Patterns of Priority

This is a poem about Jesus, and some good habits he had with his time management and priorities. It is written as a challenge to myself just as much, if not more so, than to anyone else.

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Power unparalleled

Present perfection

Unmatched understanding and wondrous wisdom

He has

Moreso than any man before or since

The first true Man

Even as so many have first lived

But he Was and Is

Before Them all

And yet, now here he stands

With dust on earthen feet and dirt earthly upon his human hands

In space and time at the foot of the incline of this mountain and the wisdom fountain is of course not dry but as he walks across this land

While they may think him inevitably unassailable

He’s ready practise the pure process of being intriguingly unavailable

Long live the King

It’s not a coronation yet but in ways it might as well be

As the water washes over and that dazzling dove descends

The bottle has popped, the can lid is cut, the curtain raised on the mad bad or God man mighty mission with which so many have since through history become fretfully or fervently familiar

And as this proverbial curtain raises on the stage, the curtain of the sky is ripped in two

Torn top to bottom in the middle and that bright bird blazes through as a virtuous voice vociferously verbalizes valiant words from above

‘You are my Son, whom I love;

With you I am well pleased’

…So it begins, and then, it’s time to leave?

You heard it right, he flees,

Not out of fear for it’s the Spirit here who leads

Down to the desert full of demons and wild beasts, defying reasons, but the season was such that this call he must heed

This world’s war would be fought first on his Knees

Return to Town

It’s showtime now

Sublime spiritual significance to enact

A majestic manifesto to espouse,

mysterious and magnificent mission to embark upon and in time to execute, and here’s the start

Authority meets compassion in paradox, both are paramount

As the one recently attended by angels sees through the labels and opens his hero’s heart

To the sick, poor, blind and lame

Releasing from sickness and redeeming from sin in one breath,

Evaporating pain

Delivering demonically endangered and unclean ordinaries from their previous prisons,

Posturing himself for real love that’s in line with his self-sacrificing vision for this mission

No wonder word spread like wildfire

Over the whole entire region

And yet as a legion of pursuing public descended

Only one thing was defended, and that fiercely

What would his response be?

He got up, and slipped away, at the very dawning of the day, still dark it was so early, disappeared silently

When to a place solitary

And there paused the race and prayer and praise embraced, time just to simply Be

And hear his Father’s voice

Amidst a million muddled routes and options he must make the choice, and as he listened he indeed heard clearly

So when finally reached and his sanctuary breached He said ‘Onward, to preach. We go to Galilee’

These strange examples, only three,

But what of you?

And what of me?

A life of mad-dash, pace that changes like whiplash, racing phases and cash-splash or cash-strapped activity,

Craftily code-worded busyness to mean effective, output the only objective, is this our ‘meaningful’ ministry?

Or, just perhaps…

Is the non-stop merely sin?

Does the Father’s voice speak small within a room of four walls that have shrunken in, been hidden, trapped by the noise of the din?

Could that possibly be?

The obvious utmost principle of the King?

Prayerful input, head-space, rest-space, listening

Filled afresh for the next phase and yes then racing

Productivity not denying, deferring or displacing,

But balanced patterns that led to the wondrous win

These subtle, strange examples three

But what of you?

And what of me?

What will be the song that my life sings?

Unmeasured non-stop busyness,

Or principled patterns of prayerful vividness,

Which one brings my best offering…?

Wounds & Scars

An old poem, added by requests after a recent performance. Click the link below for a video courtesy of the multi-talented Cris Rogers. The video might deviate slightly from the script below... that's down to my impromptu edits/bad memory. Trying to get it all right in one take is utterly terrifying! I hope you are blessed by this offering.

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Wounds & Scars video

Every scar tells a story

Every scar is a lesson learned

It doesn't hurt

Anymore

Each glance is a reminder

Of what to do

Or what not to

And how to go about it

Next time

A scar is done with

Something that's over

Cut closed

Unrestricting to the here and now

Memory of a painful time but now that pain is gone

Only the lesson in memory, sparked by the sight of that scar, lives on

A wound is messy, present, unpredictable

Each open wound is painful still

A wound inhibits, prevents, disables

Any unsealed, unsorted wound can keep one from carrying on

A wound slows progress

No continue

The present pain and uncertain outcome at all times, whether known or unknown, conscious or ignored, still debilitates

And without the proper treatment

A wound will never heal

If no desire to move forwards the convalescence slows

If mistreated, in the absence of purifying water, and instead the presence of the profane, the unclean,

Recovery period stretches further into the future and may never become reality

Held back, incapacitated, afflicted constantly

Wounded permanently

So here we lie each one

Some multiply-ly wounded

Others with only one

Nobody emerging at this point unscathed

Everybody scarred

The task, the quest from this position in order to complete the mission, fulfill potential of this commission, is all wounds to heal

And of all scars be wary

For what fool takes or makes the same wound twice?

From that which causes no further pain but is a source of monumental memory, let's learn

Celebrate the scars,

By paying them respect, response, return

But don't reopen them

Don't make new old wounds

To restart recovery does no good

And what of wounds still open?

Well, treat them well, and do not cling to them or pay them too much heed

For soon they too will be only scars moving us forward

Reminders of lessons learned

Exactly what we need

So here we lie each one

Some multiple-ly wounded

Others with only one

Nobody emerging at this point unscathed

In this great hospital of Life

Hope battered, but not barred

The task: to heal the wounds of another

And have yours mended by no mere 'lover'

But by fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers

Paralyzing infection of these wounds to catch

To reach a point of celebration after strife

It's okay, it's alright,

Everybody's scarred.

Words On A Page...

Words

Words on a page,

Written but not hidden, now dripping deliciously out the mouth

Not for any reason but simply for their own sake

For the simple subtle beauty of what they do to the here and now

Words to sooth souls of the saints

Words to test and bend but not break, to heal and mend and movements of improvement majestically make

They can inspire towards what one aspires towards, emotively evoke awe-filled applause and consistent-constantly positivity creatively cultivate

Words may mean it’s never too late

Maybe the pen is mightier than money, more powerful than power itself,

Perhaps puts up more of a fight than the final fist and with its terrible twists gives more gumptuous gusto than a gleaming, glaring gun

In fact, more startlingly sensational than the rebellious rising sun and even superior to science,

Cutting through all casual, causal silence,

An onslaught of excellent edification, not venomous non-verbal violence

For when reason and emotion are collectively combined into a communicative concoction of seasonal rhythmic rhyme

When syllable-filled moments take shape in the landscape of both space and time

Words are the instant win, the conquering king, the vallant victor so sublime

Verse,

So now as I

Disperse conclusively may we immerse far from abusively but in full purse so beautifully first ourselves

In the ocean of opportunity into the mere tip of which we have here but fleetingly delved

Commit consciously and admit cognitively that which we knew but neatly shelved and never again erase

Permit constantly to embrace

The living power and beauty, with generous joy and delivering duty… simply and subtly…

…of Words.

'Explosion Of Joy'... The Third Side of The Coin

This post goes with the one before (i.e. below) it. Please read that one first... then this will make more sense!

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What does it look like to be ‘an explosion of joy’ in our community?

It means choosing the third way of looking at the world. Not just the bad, not just the good, but the potential for Redemption and Resurrection… in Everything.

It means living as people of Hope, who see beyond what is visible and base our arguments on evidence that is yet to exist.

It means Acceptance. An awareness not of what someone is now, but of what they can be… and the grace and patience to help them get there.

It means Art. It means Colour. It means going beyond the grey. Every shade of everything in the spectrum between white and black mixing and matching, complimenting and contrasting in inspiring, beautiful ways.

It means council-commissioned mosaics and murals instead of crude, crass and uncultured attempts at greed and ego-obsessed graffiti.

It means safety for those who are abused. A space created where vulnerable victims who fear their own ‘home’ can feel loved and truly say, ‘here Home truly is’.

It means cakes, crafts and globally redistributed finances as locally we reuse goods and a whole host of new relationships are, simultaneously, first forged.

It means guerilla gardening. A different kind of ‘bombs’ being thrown as more than one type of seed is sown- seedbombs, trees, trowels and topsoil the tools of engagement as community intertwines with ecology. Simplicity that supersedes consumption of technology.

It means smiles offered to strangers. Peace and faith instead of fear. A friendly nod or even a word of greeting instead of territorial, self-preserving glances fleeting as we pass our nearby neighbours in the streets.

It means Feast. Banquets of welcome. Hospitality and fellowship as old and new alike, those we know and those whom as yet we don’t, are invited to join us for abundant spreads of flavour and texture and Food, on more than one level- both physical and spiritual.

It means barbecues in the summertime to which random passers-by are, in fact, the guests of honour.

It means carol singing at Christmastime where the performance is portable and the audience is anyone.

It means Fun. Games with guidelines to govern creative expression of competing with instead of going into combat against. Camaraderie and comradeship as teams play the part of enemies within the game and so become cooperative companions beyond it, in Real Life.

It means a channeling of children’s energy into relating positively with one another as they cultivate collaboratively while adults watch on, themselves more subtly being bonded into closer community.

It means Music. Rhythm and rhyme no reason needing in every season, hopefulness breeding, in space and time positivity breathing and creativity feeding. Percussive backing beats and bold bass lines exuberant melodies meet in the daytime, vibrant harmonies complete amidst rain, snow or sunshine and the people on our streets, even if remaining outwardly still, inside they clap and dance and sing and more they always will, as tempo rises and falls to the movement of feet and symphonies stall then crescendo or simple choruses repeat. And it all does flow out of sublime selfless goodwill, and People are so blessed their spines begin to chill.

It means Diversity- the breadth of age, race, class and even overlaps of creed.

It means Unity- a coming together, and each playing a part like the instruments of an orchestra or the limbs of a body in any given endeavour to which we corporately commit.

It means Laughter. Jokes of which nobody is the butt. Stories, puns and recurring references that do not malign anyone. A comedy of innocence. A purity of humour. Laughter stemming from Good Reality rather than sordid slanderous rumour.

It means Reality. A conscience that consciously rejects cover-up fig leaves and constantly seeks to live Open in Honesty.

It means the presence of the living Lord in the here and now, the partial coming of the Kingdom moving more towards the whole, and it’s citizens not just physically, but spiritually Alive.

It means more than half-heartedness and lacklustre mediocrity, more than a compartmentalized, slice of the pie type faith that is merely one aspect to our lives, more than the vague notion that by our own efforts we might maybe be able to attain to something or see some slight level of change. It means faith instead of fear, a burning desire to Life now and here, an unparalleled passion and a cost-counting commitment. It means a closeness to the Author of life itself, and an understanding of Redemption that gives us reason and capacity to embody Resurrection and thus, to do, be and see these things.

This is what it really means to be ‘an explosion of joy’.

Three Sides to Every Coin?

Sometimes I think there are two ways of looking at the world. On the one hand, there’s no denying that life is hard. It is impossible to dispute the fact that, actually, this earth is full of quite a lot of crap. Why? Well, it’s full of people, that’s why. And people are pretty crappy.

We see it everywhere. The article about some sicko molesting young girls; the news bulletin concerning violent protests against political oppression that most probably speaks of wrongs on both sides of the issue; the young girl on the school run with two kids under five, no father figure and a black eye; that guy at the office who constantly lies on the phone to clients, and you happen to know he’s also cheating on his wife.

And not just people. We see it in nature too. As I sit and write this, the headlines of the last few weeks have been filled with scenes of devastation caused by earthquakes, floods and tsunamis.

The problem… Sin. Everything’s just completely out of sync. Creation. Humanity. Everything… We’re fallen, broken, stained, corrupted- marred beyond repair.

Or are we?

See, then there’s the other way of seeing things- the other side of the coin. For just as undeniable as the mindless mess of this marred world is, when one really stops to think about it, the shocking goodness that’s inherently present in this life. Again, this spans across the breadth of both creation and humanity. The startling power and beauty of unspoiled nature, from a sunset to a mountain to a waterfall. The unmistakable inbuilt spark of creativity which every human being possesses- the potential to be inspired, have ideas and make them happen, whether to better some set of circumstances or create simply for creating’s sake. The joy of relationships, the innate love people have for one another. The outcome of the practice of ‘play’, be it kids reveling in imagination or fully grown adults engaging in informal competition, that brings forth the mysterious happiness of, for want of a better word, fun. Laughter. Beauty. Life.  All these are here in abundance.

Beauty. Joy. Peace.

Sin. Pain. Distress.

Two sides of one coin, both equally unfathomably true. So what gives? Which one wins? One can’t help but observe in honesty, that more often, than not, it’s the latter.

The sad fact of the matter is that most of the time, all the ‘badness’ of the world we inhabit somehow outranks and overshadows any goodness experienced in the lives we live. Or, if not, we at least focus much more on the downside. We just can’t help it.

But what if there’s a third way? What if there’s a lens through which to view all of life, the world and everything, that truly takes into account both heads and tails, but still provides genuine hope and, moreover, gives chance to honestly experience an ‘explosion of joy’…?

Some of us believe there is. We call it Redemption.

See, if what we read in our Bibles is true, that means we have to honestly accept and affirm both the beauty of creation and humanity as intended and the total depravity and corruption resultant of sin entering the world. But it also means the story, and our thinking, doesn’t end there. If we believe in the resurrection of Christ, and we believe in the outpouring of God’s Spirit to gradually empower and perfect and complete, and we believe in a Kingdom of God which starts out as the smallest of seeds but grows to become the biggest of trees, imminently irrupting this current natural order and the whole way of this weary world until one day it comes in completion; if we believe Jesus’ rising from the dead enables us to move from a realm of darkness to light and be in genuine relationship with God himself… Surely this changes everything.

Our thinking. Our living. The very way we view the world.

This third way of Redemption allows us truly to hold in tension all the good and bad as we ‘practise resurrection’- this way of seeing enacts a way of being that lives out the great Hope we have. It’s as if the coin always lands propped up on it’s side, and along the edge is written a higher truth.

What this means is that we cease to see the world around us simply as it is and appears to be. Not that we don’t acknowledge that, but that the present facts of the current state of play no longer need lead us to a prison of paralysis, as our understanding of Redemption and Resurrection allows us to also dream and envision and see what any given person or place could be.

This is not blind denial of one side of the coin in order to emphasize the other… but rather a holistic, whole-hearted, all-acknowledging recognition of BOTH… and a belief- a hope (both certain and expectant) in a third dimension to this discussion, and indeed, a future fourth.

That’s what enables us to genuinely seek to be ‘an explosion of joy’ in our area abandoned by Empire. If you want to know what that looks like, read on.

Joy Block / Breathe Out

Two recent poems. The first came about as I struggled to complete a different writing project (about the resurrection of Jesus, no less). It's pretty morbid, I know, but at least it's real... That said, I don't like that it never resolves into something positive. In some ways when I read the second poem here, it feels it's a kind of solution to the first... so I thought I'd post them together. Oh, and for what it's worth, if you're an angry person like me, I very much recommend writing as a way to channel that anger into creativity.

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Joy Block

So is is how I really feel,

This crap,

This filth,

This so stuffed up futility of my feeble fragility that is honestly killing me,

The angering anchoring of my heart to a horrifically hungering shore,

And perfectly presenting me with some sad situation that's preventing me from having any chance of sailing forth,

Of getting towards the things I sing that I am literally, last-legs longing for...

And sitting scrawling these things just frustrates and breeds hate all the more,

For it poignantly proves

That I actually am right, I'm not just out the groove

That I actually can write, repulsively revealed currently by my black bic biro moves...

It's not the totality of the whole art that's been stopped.

My sublime selfish suffering is simply a JOY block.

Where do i turn from this babbling bubble of freakish frustration

When the sum of my brief is to meet with sheer, sweet celebration...?

Help.

May the blackness subside and the block finally be lifted

For it's not negativity like this for which i was gifted...

How long will it be until I finally find full peace

The kind that allows some real joy to be really released...?

Breathe Out

Breathe Out

Gripping frustration that lasts the duration of a drearily draining dim and drizzling day

Mid-temperature, grim and grey

Necessary therapy of creativity amidst community, set me free as ‘unwind’ now I say

To myself

Powered by secret whiskey while cooking for three recently and caffeine cup of tea in parallel

Now what’s that smell?

Subtle dose of sweet nostalgia

Sprinkled in pinch of melancholy

Vibrations rhythmic bring the power

Of cyclic synapse extensions, these are melodic memories

Animatronic and harmonic, cold catatonic now let me be

If that is what it takes

Now for my mind truly to unwind as it illusively imagines casual colour and seismic shapes

All these words on a page not for any point to make, but simply art for artist’s sake, lifeline of learned sanity

Cathartic, healing humanity

Gradually dispelling undisciplined gripping desire to scream an angry shout

Forcing this rhino charge back to a measured margin that will let it be, and Breathe Out.

Gradually dispelling undisciplined gripping desire to scream an angry shout

Forcing this rhino charge back to a measured margin that will let anger leave and Breathe Out.

Gradually dispelling undisciplined gripping desire to scream an angry shout

Forcing this rhino charge back to a measured margin that will pure peace retrieve, now Breathe Out.

Chess and Church Leadership

A look back at a snapshot in time. I wrote this coming up to two years ago (Autumn 2010). It's funny re-reading it and seeing how much we've turned into the rally car. If you're involved in something small but meaningful, where change is slow because it just has to be... hopefully this will be somehow encouraging.

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People often say church leadership is busy. Not just busy in the sense of taking up a lot of time. Busy as in frenetic, fragmented, bits and pieces, lots going on at once. In the churches I’ve previously been a part of or worked closely with, there seems to be so much happening all the time that it almost has to run like a big business corporation or a well-oiled machine. The leaders seem to hurtle at breakneck speed like rally drivers, steering something that works in cohesion and fixing parts when something goes wrong or adding new components to further improve things. Life at All Hallows, Bow right now is somewhat different.

I’m not very good at chess. Even when it briefly became ‘cool’ halfway through primary school and I had my little ‘chess phase’, my problem was that I could only ever think about the next move.  Now of course, it is vitally important to be able to actually make that next move… but in order for it to be a good one, it helps to have a game plan- to know where this particular positioning of pieces fits into an overarching, all-encompassing strategy. Apparently the greatest players can see what’s going to happen about 20 moves ahead, expertly predicting the initiatives of both players in the game.

Right now, as we attempt to inject life into a place that’s full of lovely people but has hit upon hard times, it’s more like a game of chess than a ride in a rally car. Far from steering a juggernaut or just checking the parts, we’re involved in something that may, for a while, move necessarily slow. Why? Well, it’s a big change… and as we are surely all aware, change is scary. Too much too fast is a course of action that’s born of passion but devoid of wisdom.

It would be easy to lose patience with the handful of people who’ve been here for years- the east end heroes who’ve battled so hard to even keep our church open. It’s tempting to say that it would be easier to just start from scratch somewhere else, rather than coming to something that already exists with its endearing quirks, harrowing issues (we all have them) and intriguing history… but there’s just so much more merit in instead persevering with something that’s already happening- attempting to help rescue something that was destined for death and be part of its rising from flames and ashes.

And so, we wait.

We commit to patience.

We play chess.

While we will not do nothing, neither will we rush, because this is long-haul ministry and if that means it’s slow by necessity, that our days are full not of juggling many ministries but of steady focus on just one thing, then that’s the game plan we’ll take.

And so, as we sit down at our desks and begin our work for another week, we think about the bigger strategy for how to win this game, knowing that we fight not against our people but against a subtle, unseen enemy… and with that in mind, we work out our next move.

This Wave

This is a poem about marriage. I wrote it just over a year ago, on my honeymoon. Happy to say that after these mere few months that honestly have contained both highest highs and hardest lows, I absolutely agree with every singles word my loved up little brain espoused then. Still love riding this wave. Always will.

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So here we are

On the cusp of a livelong-lasting ramble, the crest of a new wave,

Of tidal proportions at first glance distorting the calm unmoved everything of everyday, life

But this any day is, right

Though it rushes and crushes through pain-seared blushes of frustrated disappointment at over-anticipation and the slightly soured ointment of excessive expectations

And all the while disturbs the so-called ‘peace’ of the world it leaves behind, all washed up on the shore

It does so so disruptively but not destructively and vitally as it spiralingly alters all proceedings, never does a falter it ever cause,

As it draws further forth beatings as it claws at wild thoughts of retreating,

For in fact, it is COMPLETING… Tis the freedom one yearns and burns always for

This new Wave,

More than a mere manual marked ‘behave’

More than a mad romantic amble through a few faddish fears and futile gambles a sense of reckless excitement to save

More far more, so  much more than a mighty shackle upon the fourth left finger left to long-time lovelessly linger in heavy cold weight, and endlessly enslave

No no, No not this wave

This one it leads after cautious calculation and consultation of more than worldly wisdom and beyond wordy non-decision to a pinpoint precision leap from out of the all too comfy, cozy cave

This Wave,

An opportunity beyond all others to really truly take

A surge of sheer power yet with such subtlety and intricate caveats abundant, all churlish childish notions and unrealistic fascinating fantasies unapologetically now to shake

And in eventual inevitability also to gloriously break

This Wave, on the crest of which we now ride,

Which flows continuing from high tide,

To the midst of the mightily mightless doldrums in the lowest ebb, and still ceases not, to flow,

Whether a huge tsunami-enduced mass or at times a tiny trickle simply managing, just hanging in when blocked by would be dams on all sides trying to stem it, still This Wave continues so…

Here in this moment as the drought of creativity does warmly, welcomingly end

So coinciding with the ecstacy of This Wave’s beginning, and the wild wind blows

With one week on the clock of freedom that will tick in time with ours both my friend

So now I celebrate the movement of this wave, and sing in sweet unmatched security my love ‘Bon Voyage… Unsteady as she goes’.

Sacrifice of The Mundane

I wrote this ages ago, but I think (at least I hope) the lesson I learned is worth sharing.

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I’ve been thinking a lot recently about how hard life as a ‘real disciple’ is possibly meant to be.  Reading scriptures like ‘whoever does not carry their cross and follow me cannot be my disciple’, at a time I’m finding more than a little hard on a personal level, has led me to consider the future and all the hardship that may well lie within it, especially as I begin going down this Church leadership/full-time ministry route. I know, it’s not all bad, and it’s not going to be- mine is the God who both gives and takes away, the God of seasons who blesses us with good times and carries us through the storms… But if we face the facts, a lot of the time, this life just is really hard… and that’s actually part of the promise- not that life following Christ will make things easier, but better… Better, but harder.

And yet, in the midst of all this reflection, oscillating between resultant resilience and sheer fear, today I find my ‘doing the Lord’s work’ occupation brings nothing more or less than a profoundly tedious and frankly boring task. I’ve spent chunks of the afternoon trawling through the same repetitive process of data input in an attempt to set up a series of automated emails so that members of our congregation can be updated daily with details relating to our corporate ‘rhythm of prayer’. Is this part of the job important? You bet. Is it difficult or scary? Not really. Is it enjoyable? Definitely not…

See, what I’m getting to is this: while I’ve been sat here constantly clicking copy and paste and slowly but surely numbing my brain into a stupor, I have tried to hold in mind simultaneously an awareness that I’m doing this for a very good reason; that this initiative, once it is eventually executed, will be of benefit to many, as a process of prayer will be of ultimate impact to our ministry, and thus lead to lives transformed… and so, even as I’m bored half to death and not energized or stimulated, yet I remain motivated, knowing that this is all part of the job too; realizing that the eventual effectiveness and success of ministry depends not only upon a sacrifice of pain, but also on a willingness to serve in the dreary tasks that need doing- indeed ministry that makes a difference will also require a sacrifice of the mundane.

Caffeine Nation

Here is a poem. Just to be clear, I'm not anti-coffee... That's a metaphor (and a drink, as one helpful heckler once pointed out). Hopefully you'll get it...

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Out of bed, only just

Each one all hauling themselves up

Almost falling again stalling stumbling mumbling greetings, seating themselves neatly in the kitchen to await the day’s first buzz

And then it’s up, up and away

And they a-wander down the street completely ready now to face the day

But on the way

There’s one more pause

Mechanic movement of the wallet jaws

Inside a little shop

Statement made with metal and paper swap

Another little fix

Enough to make it to the classroom or the office with a kick

Mid-morning, drooping, energy wanes

They feel the aching hunger pains

The pangs of doubt and rising chilly tide of their impurity impunity

Another cup another hit and gladly numbed, again they sit

Oblivious to the source of it, in counterfeit security immunity

Till lunchtime comes

But another shot amplifies the crumbs, of life on which they passively nibble

Thinking this is all there is- massively little wonder they desire no further fizz although this is, in truth, massively brittle

So on and on the pattern goes

Like a helter-skelter, round we go

But downwards too, little they know

Consumed in caffeination

Afternoon, Dinner, evening too

And at the weekends nothing’s new

For this is simply what we do

Ladies and Gents- the Caffeine Nation

If money makes the world go round and people make the money

Then what keeps people going round? Isn’t it funny

That the money we make and the system and state we constantly perpetuate feeds greed and gives us the Stuff we take

To make it all okay, to numb the pain away

This Caffeine Nation stays awake

Always buzzing… but it’s always fake

Take the drug away and what are we?

An empty shell, in chains, not free- what army!?

Cause coffee money beauty honey sugar ‘sugar’- Stuff- it’s funny but

This system’s oozing losing snoozing runny flimsy fragile faint

As night rolls in and light grows dim

The hurt deep within it makes the demons grin

And this Caffeine Nation lies still hungry, wired, worried and wounded… wide awake.

Classy Cups & Corporate Branding- Mission or McDonald's?

Here is something I originally wrote as part of my application to train for ordination in the Church of England, but tried to do blog-style so I wouldn't get as bored! Hopefully that explains why I keep banging on about 'Marks of Mission', which, for anyone who doesn't know, is an Anglican thing stemming from some conference in 1998. I think I got points for mentioning it. So now you know.

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In my first week at All Hallows Bow, I got a little confused. I knew this was a challenging church ‘re-plant’ in a tough inner-city parish with an almost extinct congregation, so it followed logically that evangelism- ‘to proclaim the good news of the Kingdom’- would be of primary importance. I also knew that money was scarce, and figured what little financial resources we had would be similarly channeled. All this being considered, I was somewhat surprised when my first tasks on the job included a trip to Ikea to purchase 50 matching mugs for use after the Sunday service and a simple quest of re-printing every sign in the building with the new All Hallows logo in the bottom corner.

While not wanting to undermine the Vicar’s authority, I wondered, as I worked, just how important or urgent such endeavours really are. Were all these efforts towards ‘corporate branding’ not simply attempts to make things look good and, really, of much lesser priority? Wasn’t it really all just worldliness- exactly the kind of ‘McDonaldization’ of which Drane, Ritzer and others warn the contemporary western Church?[1]

Perplexed, I approached my new boss (thankfully also an old friend) and queried him with my concerns. He had a totally different take on it.

‘It’s all about cultivating community’, he replied. ‘What we’re doing with the logo, corporate branding, matching mugs etc is all in order to communicate the message to our people that they are loved; that this church is something precious- something worth them being a part of; something they can really own.’

The more I have reflected on this response, the more it seems to make sense. After all, isn’t it good to subliminally say to people who walk into our church, ‘We love you enough to make sure all the mugs match’? Or, on the flipside, what would it communicate if we were to maintain a bunch of old, tacky and varied ones? While such subtleties are seemingly small and obviously not of utmost ultimate importance, suddenly, approaching the issue from another angle, it became less about the undeniable urgency of just ‘getting out there’ as this kind of laying of foundations shifted emphasis to a broader underpinning of our mission. It would be of little use to channel all initial energy into the first mark of mission if those who were to be drawn in would only encounter a substandard lack of professionalism and a dysfunctional family. Our attempts at the second mark, to ‘teach, baptize and nurture new disciples’, would be fruitless if we had not first gone some way to establishing a community of love in which our people truly treasure the body to which they belong, and a small part of achieving that is to show them, by efforts towards attaining excellence in these ‘little things’, that their leaders truly treasure them. Moreover, could it not be said that an initial focus on the material makeup of our place of ministry such as this is actually, in some subtle way, a practical outworking of the third mark- ‘To respond to human need by loving service’? Since one of the most basic of these human needs is simply to belong, our efforts to cultivate community in this way (and even to throw a bit of cash at it) do seem entirely appropriate.

Of course, it isn’t all about just making things look and feel nice. There is a great need for many other aspects of ministry, and these ran parallel to the efforts in question, and have subsequently been further prioritized. What I have learned from this experience, though, is that classy cups and corporate branding are not merely McDonaldization, but are, in fact, a small piece of the big puzzle that is our Mission… and, being so subtle but yet so tangible, not a bad place to start.

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[1] Drane, McDonaldization… Church; Ritzer, McDonaldization Thesis.

Moments

Here is an old poem I wrote years ago about the unwanted impact of what I call doldrums days.

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These are the moments when I hate myself the most.

These are the moments…

When all my dreaming, all my pretending, all my games and gimmicks are inevitably exhausted, and all I’m left with is myself… and myself just isn’t enough.

When every avenue of expert time-wasting has been elaborately explored. When every pocket of procrastination has been persistently pursued. When every nook and cranny of new cravings has been tried and tested, each one with reverse results of ultimate unfulfillment..

These are the moments…

When all my insufficiencies, every insecurity and any inability become all too apparent.

When the day nears it’s end, all is done, all is said- When I have nothing left to give and emptiness fills my weary head.

These are the moments…

Of ifs, buts and maybes. What ifs, why nots and how comes.

Of almosts , not quite theres and nearlys. So close, yet still not done.

And yet…

These are the moments…

When I’m under no illusions. When I’m plagued by no intrusions. Too tired for apprehensions and I simply can be me.

When I feel no vain ambition, numbed to peace by this attrition, and I give myself permission, simply just to be.

These are the moments…

When I’m so numb I begin to really feel. Falsehoods all exposed and finally I’m feeling real.

When I’m dumb, seeing no need to speak. When I’m done, so I can get some sleep.

When I am, at last, authentic. When I have thought, and know I meant it.

When the game is up and this leg of the race is run.

When I take my mask off and view my own true face as another day is done.

These are the moments…

When the façade of meaninglessness finally begins to mean less than what actually is and who I actually am, and I’m happy with the fact that I’m becoming a good man, for it’s a fact I finally  grant acceptance,… a split-second after my self-rejections.

Though uneasy, I’m content, finding solace in lament.

Finding wisdom in uncomfortable realism- of more substance than my blind idealism.

These are the moments…

These are the moments when I love myself the most.