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.

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.