Monday, April 3, 2017

Lazarus

Yesterday was Passion Sunday (I know, I had to google it too!), and my friend Joy took the reading from John about Lazarus' resurrection, and did this to it.


I nearly cried when I heard her read it.
As and when she has a blog, I'll direct you to it. Until then, this was too beautiful not to share, so here it is...



I know that He loved me – because he wept.

My sisters’ told me afterwards, how He stood in a public place and

wept for me, my sisters who also loved Him. And no surprise really

because He noticed them, spent time with them, taught them like

they had more to contribute then to just fade into the background. He

gave them a voice and taught them how to use it, and they loved Him

for it.

And I loved Him too. He was part of our family somehow.

People knew that He loved us, and the ones that didn’t before saw it

when He wept. “See how He loved him!” they said. This strong,

incredible, remarkable man wept at my death, wept with those

grieving – and He surely knew I would live again?!

I know that he loved me – because he wept.

And yet after they said this they asked (my sisters’ say): “Could not

He who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from

dying?” My sisters’ thought it too: “Lord, if you had been here, my

brother would not have died.”

It’s all we said towards the end: “Why is He not here? Why does

He not come?” It hurt so much, and I was so scared. “What were my

sisters going to do without me? How would they manage? Why did

He not come when we sent for Him?”

And I was angry! Because I knew that he could heal me if He

chose, even from a distance, like the Centurion and his servant, like

Jairus and his daughter. And He didn’t: and it hurt so much, and I was

so scared…

And now? I know that He loved me – because He wept.

My sisters’ loved me too. They wrapped my body and perfumed it. No

oil of Nard though. Mary used it all when she anointed His feet. But

they wrapped and cared for my body, just as so recently they did the

same again for Him. My families funeral expenses have become

unreasonable.

What kind of Messiah is this? After all, that’s who He was to us.

“I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming

into the world.” That’s what Martha said to Him even in spite of my

death. That’s who He was to all of us; part of this God who bought life

back to bones in the desert, who threw the Universe into being. And

yet there He stood, inexplicably weeping, vulnerable and weak. And

now He’s dead and wrapped Himself. What kind of Messiah is that?

And yet when He stood at my tomb and called out “Lazarus,

come out!” I had to. I had no choice. In that voice was command – the

authority of more than a man, and so I rose and lived again.

And yet this God man wept? And because of this I know He loved

me…

For many days I dwelt in death. I cannot share that time with you

except to say that I cannot go back to it without it being transformed.

It is not a place I could choose to be. The night is dark and full of

terrors. Yet, He called me from it only to go there Himself so soon

after.

And because of me… This miracle, this sign of love, led to his

own death. And it has been three days, and there is no one to go and

call Him out of His grave. No one left to stand at His tomb and shout

for Him. And I am scared again, because I know what that feels like,

and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone – least of all Him. I wait for the Lord

more than those who watch for the morning, more than those who

watch for the morning. What can I do but cling to this knowledge:

I know that He loved me – because He wept.

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Community life

Towards the end of our first term at Trinity, in an unsurprisingly contemplative moment, someone asked me what aspect of college had had the most impact on me. Sat around the dinner table after another high-quality offering from the fabulous Christine, who runs our kitchens, I had to say lunch. The food is excellent, and it’s largely been a huge blessing to have a tasty hot meal every day (although I may have fallen victim to the notorious Trinity Stone), but even more than the food, the chance to eat in such excellent company has been the biggest gift. The talk is so enriching and enlivening, be it the banter with likeminded souls, the support and encouragement offered to each other on similar journeys, or the chance to thrash out the questions prompted by our reading and lectures.

I’m an external processor; I tend not to know what I think until I’ve said it. My previous
theological study on a distance learning programme was bit of a battle, I’m just not cut out for all that time on my own with books and questions, I need to interact to process my thoughts, so I knew what I was looking for from my training, and I felt at home at Trinity even when I came for interview.

Not so many years ago, when I was beginning to think through the reality of my calling to ordination, I was sure that if ever I went to theological college, it would be contextual training like that offered by the fabulous St Barnabas Theological Centre or HTB’s St Mellitis. In all honesty, I thought residential training institutions were dinosaurs. Why prepare people for a community based ministry by taking them out of their community? Now I’ve found just as much truth in the converse: we can prepare people for a community based ministry by putting them in community.

Here, surrounded by fellow students on similar journey to mine, I feel supported and encouraged. I’m able to ask all my questions, be it at the front of lectures where I customarily sit, or around the dinner table between classes. Other’s questions challenge my thinking, giving me no chance to get stuck in a rut or chase my own theological tail for too long. Doing life with my fellow students is a blessing, be it the Pastoral Group where we uphold each other week by week, the Anglican Story seminar where we ordinands confront the realities of life in the good old C of E every Friday, or the hundreds of other little moments around college; ad-hoc counselling on the sofas in the study block, tips on handy books whispered to each other in the library, Wednesday afternoon bike rides, impromptu jam sessions in the chapel (how I miss having a drum kit!), the growing group in Caroline’s #trinityFridayselfie at coffee after communion (some of whom are starting to embrace #flowershirtfriday)… the list goes on.

I had a beautiful epiphany on the morning of our college quiet day. Everyone began the day with the best of intentions, greeting each other as we passed in obedient silence. As I nodded at the people I shared my life with, smiling at them by way of hello, I realised how naturally my smiles came, how much every single person I met gave me a genuine sense of joy. We were invited that day to make a list of things for which we were thankful, and for me number one was the community. I had definitely found what I had come looking for.


Quiet is a very Trinity thing, and something we students have embraced to a variety of extents. Some fight it on a weekly basis, struggling through the weekly silent hour; some of us find it a source of refreshment. I’ll return to the topic later.

I love the tranquillity of the whole college dropping into silence. I relish moment to be focused on something other than an essay. Place to work on discipline. Regulars down at the isolated prayer but in the woods, chance for a great coffee made by Neil on a fire started from scratch (more of which later). 

Termly quiet day. Starts with everyone showing the best of intentions. I that first hour, as we were sent off so carve our own paths through the solitude, I passed my colleagues, nodding at them all. Shorn of vocal greetings, I smiled at everyone by way of a hello, and realised how naturally it came, how much every single person I met gave me a genuine sense of hot. We were invited that day to make a list of tween or twenty things for which we were thankful, and for me it was the community. I had definitely found what I was looking for.



Thursday, May 8, 2014

Meet Amelia Anne

Meeting Amelia Anne: A father's continuing adventures

Inexpressible

When I first wrote down the areas I wanted to share in the blog, it rapidly became clear that there were some that were simply beyond my capacity to do justice to. I cannot yet resolve in my own head the mix of feelings I had during the labour, watching someone I loved so much do something so hard, so real, so painful, so solitary and yet so beautiful and magical, knowing I would happily trade places with her but never would be able to.
I will also never be able to fully express the joy and relief I had walking into the hospital room in Nyon to find my recovering wife and introducing her to her daughter. Suffice it to say, there were a lot of tears.



Happy Lucky Daddy

A couple of hours after Victoria was stretchered out of the birthing house our magnificent midwife let me know that she was out of theatre and doing fine, which allowed me to sleep a little. When Amelia and I woke up we made a few phone calls and face-timed some grandparents, I took this delightful picture of her all swaddled up and then I had an hour or two alone with my daughter. It occurred to me that I was a pretty lucky guy; how many dads get their child all to themselves in those first few hours? I asked myself what I should do with her. Well, we spent the next couple of hours getting acquainted with the Indigo Girls while I looked at her and laughed and cried at the same time. It was an odd feeling, and one Victoria and I have struggled to articulate, some peculiar combination of joy, gratitude, relief, delight and love, all expressed in this peculiar wet-faced braying.

When I catch V staring at Amelia and crying I know exactly how she feels. It's some raw emotion.




Just Read the Manual

Haynes manuals are great. For non-British folk out there, they are the accepted authority on vehicles of any make or age, a comprehensive set of instructions on how to dismantle, repair and reassemble your vehicular friend. I bet the mechanics down at my local Ferrari garage still refer to their battered copy of 'The F430' when taking apart Herr Schumacher's pride and joy. A quick glance at the internet reveals the breadth of service to which the good people at Haynes have driven themselves. As soon as my battered Corellian freighter needs its hyperdrive realigning, that Millennium Falcon Workshop Manual will surely save me from costly services. Sadly, Amelia didn't come with one, so we're having to work it all out for ourselves. Now, I can't complain at all as she's been a first rate addition to Team Denton so far. She generally only cries when she's hungry or covered in poo, and sleeps a good few hours between feeds. However, when I was left babysitting all by myself during her first week (or 'parenting' as Mrs D calls it) I found myself briefly in need of expert advice. "How long should you let a week old baby cry if you
know she's been recently fed and has a clean nappy?", I asked myself. Well, I didn't know, so not having the relevant Haynes manual I referred myself to the second source of all knowledge: the internet.

Well, I stumbled into a confusing world of conflicting advice. Any of you with children will already be aware of this, but for the yet-to-be initiated, every conceivable position on every single aspect of parenting is firmly held by someone with access to a webpage or publisher. It was best summarised by this blog. I should let her cry it out, clearly, and she would learn to soothe herself this way, and it would definitely scar her for life. I should absolutely pick her up to soothe her and rock her to sleep, unless I wanted to create a dangerous dependency.

This was a useful lesson: NEVER ASK THE INTERNET FOR PARENTING ADVICE!!! I can only assume that from the maelstrom of despair and inadequacy it engendered that I had stumbled across 'the dark web.'

Thankfully, a good friend who's children I know and like came round. Seeing as she evidently knew what she was doing she was able to advise me. Apparently I needed to 'calm down.' I should also feel free to let visiting mums cuddle my adorable child. Also, sometimes babies are hungry off-schedule. I guess Amelia hasn't read the manual. When she gets around to it, I recommend this  one...











Friday, April 25, 2014

Some moments from 52 hour labour (Papa's perspective) #2

Some moments from a 52 hour labour (Papa's perspective) #2


Truth, fear 

There are moments in life where the problem is reality, that one is all too aware of the facts of the matter, and that one is powerless to control them.  An hour after Amelia was born came such a moment. As the wonderful Claire put it, at such times we are all heart; no brain at all.
The birth had gone as smoothly as it could for such a long one. On a handful of paracetamol, my incredible wife had delivered her precious cargo to the world. We were briefly content, attempting to breastfeed and reposing as a family for the first time for a moment. Then of course, the afterbirth needs to come out.

It didn't.

The breastfeeding should have helped.

It didn't.

The injection of oxytocin should have helped.

It didn't.

The midwives' expertise should have been enough.

It wasn't

An hour after the birth, we were told that Victoria simply must go to hospital for a surgical intervention. I watched as an ambulance crew worked with one midwife to strap my now unconscious wife to a stretcher. There seemed to be blood everywhere. One midwife had kept an eye on Amelia and I and kept me busy looking after her, but for a few minutes I was alone, clutching my naked newborn daughter to my chest under a blanket and watching as my tenacious, vivacious wife was carried out the door.

I wept.

I prayed, and I knew God was with me, but counting back the promises in the bible, I knew that not one of them told me Victoria would be OK. He promised to be with me, and that I would be ok as He went through whatever life throws at me alongside me. But I also knew, in a suddenly real way, that Victoria might not be coming back to me.
I could only cling to the facts: the midwives were not too worried, and I was probably reacting out of a state that to call 'tired and emotional' would be utterly to underplay. I should not trust my instinctive fears.

I don't quite know how I got though that moment, looking down at the top of Amelia's head and her tiny hand wrapped around my finger. I only remember praying "not this cup Lord, anything but this", and eventually being OK.



Less than an hour later I heard from the hospital that she was in surgery, out like a light and all was going well. Finally I could join my daughter in her peaceful sleep.




Vanity calling?

Victoria had always wanted a few pictures of the birth; she has a few from her own birth and cherishes them, so I was under strict orders to capture a few salient moments, however inappropriate it felt at the time. I cant tell you how glad I am that I did; those first few shots give me a few concrete places to hang my memories.
Knowing her plan, when we set off to the hospital the first time at 6:00 am, Victoria managed to straighten her hair between contractions.

That took a while.

What a peculiar picture of determination she is.

And how lovely she looks, hair straightened or not!


Naming

You wouldn't think it was that hard, naming a child, other than the draw-jopping terror that in one decision you can ruin a future with comedy initials or a series of awful nicknames. Perhaps that's why it took a couple of days; we really wanted to get it right. My sister-in-law, keen for detailed news, was told weight, length, hair colour and "no name yet." Her alleged response: "What are they playing at, they've had 5 months!" It's true, we had known we were having a daughter for a while. I'm really glad we found out; knowing I was going to have a daughter really helped me bond with D-minor. By the end, we'd narrowed it down to just a few names, each of which we really liked. We just wanted to meet her and see what she looked like. Then things were complicated by the fact she was born on the 23rd April: St George's day and Shakespeare's birthday (Which is incidentally why it's world book night. How cool for a bibliophile to have a daughter for whom to buy books every year!) Should we call her Wilhemina? Georgina? (Georgia had a good chance for half an hour, to be honest. ) How about a Shakespeare character? I liked Cordelia, myself.
In the end, we decided against any new additions. The ultimate call was always going to be Mrs D's, she'd clearly earned the right. At about half past ten, she became Amelia Anne. We hope she likes it; it's quite a responsibility. She's stuck with it for a good long time.

I also wanted it to be shortish. If I'm going to get it tattooed on me somewhere I don't want it to hurt too much!


Thursday, April 24, 2014

Some moments from 52 hour labour (Papa's perspective) #1

Some moments from a 52 hour labour (Papa's Perspective) #1

(in no particular order)

And relax...

We walked into the maison de naissance, two and a half days into the epic slog, and our hearts lifted. They sang. The hospital we'd been at that morning had been so efficient, so clinical, so medical, that Victoria's labour all but stopped as her heart sank. There was also the fact that after a night of what felt like such hard work, she'd progressed only as far as 4 cm dilated. The maison at Grens was so warm and cosy, so colourful and soft. There were plenty of places for papa to sit when he needed to keep out of the way. (How wonderful that this was one of Victoria's first thoughts!) Pervading all was a soft persistent smell of lavender, one of my favourite and most soothing scents. Kindly, the following morning the midwife dispatched my daughter and I with a little present; a lavender pillow for her cot, so that feels connected and at home, and little woollen hat, knitted by a lady who lives nearby and could never have children, so has knitted one for  every child ever ushered into the world there.
Within a minute, Victoria was immersed in the giant bath, resting her weary head on a blue U-shaped pillow, and instantly, frankly, at home. This was the place she could work.


Never alone

It goes without saying that a 52 hour labour is a difficult thing, for papa and maman both. That Victoria did it is testament to the hands we were in. Two wonderful midwives working seamlessly as team inspired so much confidence. Friends across continents asked for updates infrequently so as not to pester. Two families here in Switzerland, godparents to Tiger, prayed and prayed and prayed through the whole birth with us. We were in God's hands, which were the very real praying hands of our friends. We will both be eternally grateful.


A welcome surprise.

Towards the end, the midwives gave an ultimatum. As much as they wanted to give Victoria the birth she wanted so much for her baby, she was nearing the end of her prodigious personal resources. 49 hours into labour she was still at 7cm. In 2 hours, they were going to have to make a call; we're ready to push now or you're going back to that hospital to get the medical assistance you need to get everyone through safely. 
Victoria felt the pressure, let me tell you. She didn't think she could do it, that they were going to be cutting our daughter out of her. Nor did she think she could make the drive. I told her she could do it, not believing it myself. She found the strength to keep going, and under some incredibly tender and insightful coaching from Claire and Evelynne, she managed to push on. When we checked again at 2:00 am, she was ready to push.

The pushing part was full of shouting. Three of us were urging Victoria on on in two languages (at this stage she was so exhausted she was losing her French: I was even occasionally translating!). Every time it was "One more!" "Don't stop!" Frankly, for all I was shouting at Victoria that she could do it, I was tired of hearing  "one more push." The twelfth time you hear it, you begin to lose faith. The  hundredth, they're just words. So at 2:47 when Claire said "stop stop Victoria, look!" I though she wanted to show her something, some sign of progress in the mirror, I got the surprise of my life! I'd missed seeing what was going on, I was literally holding Victoria up, so I looked over her shoulder and Voila!, all of a sudden, there she was. My daughter. The child I had known for months inside of my wife, pushing on my hand in church services, wriggling when we watched a little TV, was there in front to me, safe in Claire's hands. A peculiar monochrome intrusion in otherwise colourful world. That moment, when the abstract invisible blessing to come became the daughter I will know and love and raise, was indescribable. In all the busyness, in all the shouting, everything stopped. The world stood still. This rapidly pinkening creature captured my heart and I was overwhelmed by reality. Within a moment she was lying on her mother's chest and holding my hand.



#2 to follow...


Friday, January 3, 2014

Historical veracity!

This is the 2nd of three essays for this term's course. I know that there are one or two of you out there who like a bit of theology, so enjoy. Bear in mind that I haven't been at it for long, and be kind when you comment. This one's a little more reference heavy, sorry about that. Such are academic essays.

How close were the authors of the synoptic gospels to the eyewitness tradition of Jesus’ life and teaching?


‘Many have undertaken to compile a narrative of things that have been accomplished among us, just as those who from the beginning were eyewitnesses have delivered them to us’ (Lk 1.1-2).  So opens Luke’s gospel, third in the canon of the synoptic gospels. In order to establish the veracity of Luke’s claims, how close he was to the sources and to what extent our conclusions can be applied to all three synoptic gospels, I am going to examine a historically held position contrary to Luke’s assertion, and then look at all three gospels to establish that, in all likelihood, the authors of the synoptic gospels were sufficiently close to the eyewitness traditions of Jesus’ life that they can be usefully used as truthful, historical testimony.
            As I will show later, the early church associated the gospels  with eyewitness testimony, but in the early twentieth century, form criticism began to examine the nature of how those accounts were transmitted to the gospel writers. Form critics such as K.L Schmidt, Martin Debelius and Rudolph Bultmann based their work on the studies of German folklore and believed that the gospels were written between 70 and 100 AD after an ‘oral period’ of anonymous circulation when individual traditions or ‘forms’ evolved and changed (Wenham & Walton, 2011, 75). This does not take account of the fact that many original eyewitnesses would still have been alive to see written gospels and to correct any errors. Although the gospel writers were unlikely to be concerned with historical accuracy in the modernist sense, there are many people specifically named in all of the gospels whose stories could have been checked. As Taylor puts it, “if the Form-Critics are right, the disciples must have been translated to heaven immediately after the resurrection.” (Vincent Taylor, The formation of the gospel tradition, 41).
While there is not scope in this brief assignment to fully address the ‘synoptic problem’ of how they came to have so much shared content, some discussion is necessary. A commonly held, although not undisputed view, is that Mark was written first, in the mid to late 60s AD (Wenham & Walton, 2011, 218), and was the source of the Markan material in Matthew and Luke (Wenham & Walton, 2011, 66 and Gooder, P, Timelines: The Gospel of Mark, an introduction).  Furthermore, there is good evidence to support the view that Mark was Peter the apostle’s scribe in Rome. Bishop Papias is quoted by Eusebius in the early second century as saying “Mark, became Peter’s interpreter, and wrote down accurately, but not in order, all that he remembered” (Eusebius, 114). Moreover, there are structural clues in the gospels: Mark is much shorter, supporting the hypothesis that Matthew and Luke added their own separately-sourced material, and yet many of the individual stories are longer in Mark, supporting the hypothesis that Matthew and Luke edited the material.  Other evidence (Wenham & Walton, 2011, 66) supports the widely, though certainly not universally accepted view that it is reasonable that Matthew and Luke wrote their gospels using, and therefore after, Mark, and that Mark’s gospel was based directly on the eyewitness testimony of one of the primary participants in Jesus’ life and teaching. If this is true, then all of one gospel and a significant portion of the two other synoptic gospels were written from first hand accounts.
            Yet more evidence that Mark dates to earlier than the Form Critics believed is Mark’s inclusion of Jesus’ prophecy that the temple will be torn down (Mk 13.2), an act which we know occurred in 70AD. Scholars are divided as to whether it was written before this event, as prophecy, or after it, as reaction, but in either case date the writing of Mark to within just a few years of 70AD (Gooder, P, Timelines: The Gospel of Mark, an introduction).
            If then we accept that Mark was written between 67 and 73 AD, what of the other Gospels? Assuming Markan priority, Matthew and Luke must have been written afterwards, fixing the earliest date in the ranges. Many scholars date Matthew to the Jamnian council of c. 90AD, but some argue for an earlier date (Wenham & Walton, 2011, 236), and in terms of Luke, Paula Gooder tells us that ‘the vast majority of scholars make it 80-90 AD’ (Gooder, P, Timelines: Gospel of Luke). With dates for Matthew and Luke’s gospels established within 40 and 60 years of Jesus crucifixion, we can see that it is quite feasible for the authors to have collected eyewitness testimony in the years prior to setting their gospels down.
            Having looked at the time of Matthew and Luke, what can be said of the authors’ access to eyewitness traditions? The traditional view is that Matthew was written by the apostle Matthew, featured in that gospel. Certainly the gospel was associated with having been written by a Matthew from at least the 2nd century (Wenham & Walton, 2011, 235), although whether or not that Matthew was the apostle is unclear (Wenham & Walton, 2011, 236). That said, Paula Gooder says that ‘it is probably sensible to associate that Matthew (i.e., the Matthew of the titular author) with the Mathew of Mathew’s Gospel’ (Gooder, P, Luke’s Gospel, Timelines). In that case, Matthew’s gospel contains not only second-hand eyewitness accounts, but is based also upon the first-hand eyewitness testimony of one of Jesus’ close circle of 12.
            We know from Colossians that Luke, the author of Luke’s gospel as well as the book of Acts, was a gentile physician and travelling companion of Paul (Col 4.14). What person could have had better opportunity to gather eyewitness accounts, travelling the length and breadth of the early Christian world? Visiting churches all around the Mediterranean must have exposed Luke to many of the tradents.
            Even if Matthew the apostle was not the author of Matthew, the presence of the Markan material, as in Luke’s gospel, indicates the practice of those authors of using eyewitness testimony. This is certainly not unusual. Recently, scholars such as Byrksog, Dunn and Bauckham have established that ancient historians placed the highest value on eyewitness accounts from participants in the events. Bishop Papias in his 2nd century work writes that he preferred recent 1st or second hand oral testimony from eyewitnesses for he ‘did not think that information from books would help (him) as much as the word of a living, surviving voice’ (Eusebius, 112. italics mine). According to Byrksog, Graeco-Roman historians only regarded historical writing as valid if it was written within a generation of events, and they saw eyewitness testimony as crucial (Wenham & Walton, 2011, 84), an approach very similar to modern oral history and one that fits entirely well with Luke’s claim at the beginning of his gospel.
            To conclude, the synoptic gospels were written within sufficient time of the events that they relate, and by authors with sufficient access to main protagonists and at a time when the standard for historical writing was such that they are likely to be very close to the traditions of Jesus’ life and teaching, despite their differing treatments of that material.


Bibliography, for any who are interested.

Bauckham, R. (2006) The Gospels as Eyewitness Testimony.  Eerdmans Publishing Company

Taylor, V (1933) The formation of the gospel tradition. Macmillan

Eusebius (translated 2007, Paul L Maier) The Church History. Kregel Publications

Wenham, D & Walton, S (2011) Exploring the New Testament Volume 1 (Gospels and Acts) (2nd edition).  SPCK Publishing

Gooder, P (date unknown) Timelines DVD (Various sections) St John’s Nottingham.

(DVD accessed online at http://stjt.org.uk/NT_and_OT/NT/ )