling like an 'incomer' means addictions that may have been under control, flare up.

Institutionally, with the church, programmes and ideas rolled out from head office are often met with bemusement in places such as this: what works well in towns and leafy suburbs with more 'gathered' human resources doesn't necessarily translate in places where folk are scattered. And that's fine. The church as an institution parallels those other community institutions: education and the NHS. Rural areas are the ones who often don't feel seen - like some in our communities, we feel institutionally invisible. But we're still here. We will be for a wee while longer living with the effects of, and in the shadow of the slow withdrawal from the edges and shrink to the centre that seems to be happening across the board with other institutions. Often I refer to what is happening within the church as 'ecclesiastical Darwinism'. It would be sad to see a business model church where only the wealthiest and best resourced survived. Out here, along with many other rural churches, proportionally, my folk are incredible givers. Yet, we'll never be anything other than seen as 'aid receiving' - just because of such a scattered population. It's easy for rural congregations to begin to look inward, to focus on what they don't have and what they can't do.

None of this is meant as a complaint. Rural ministry is a great calling. There are joys and there are challenges. So, what is the future for the church in rural areas? I'm not sure, but I think the 'traditional' model has to die as an institutional whole, and rise up in a new way - we are a resurrection people, and 'alleluia!' is still our song. In the meantime, I get on with leaning over farm fences and chatting to farmers, or going to the local agricultural shows, feed the occasional orphan lamb at lambing time, and try to find ways of encouraging my folk to look at what they do have, and what they can do. And, for all that they don't see it at times, it's a lot. In the kindness and support for the micro food bank project, they can and are making a difference: loving their neighbour in a most practical way. There are wee green shoots to be found in unexpected conversations in village halls. So, we all plod on, because, I think, that's the work, and the mission, and the joy. And in the isolation of the rural life, and of rural ministry, God's still walking here with us, in what locals occasionally refer to as 'God's treasure store.'
And in the midst, there's also coffee.

Coffee table hymns and other tortures

It's been a wee bit quiet due to having been absorbed in writing another book chapter...

In the meantime, challenged by a friend yesterday who was off on a charity walk before breakfast, I wrote an 'encouraging' hymn, because why ever turn down the chance for quality doggerel?
Here below, a hymn for Eric, and indeed, anyone who needs coffee beans to get them up and at 'em and into the day.
This, to the tune 'Fill my cup, Lord.'

chorus/
Fill my cup, Lord, oh, brew it up, Lord
Come and quench this torpor in my soul
Beans of Heaven, wake me 'til I sleep no more
Fill my cup, let me sup, and make me whole☕️

v.1/
In a moment of madness, volunteering
seemed like a great thought at the time.
But in the morning hour, sleeping
Needed a jolt of caffeine or I'd die...

Fill my cup, Lord... etc☕️

v.2/
In the morning, with my brain all a'creaking
I stagger to my sacred hoard
Of beans whose magic gives such pleasure:
Oh! Sweet sound of coffee being poured

Fill my cup, Lord... etc☕️
.
Oh my brother, why not try a strong expresso
Or perhaps a café au lait?
The mar'v'lous bean that we adore so
Keeps you walking for charity all day...

Fill my cup, Lord... etc☕️