"We have come into this exquisite world to experience ever and ever more deeply our divine courage, freedom and light!”
Hafiz - Persian poet
The best part of taking a holiday is allowing yourself to stp, to rest, to break routine.... Easter has come, Easter has trickled past and the miracle of all time has moved us. So what next, where so we go, where is our Galilee to be met at, where is our room to hide in, why do we wait, gathered in secret, why not send the one who is to follow right now? Because we need to gather ourselves, wait and prepare, be refreshed and ponder the moment that has passed us by.
"We have come into this exquisite world to experience ever and ever more deeply our divine courage, freedom and light!” Hafiz - Persian poet
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Easter Day has turned on the clocks. The sky outside is that slate grey that suggests the artist accidentally put the pink brush in the monotone. The anticipation knots in my stomach, I check again the bag, replace the items, reshuffle and look again to check the time. I imagine Mary also pacing, unable to sleep, eager to leave the house, checking the spices and balms, folding and re-folding the cloths. Outside the car is stuffy, the road deserted at moments. The black silhouette of earth meets the sky and pinpricks of light gather, dewdrops on the wire of a horizon. As the city approaches I see the trees emerge from the blackness, their forms reminiscent of long walks in the garden. That garden of tears Mary had too so often walked through, the last place Jesus had walked free. She did not need to go and tend the body, she had offered, she had wanted to touch his skin one last time, see that there was no light left in him, he who had lit her world. When we reached the airport it was empty, two security guards walked past, eyeing us up but reluctant to be seen to do so, two guards, how apt. The plane would bring the sunrise, breaking across the day, shooting rays of red and blinding reflections off cotton wool clouds, releasing Mary and the others from the house, thankfully early at this time of year. Their sleep deprived bodies, tear stained and reluctant to believe the nightmare they were living, must have thought they were imagining things when the stone was gone. No wonder one of the accounts said they told no one, for who would believe the bleary eyed rantings. But still, the sun had risen, the darkness driven away, and life, it had been restored. I dislike advertising, expecially advertising that sells meaningless drivel instead of it's product, or popularity instead of it's product, or expecially sex instead of it's product.... but i do admire it. There is a cheezy grin, clean cut, young couple in love version of this picture beaming out of bus shelters across the city. Their preppy version of the sign reads "ANY WHERE" and to a country where problems abound and the temptation fo the outside world is so great, it's a good campagn. Sitting less than 48 hours away from excape i can sypathise with their feelings, not that i want to leave, quite the opposite, but i do feel for the situations i see abounding. The thing that also links the pictures is the backpack, the idea that somehow we can condense our life, our existence into one bag and that will suffice. The idea that we can't really go anywhere without the obligitory backpack. However much we want to leave, there is always something we can't let go of. Excitment races as i near the airport trip and easter with Sunnyside, but equally the notion of returning to all i have here, all that doesn't fit in one bag, all that i have grown to love, even if some days i feel it burns me so. Some blog posts are written and published immidiatly, others sit on your desk for a day or two as you play about with the idea, re-write a sentence or two, decide if you really want to share it with the world.... this is one of those blog posts! There is a tendency to hide personal sin sunder the table, to say that we are fallen people but the notion of forgiveness makes it all ok and so the sin is something referred to and yet in some ways hidden. As I prepared the last of the resources to go online for the healing of the paralytic I was left with a booming question that is so completely un-pc to ask...“did his sin cause the paralysis?” I dispute not that the thinking of the time would have answered a resolute 'yes' to the question, perhaps pointing also to the sins of the parents. But in today’s context the answering of such a 'yes' leads down a much trickier path... How should we react when we hear news of illness? Now I know i'm treading in dangerous waters, I can feel the sharks swimming about and the pathway through looks more like a tightrope. I'm by no means suggesting the answer should always be yes, for that is foolish and the bible is clear that not all suffering is punishment... but it's also clear that some is. And here again we stuff the personal sin stuff in the draw, talk about a fallen world and fallen people. It's no new quandary, but somehow it has hit me differently this time. Sin is something that the world sees more and more as a religious construct, a guilt complex, another reason to need to confess, to be trapped by only if you let it. It's not that the world would deny that there is bad in it, or that we all screw up, or that when we do something wrong we should apologise... it's just they have taken God out of the equation. In a world where 'sin' is rapidly becoming a non-understood word, I find myself caught on this question and fearing it's implications, for if sin can start to equate to Karma or simply a punishment in itself then the redemption of Easter becomes oddly confused. I recognise that in the passage the man did not stand up until Jesus healed him. But Jesus first forgave the sin, weather as a public statement or not, he felt the need to do so. I'm not sure if it's Jesus style to use the man in his political game to annoy the scribes, more likely to me is that this was what the man needed most... but don't we all need that, paralysed or not. As religion ebbs and flows from my surrounding, I recognise the temptation to rose tint the faith ever greater, to preach a message of redemption and fulfilment over suffering and denial. Especially as I finish the various packages of children's work and complete my Easter teachings I realise afresh the grit and the dirt that gets whitewashed along with the bleach upon Jesus' face. I had a beautiful Palm Sunday. I met a new family, a mother whose face was gentle, a father whose skills were required, and two sons, their faces bright with anticipation for life. We sat and talked, first in their house and then in the house of my mother in law. The boys found facination in the new surround, put their arms up to be spun about, tunred upside down, and dropped down on the sofa. We ate together, both the children heavy eyed, and part way through the youngest fell asleep in my arms. There was no church, no palm cross, no march or cry of hosannah. Somehow the unfittingness of the day fit perfectly. The joy of the boys as i spun then around, the excitment of having new people to turn unto human climbing frames. The work that will be done by the father offering hope to our family, for a problem may be ending. The atmospher was nowhere near hosannah, but perhaps glimpsed on occasion the moments the apostles nudged each others with huge unbreaking grins. As in all stories of misunderstandings, like the cry of the zealots on that day, the boys too struggled to comunicate, their childish words misunderstood by the adults, their attempts at english.... The oldest wanted to be spun round again after he had eaten, 'you'll be sick' i kept telling him, putting him down again. but he persisted, until finally he repated back at me 'da (yes) sick' - i believe he thought it meant spin!
We left as the afternoon started to wear, traveled back on the bus the youngest still in my arms, the father holding the older one, the mother long left for work. He cried when i put him on the ground at the bus stop and climbed back abord the vehicle. My last sight of him was with face screwed up and mouth open, the realisation that the moment was over. I wonder if the grins of the apostles had also dimmed that night when they left the city, when the praise died down and the realisation of what may happen that week started to hit them, i'm sure they were long gone by friday, that their faces were by then screwed up, mouths open, tears filling their once bright eyes. If you have been living on some different planet you may not know that next weekend is Easter. It's the celebration of death and resurrection, of bondage being broken, of sacrifice being made, and of the faithful betraying. In one short week the world was turned upon itself and the crowded mass manipulated by forces beyond a politician or preachers reach. The key players in this mirco cosmic saga are Jesus – the divine sacrifice, Peter – the best mate who gets it all wrong, some religious nuts who don't get what they preach, and Judas – a revolutionary with a taste for silver pieces. The supporting cast are commoners, some chosen by name, others paid to shout, all equally important.
Easter is about newness, a second chance, a feat performed in the darkness that broke the darkness itself with light. Across the world the zealous will discuss if Judas was really bad, if his motivation justified his crime, if it was part of Jesus plan to have a wolf in their midst or if he was actually instructed to do the task by Jesus himself. People will spit his name with loathing, will see the mistake made and the way he ended his earthly life before he could see the resurrection. But something of Judas' actions lingers, some part of us that wants to push the action into motion, that sees the opportunity devoid of it's full moral conduct. What normally stops us is the other disciples. Their feeling in the garden as the guards and religious men walked through the trees. Their faces of confusion and horror, as a man who had broken bread with them, handed over their inspiration to those who wished him the greatest of harm. The sickness, outrage, and disgust that would have sat in the pit of their stomachs and slowly risen as the light dawned on the confused faces. The anger of the men who preached forgiveness, suddenly faced with utter betrayal of what they had felt so secure in, the betrayal of their chosen family. I wonder if Judas stumbled from that garden. I wonder if he managed to eat at all for the next day or so. This week I was almost certainly betrayed. Betrayed by one I had welcomed into my house, one who I had greeted with a smile and a kiss, one I have shared bread with, one who I consider family. I had nothing more than some cash stolen. The amount enough to make me sure it was not a mistake, though I continue to pray that it somehow was. That sickness of betrayal rose fast, the unsteadiness, the insecurity wobbling every nerve. The utter sadness that made them feel it was acceptable, the hidden-ness of their actions, their subsequent denial. The missing becomes secondary to the action itself, and there I see Judas. I see him sitting alone on Saturday, bereft, knowing the righteous anger of his former family, knowing that the action can not be undone. And my feeling turn to pity, to utterly pity and regret. From there to genuinely wanting to throw my arms round the betrayer, to pour out on them the forgiveness that Jesus' actions make possible, to lift their head and tell them that all can be well, for hells gates are being destroyed daily. I've been examining my productivity over the last few days, it's a scary and yet slightly liberating move, mostly brought on by the knowlege that my hubby probably won't be employed all that much longer. In some ways it's a possblity opening to dark days, in another it's wonderful knowing that all the built up resentment will be gone. However, I have realised that I'm not pulling my weight sufficently and I have a wonderful ability to procrastinate. So, I'm taking account, working out what I would like my week to look like, and trying to turn it into productivity.
I spend Monday evenings at American corner doing conversation, Wednesdays we are starting to go swimming each afternoon as a bid to get more healthy, Friday evenings I go to church, and Sundays I try and keep free to have with my beloved or for my girly craft days. I have about an hours work a day to do if i've not managed to get in any freelance stuff. That leaves a lot of time. The first thing I realised is that I should turn what I am already doing to my benefit. Hence the new website, and the resources that will hopeful start to wing their way towards 12Baskest soon enough. Secondly, after yesterday's 3 hour wonderful swimmng bag make, I have decided I should do more sewing, this time as neither gifts nor for keeps, but to sell. Finally, I don't have the resources alone to move towards running something, I need to find support and pray that God will open the doors to fulfil the dreams I have, if he does then I will walk through them, if he does not then I will let the dreams rest. Why am I declaring all this to the world? Simply because we made a deal yesterday, we have 2 months, 2 months to try, and 2 months to change things. For if in 2 months things don't change then we have to face the fact that this serbian life is not sustainable, and we have to rethink our plans. My motivation for productivity is accountability.... so hold me accountable, quote this back at me, and hopefully in the next two months the blog will show how the new plan is working out. Below : the latest creation, a swimming bag with pockets for the essentials! Ok so i've threatened to do this so many times before, started, placed a few bits online, and let them stagnate for some uncountable amount of time. What makes this different, what makes me believe that i will follow through on this one?
Partly it's the knowlege that i need to do half the work anyway, partly it's the idea that i would like to find this stuff and so i believe someone out there must be in a similar situation. But when it comes down to it, it seems such a shame not to share it. To pour so much time and effort in and then let it gather dust seems a waste of the time God has given me. So hesitently, i will start to blog every day, alternating between this site and the other. I do not know how long it will last, i do not know if i will end up abandoning both, and i suspect that if one is missed it shall be this. What i know for certain is that this blog helps me, i give a few words into the vastness of the web and take some words from another. i share and grow, get inspired and uplifted, educated and equipped, informed of lifes goodness and shocked by mans lacking. For I lack alone and build collectivly. So i'll set my targets low, a few words here, a lesson in many minute parts each fortnight, an observation or two.... There are many promises made, many agreements that are definate until the time comes, until the rubber hits the road and you back out, decide to take the easy and gentle path, you accept getting by rather than running with the possibility of a crash. This time i'm running, i'm holding my head up high to the wind, trying without fail and falling over continually. i'd bored to dreams that we can't help but back out of, irritaed by numbers on computer screens that make our spirts dive, I've nowhere to go but up and no real excuse not to try. For that is what we give ourselves, excuses, justifications, and saftey nets. but these safty nets reach up from below us and grab up, making us no longer trapeeze artists but captured prisioners.
Serbia doesn't do roundabouts, it does traffic lights, so many traffic lights, some even talk to the pedestrians to tell them when to cross, others count down the time, and little roads with almost no traffic can still be seen sporting them like some bizarre accessory. But roundabouts are scarce, and in Novi Sad, to the best of my knowledge, there is only one i encounter. Coming from within a few miles of Hemel Hempsted, i actually had to have this one pointed out to me, really i just hadn't noticed it was anything unusual, This particular roundabout is rather new. A large and imposing boulevard has been built, it's pavements smooth, it's fledgling trees exactly placed, and it's bike path becoming a favorite place to rollerblade. The completed construction and the yet to be polished parts of the road meet at this roundabout. I turn there to get to church and walk straight across to visit a friend. In the far corner as i approach, i could see some buildings camouflaged in the trees vaguely. amongst the fresh lain paving bricks, and smooth tarmac this was not a sight i expected. there on a time beaten, toddler size, stuffed rocking horse sat a grey bear, it's hooded coat clinging it's wool to the rubbed smooth fur. Behind it the shacks were momentarily deserted, but sure signs of life lingered. I was unsure what to think, unsure how such modern smoothness could juxtapose such crudeness. Some delicate intimate beauty as the bear's face, could be held in such a shell. Some days i remember the beauties of this land, it's endless jewels of life, it's moments of delight and possibility. Others i am saddened that in the progress there is a tendency to look the other way. Some days i want to go and knock on the open doors, most days i hide even my camera as i take the photo. It is so easy to talk of changing the world, and yet so dangerous to actually do it. |
The other siteWho is GfeefGfeef is the name that my writings have been under for some years. As far as I know it's unique to me. Originally from the UK, I now live in Serbia but continue to have a passion for childrens and youth ministry. Archives
October 2014
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