Relief Valve

The seal on the milk bottle I was trying to open was proving stubborn, so I prized a little harder, being ultra careful not to make a mess, when, despite my concentration, the thing flipped in my hand and burst free, spurting milk all over my t-shirt and the infant in my arms.  Unsolicited, unsummoned, a vulgar obscenity spurted from my mouth: “Drat!” I said, and felt immediately ashamed.  The child giggled and licked drops from his face, wiping his face and spreading the mess .  “No, don’t, doggone it,” I swore again, holding his dripping hand with my dripping hand, and he chuckled louder.

But actually – and I share this guiltily – I felt better for having cursed.  Why?

Why is it that cursing bursts forth so spontaneously when we whack a thumb with a hammer or bite the inside of our lip?  Or someone else bites the inside of our lip?  Because it’s not just me, is it?  Does it happen to you? I see rugby players on TV do it all the time.  They drop a ball with the line open and … you don’t have to hear them.  You know what they just said, and you don’t blame them.  You’re saying it too, because that clumsy knock-on has just cost you fifty dollars.

But it works, eh.  The expletive has cushioned your loss, your pain, your milky t-shirt.  Your chagrin must be lanced.  Better than punching a hole in the wall or kicking the cat.  There’s something of a pressure relief valve in it, releasing some steam before you internally combust or drop the baby.  You feel way better than you actually should – for spilling the milk or uttering the unutterable.  Something in your frontal cortex (or wherever these psychologies are felt) feels vindicated, assuaged.  You can mop up the milk thus pardoned.  And the baby won’t tell the wife, so …

That’s the risk, though, nei?  It doesn’t pay to be heard.  If you cuss, and she hears it, that can usher in all sorts of implications. She thinks your agricultural vocab was purged long ago.
Or in front of the in-laws …!  [Urghh.  That doesn’t bear thinking about.]

If you cuss on the sports field, that’s ok.  That’s accepted.  But if you curse at the tattooed bikey that just cut you off on the motorway … that could have a rather sorry outcome.  In fact, if we all restrained our language and gestures on the road or in the carpark we’d probably see all road rage and bar fights vanish from our streets.  Perhaps herein lies the moral of this story.  Restraint.

No.  On reflection, there is no moral to this story.  Let ‘er rip.  You’ll feel so much better.  If guilty.  They say you shouldn’t ‘bottle it up’, so don’t.  It’ll only …  Hmm… bottle or curse?

Yesterday bit the inside of my lip whilst visiting the in-laws.  The word rose in my bloody mouth and I all but let rip, but something in the subconscious part of my frontal cortex forswore me to silence and I did.  I stifled it.  Bit my tongue, so to speak. Within seconds the lip pain abated, my pulse rate slowed and I felt better.  As good as I would have if I had sworn, and without the guilt.  Happily I resumed chewing, concentrating now – one bite, two bites – careful now – three … re-joined the polite conversation, when … Wham!  Concentration lost, molar jammed down on the existing wound.

“Crap!” I screamed.  The room went silent.  I dissolved on the carpet in a wet gout of shame.

Drat.  You sure can’t win ‘em all.

Ken F

Easter is now!

by Joan Fanshawe
[with thanks to Jim Friedrich for some inspiration:  jimfriedrich.com]

(Referencing John 20:1-8; Acts 10:34-43)

We have come through a very interesting Lent season – each week meeting a different character involved in the last days of Jesus’s life and ministry before the crucifixion. We’ve heard the bluster and excuses, the ‘official speak’, self-justification, the contempt – but also questions, fear, regrets and sorrow.

Some of these narratives hit home to us in our own lives. These human behaviour traits are surprisingly little changed and still very much experienced in lives today. It’s been very real and often quite moving. We have been immersed in the Easter story in a new way.

Today – Easter Day – we are picking up the excitement of the Resurrection.

I love this quote by the late Sebastian Moore, a well known Dominican monk: “The original disciples were shocked into bliss by the Resurrection – and they never recovered.”

If we’ve been moved by the accounts of those characters through Lent, how are we moved by the Resurrection? Shocked into bliss?

Not us – we’re Anglicans!

But are we changed at all? Are our Alleluias genuinely heartfelt?
Can our lives be transformed today – continual transformation, perhaps?

Easter isn’t something we remember. Easter is now, for people of the Way. Something we live and breathe. Ours is an Easter faith.
However, since it only occurs once a year, Easter Sunday is sometimes mistaken for a commemorative anniversary of a past event.
I’ve read that the earliest churches treated the ‘Paschal mystery’ of Christ’s death and resurrection as the timeless (or timely) subject of every eucharistic liturgy. The establishment of an annual observance of ‘Easter Day’ was a later development.

The Resurrection, although breaking into history on a specific occasion, is not the property of the past. As God’s future, showing itself in our present, it belongs to all times and seasons. Jesus is alive, still showing up as a transforming presence in a world that feels filled with absences. Jesus is not over, and his story is not over.

The central question of the resurrection is not about belief, however – as in, what did happen to Jesus way back then? But, rather – where is Jesus now – for us? We need to allow the resurrection to question us – who are we now – in this time and this place – in the light of the risen Christ? An Easter faith affirms the continuing presence of the living Christ among us, now and always.

That presence is not always clear or obvious. Even the saints wrestle with doubt and absence. Sometimes our awareness of God seems to withdraw for a time. Sometimes it is we who are absent — distracted, inattentive, looking in the wrong place, using the wrong language. Divine presence can’t be switched on, or grasped possessively. It is elusive. And it is fond of surprise.

But we are not left without clues. Jesus tells us, “If you want to keep experiencing me, love one another. Forgive one another.” That’s where we meet the risen Christ – in the life of forgiveness, reconciliation, peace, justice, love. Where love and charity abound, there God is, there Christ is. It’s not enough to proclaim resurrection. We need to embody it.
As Rowan Williams (recent Archbishop of Canterbury) explains: “The believer’s life is a testimony to the risen-ness of Jesus: he or she demonstrates that Jesus is not dead by living a life in which Jesus is the never-failing source of affirmation, challenge, enrichment and enlargement.”

In John’s account of that resurrection morning, there’s lots of running. Lots of amazement! It feels so current!
We too must hasten (maybe not running!) to share the gift and the challenge of the resurrection – both in our lives in this community of faith, and in our own private selves.

Then may the whole world will one day see and know a church which has been shocked into bliss – and has never recovered!

Alleluia, Christ is risen; He is risen indeed.

.

Take a Risk

You’d think we’d take greater risks as we get older.  Young people take risks.  They have their whole lives ahead of them, so much potential, so much to live for, and yet seem willing to take inordinate risks with their time and choices and fitness and health.  Older people, not so much.  Yet, having completed a substantial part of their lives, having (perhaps) achieved their goals, having seen their children out of the nest … you’d think that would be the time to step out, do something radical or outrageous.


But it doesn’t seem to happen that way, so much.  Why not?

Well, there are some obvious reasons: there are brain development factors for a start!  The young brain lacks … well, most things.  The older brain is more cautious and conservative (perhaps because the older person has acquired more, has more to conserve).  Perhaps the closer we get to end-of-life, the more tenacious our survival instincts become, so more risk-averse.  Or perhaps we just get more chickenhearted.

Whatever the reason, what about it?
I saw a thing on TV (yeah, I know, younger people don’t watch TV either; older ones do) presented by a middle-aged guy called, appropriately, Guy.  Guy Martin, actually.  A blue-collar likely lad (from Grimsby).  For the programme, he was training with the Royal Marines for a re-enactment of the World War Two D-Day landings, by parachute – training for something he’d never done before and had no obvious aptitude for.  He did pull it off, magnificently, and my heart was stirred.  How wonderful to recapture those adrenaline-filled moments of crazy, no-limits youth!

Those days of adventure, of testing yourself against the unknown, of challenge and comradeship.  Making your way in the world against all odds.

As we age, to be sure, we acquire responsibilities – and we become more responsible human beings.  As well, our physical capacities decline and adventure opportunities lessen, so doors close to us.  Some have a fling.  Some buy a motor bike.  Some get a camper van and go touring or travelling.  Some take up a hobby.  Well and good.  All of these fill some of the need, but … do they really?  Youthful joys still fade and wither, figments now of a rosy memory, inflating in the telling.  (“The older I get, the better I was”!)

Well, life is to be lived, surely, at every stage, in every context.  The cards in front of us, even if they’re a poor hand, need to be played for all they’re worth, with energy and enthusiasm and gratitude.  Get your camper van, by all means, if you can afford it; or join a club, or travel.

Or, for the really cautious, conservative or financially challenged, here are a couple of ideas for stepping out:

  1. Learn something new.  Pick something – anything – preferably something that will stimulate you.  Eg, astronomy, the laws of gridiron, Spanish, juggling or uni-cycling, military history, chess, dancing …  Even better if you can do it with a friend, or a group, or a club. Learn JavaScript coding. Buy a drone.
  2. Write your legacy.  Document what you want people to know about you when you’re gone; what you’d like your grandchildren and descendants to know or be; your reflections on things that were important to you; things you did or thought in your earlier life that you’ve never shared …  If you’re not really a writer, enlist someone who is, to help you, or ghost-write for you – therein is the collegial part.  The comradeship of yore.

Go on.  Brainstorm.  Don’t watch TV. Take a risk.

Artist

(dedicated to Jackie)

She stands ….
Focussed and drawn.
Design etched in the lines of her face.
Hair hangs untrained,
Forgotten in the pursuit
Of her art.

She kneels ….
Detail applies.
Drawing forth a pout and a frown.
Her character defined
In the concentration
Of her brow.

She lives ….
Energised by shape,
And an idea half-formed in mind.
Alive within the work:
Extended arm, and
Fist and brush.

She rests ….
Shoulders reflect.
Critic and judge perform their rites.
A wipe and a knife
Brandished till canvas
Is just right.

She turns ….
But lingers, drawn.
Loathe to abandon a work unfulfilled.
Tempted to stay;
Consumed in the art
That beguiles.

She sleeps ….
Face lines relaxed.
Surrendered at last to the night.
But lost in her dream
She stirs in restless grip
Of ideas.