Flourishing...

This weekend at General Synod I had intended to try to speak in one of the debates, on the report of the Implementation and Dialogue Group. For various reasons, involving quite a lot of Life and a fair bit of Stuff, I wasn’t able to engage as fully in the prep for Synod as I usually would, and I was very late in writing my speech and putting in a request to speak. (In fact I raised my ‘blue hand’ slightly before the speech was finished, which could have led to an interesting outcome if I had been called!). In the end I wasn’t called, which is probably for the best, as I’m not sure I’d have made much sense. (Incidentally it happens also to be the only time in six years of Synod that I’ve tried to speak in a debate and not managed to do so – my normal strategy of ‘stand right in the eyeline of the chair, to my full 5.11 height, plus heels, and wear bright orange’ doesn’t work quite so well on Zoom! I was delighted that my friend Esther Prior was called to speak first – she made an excellent speech, said some similar things to what I would have said, only better, and set just the right tone for the rest of the debate.

I woke up this morning with my head full of all of the things that I would have liked to say if only I could have got the thoughts together more quickly and clearly. Therefore, I thought I would share those thoughts here. I won't focus so much on the IDG report (which you can read here), as on the whole concept of mutual flourishing and the 5 Guiding Principles. I won’t explain the background to them, but if you’re unsure you can read more here). 

Sometimes when I write a blog it is cheery and light and I press ‘post’ in the confident hope that people will receive it with enthusiasm and all will be well. At other times I press ‘post’ with fear and trepidation, knowing that it is quite possible that I’m about to upset everybody everywhere, from every possible point on every possible spectrum, all at the same time, and slightly holding my breath for the backlash. I’ll leave you to work out which is true on this occasion…

The thing is though, that I believe we need the 5 GPs, and I also believe that mutual flourishing really matters. For a start, the 5GPs state extremely clearly that the CofE has come to a decision on this issue. The matter has been decided. Women can be deacons, and priests, and bishops. This is important to me, and I am delighted that it is so. There are now, joyously, so many women ordained bishop that I cannot tell you the total number without googling it. If I tried to name them all, I would certainly forget some. I consider that to be rather wonderful, only 7 years since the vote that enabled it. But, secondly, and also very importantly, the 5GPs clearly recognise that not everyone is able to “receive the ministry of” ordained women. This is also important. People have the right not to believe in or agree with the ordained ministry of women (whether those objections relate to the issues of priesthood, or of leadership, or of preaching).

Very clearly, it is hard to hold those two things in tension. It can be painful and complex. It certainly requires huge amounts of grace and generosity from everyone involved. And in this area (as in literally every single other area of the life of the church and of the world) we could do with a huge amount more grace. Grace is just about my very favourite thing, but there can never be enough of it.

There are a few key moments in my own ministry when I’ve really experienced mutual flourishing and the 5GPs in action. Just a couple of weeks ago, for instance, I was privileged to lead the priests’ ordination retreat for the Edmonton Area of the Diocese of London (a Diocese which I think many others could learn from in terms of how they navigate this stuff, with the London Plan). There were six deacons on the retreat. Five of them were ordained priest on the Saturday, at a service at which I preached, and Bishop Sarah ordained (and also, joyfully, at which the female vicar of the church we were in sat opposite me). I found myself tearful on a couple of occasions, for all sorts of reasons to do with covid, and worshipping together with others, and ordinations simply being wonderful, but also for the privilege it was to preach at a service where a female Bishop was presiding and ordaining. However, I’ve mentioned six, and then five – the other candidate wasn’t ordained that same day, but two weeks later, by the Bishop of Maidstone. He was part of the retreat, we all spent that whole time journeying together, but his decision was that he couldn’t be ordained by Bishop Sarah. I obviously can’t pretend to know what that must feel like as a bishop. But in its practical outworking, during the retreat, it worked. I received nothing but respect and kindness from the candidate, and I hope he would say the same of me.

Several years ago, I was invited to give a seminar at the Word Alive conference, and I was delighted to do so. (I did spend much of the rest of the day explaining to people that I wasn’t the wife of any vicar, there or elsewhere, but that’s another story. Never before have I wished I’d worn a dog collar to a summer festival. Even more ironic when you consider that the seminar was on singleness!). 

More recently, I was invited to give the morning sermon in the chapel at Oak Hill College. What an extraordinary privilege that was. I don’t take such invitations for granted, but am honoured to receive them, and treasure them.

It so happens (unsurprisingly, given my own tradition) that all of those examples relate to the evangelical world. But just this morning I had a conversation with a friend, a traditionalist catholic priest, for whom I have nothing but respect and admiration. We discussed General Synod, and I was enthusiastic in my encouragement of him to stand. He will, if elected, bring much wisdom and grace to the chamber. He was also kind enough to express to me his thanks for my own ministry on General Synod, and his support of my campaign for re-election. We’re interested in each other’s flourishing, and it’s mutual.

I’m very pleased to be able to call the Bishop of Burnley a friend (it’s true – some of my best friends are bishops…). Together we’ve been part of an only averagely successful, but extremely entertaining, online lockdown quiz team. But even before we were friends, I had invited him to speak at a New Wine event that I was leading, because I’d heard him speak about urban mission and ministry, and it had moved me to tears. His passion and clarity and wisdom continue to inspire me. We’re interested in each other’s flourishing, and it’s mutual.

Now please understand me, I am not naïve. I realise that this stuff doesn’t always work out well. But I genuinely believe that isn’t enough of a reason to give up trying. I have had my fair share of rude, unkind and unhelpful comments. In fact I probably haven’t had my fair share – I know some women who have suffered with this far more than I have. In no way would I wish to downplay or minimise what they have been through. Sometimes those comments, or reactions, or behaviours, come from a place of ignorance and prejudice. Sometimes they come simply from a place of not having engaged the brain and the mouth at the same time. When I preached once at evening prayer in the chapel at Wycliffe Hall while I was training for ordination, someone told me that it was the best sermon they’d ever heard by a woman. The thing is, I genuinely think they meant it as a compliment! (For the avoidance of doubt, it is not!).

I understand – of course I understand – that these matters can be intensely hard. I have found the pain of knowing that someone has stayed sitting in their seat, rather than coming forward to receive communion, because I am the one who has presided, to be a moment of unique and deep pain. When someone belittles or dismisses our ministry it is hurtful, painful, difficult – deeply so.

It is my belief, though, that scrapping the 5GPs, ditching the concept of mutual flourishing, announcing that from now on everyone who is a candidate for ordination must assent that they are in favour of women’s ordination and ministry – these things wouldn’t (necessarily) help. Of course, where there is bad behaviour, it must be challenged. Online abuse, hate mail, nasty comments, ignoring/blanking female colleagues – these things are totally unacceptable, and they must not be allowed to continue. I know that many of my friends from traditionalist catholic and conservative evangelical backgrounds would challenge these behaviours if they witnessed them, and we need more of this. We need too to learn from examples of good practice, such as we see in the Dioceses of London, Blackburn, and Chichester, among others.

The Bishop of Rochester said during the debate yesterday that perhaps we needed some of this work to have been done on 2014, rather than now, and I think he is probably right. I hope that we can learn from some of the good practice around, as well as from some of the bad experiences people have had, so that we can all get better at this. 

I want to try hard to recognise and acknowledge that the need for grace isn’t only one sided, and nor is the potential for pain. It isn’t that I must summon all of my grace in order to cope with the views of these people who don’t accept my ministry, and the pain that may cause while they just merrily continue with their views. There is grace too in their interactions with me, with us. There will also sometimes be pain in the outworking of their ministries. I don’t know, maybe on the morning that I preached in the chapel at Oak Hill, some people stayed away. It’s pretty likely, I guess. But some didn’t. Some came, and listened, and received my teaching – and I recognise and give thanks for the grace that some of them will have needed to exercise in doing so.

The point at which I differ, I guess, from some of my colleagues, is that I don’t believe that for someone simply to hold the view that women can’t (or shouldn’t) be ordained, or lead, or preach, is in itself harmful. It is only the behaviours which sometimes arise out of that view that are harmful. The theological and ecclesiological opinion is, I believe, entirely valid, and what matters is how you then live with and behave towards your colleagues. We’re right back round to grace again.

Inevitably this blog has become very long. I don’t want it also to become waffly (you may consider that ship to have sailed…). I’m sure there will have been points at which I have expressed myself clumsily. If I have misrepresented anyone’s point of view, or offended anyone, I ask for their forgiveness. These are, of course, only my own views. I’d welcome further discussion on what I’ve written – but please, be kind!

Extrovert musings...

So, you might not have noticed, because it's not obvious and I don't mention it much, but I'm a bit of an extrovert...

Ha! I am, in fact, quite literally 'off the scale.' (Seriously, I did some sort of test once and somehow my score was beyond the 100% line...)

When I first discovered, years ago now, the real difference between extroverts and introverts, I was fascinated - it all suddenly made sense! Before that, I think I'd just fallen into the trap (that you used to see perpetuated a lot, although less so now), of thinking that extrovert = outgoing and confident, and introvert = shy and withdrawn. That's not really the case at all, it's actually far more interesting and complex than that.

I learned then a method that I still use now if I'm explaining this to people who aren't sure which they are. 2 questions:

1) If you've been working all day and are tired, how would you most like to relax and wind down? a) by going out and meeting up with lots of friends; or b) by curling up on your own with a book.

2) If you have a big decision to make, or a problem to work through, what's the best way for you to do that? a) by chatting it through with other people; or b) by some time on your own to mull it over.

As = extrovert, Bs = introvert.

Obviously it's all a bit more nuanced than that in reality, and some people find themselves somewhere in the middle, or one side sometimes and the other side other times. 

For me though, I'm extrovert all day long! It sounds a bit mad to those people who aren't the same way, but those who are will totally understand:

• I don't know what I think about something until I've said it out loud. Sometimes I hear myself speak and am quite surprised to find out what I think! This can be disconcerting for other people in meetings, especially ones I'm chairing - I have to make sure there's a disclaimer at the beginning about 'thinking out loud.'
• I can't make a decision without talking about it. Often I don't even need the other person to say anything, but the process of saying it out loud helps me to decide. 
• I can't process or work through any stuff unless I have someone to talk it through with. That's a bit of an issue in a year which has been packed full of All Of The Stuff. (Spare a thought for my Bubble Of Joy who are faced with an extreme amount of splurging every time I visit).
• I don't really know how I'm doing unless I say it out loud. People will ask 'how are you?' and I invariably think 'hmm, how am I?' I then start to reply, and discover the answer at about the same time as they do.
• I get my energy from other people. It took me really quite a long time into this whole pandemic thing to realise that was one of the reasons why I was so exhausted (I mean there are lots of other reasons too, who isn't exhausted?!). But I simply was not getting enough energy from other people to keep me going. (A good (introvert) friend of mine observed early on that Zoom is too much people for the introverts and not enough people for the extroverts!).
• I prefer to do about 12 different things at the same time, because it genuinely helps me to concentrate better on each of them.

Writing can help a bit, as a sort of substitute for talking if that isn't possible. Talking to myself can also sometimes help, but not always (though I still do it. A lot). 

I've known all this about myself for some time, and I find it helpful to know, because it means that I'm better able to understand who I am and how I tick and what I need. I imagine it's helpful for my friends to know too - and I always know that a friend really 'gets' me when they say something like 'so shall we arrange a chat so that you can work out what you think?'

The thing that has been interesting lately is pondering what all this means during lockdown (and particularly as a single person who lives alone during lockdown). I guess I could have predicted all of the big stuff that I'd find hard - the process of making big decisions about worship in church, the working through my feelings and emotions about it all, the isolation of spending SO MUCH time on my own.

But what I don't think I would have expected or realised until it happened, was how much I've also missed every other small, everyday interaction that I probably barely noticed. That quick hello in the supermarket. That chat with the neighbour while walking down the street. That moment of bumping into someone by the shops. That car park chat at the end of a meeting. That conversation over coffee during the break in the meeting. 

Those things take only a few moments, but all of them give me energy and help my brain work better - and all of them have all but disappeared. When every meeting is on Zoom, we have 'Zoom fatigue' and eye strain, and understandably as soon as there's a coffee break we get up and walk away from our screen, and only come back when the meeting restarts. But then how am I supposed to find out what I think about how the meeting is going?! (That's the main reason why I'm always the person using the Zoom chat function nonstop - so sorry to those whom it distracts!). Without all of these things, I have lacked energy and focus and drive. Everything has taken longer and felt harder.

I realise that not all extroverts will recognise themselves in what I'm saying (and equally that not all introverts will find themselves at the opposite pole - in fact quite a few of my introvert friends have said "this was great to start with but even I am over it now").

I'm actually a little bit apprehensive, I've realised, about what happens as we come out of this weird year - as we follow the 'roadmap' that leads ahead. 'How long will it be before I can hug my friends?' is a question I've been asking for a long time, but now I realise I'm also wondering things like 'will I still be the same sort of extrovert as I was before?' and 'will the ways in which we interact with each other have changed forever and will that be ok?' and 'can my friends really handle the explosion of extroversion they're going to be faced with over the next few months?!'

I do realise that there's not really all that much that I can do about any of this. As you might expect, I'm mostly just writing this to help myself to work it out! But certainly it's helped me to get to know myself a bit better - and hopefully to understand others a bit better too ("some of my best friends are introverts...!")

"You have kept a record of my tears..."

I've been thinking a bit lately about crying. I wonder what sort of a relationship you have with tears?! I'm a big fan of the Christmas film The Holiday, and in that Cameron Diaz's character Amanda tells Jude Law's character Graham that she hasn't cried since her parents split up when she was a child. She tries several times, squeezing up her eyes and willing the tears to come out, but they won't. The moment we know she's really serious about Graham is when she's leaving in a taxi and suddenly realises that tears are running down her cheeks.

Personally, I cry A LOT. I cry at sad films, and sometimes at happy ones too. I often cry when I'm reading books. I cry when I'm watching the news, and even occasionally when I'm watching adverts... I cry when little kids do something cute. I cry when I'm overwhelmed by beauty - looking at a glorious sunset, for instance. I cry when I hear sad news about somebody else. I cry when I'm lost in worship, singing praises to God, and I almost always cry when someone prays for me. Sometimes I've even made myself cry while I'm preaching, sharing the good news of Jesus' love. I also do that really annoying thing, that a number of other women have told me they do too, of crying when I'm angry! 

Many of the situations above cause me to well up, rather than to sob as such, although anyone who has sat near to me during the worship time at New Wine knows there are times when, to use the marvellous Liverpool phrase that I very much enjoy, I've 'cried my leg off.'

I cry when I'm upset too, of course. I cry when I'm sad, or lonely, or stressed, or overwhelmed, or frustrated. 

The one small flaw in this litany of tears is that I absolutely and completely cannot cry when I'm talking to people. I can be with my dearest, closest friends, or in a prayer group, or with wise spiritual advisers. I can be going through a really tough time, and want to talk about it, and know that the person is willing to listen. I can have been specifically asked how I'm doing, and I can be in the middle of describing the many ways in which I am really not doing well at all. But I cannot cry, because, well, PEOPLE. I only ever cry on my own (New Wine worship times notwithstanding - if my eyes are closed you can't see me, right?!).

(Oh, and another small caveat. A few years ago I did the incomparably superb Arrow Leadership Programme. I cried from the moment we started until the moment we finished. There's some kind of magic there, I can't explain it).

Over the past little while I've been beginning to figure out why it is that the presence of other humans (usually) means I can't cry, and what it's about, and I'm starting to understand it a bit more. I'm really hopeful that, over time, this will change, and I'll be able to be a bit more 'in the moment' with my emotions, so that if I'm telling someone about something really sad, I will be able to cry there and then. (One dear friend often (re)assures me that he's certain he'll be able to make me cry one day...!).

A few months into the first lockdown, someone asked me how I was doing. I said that I was up and down, that it depended on the day, or perhaps even on the hour - I guess that's pretty normal right?! Anyway I then said that I was fairly sure that I'd cried every single day of the lockdown. They looked at me in absolute horror! Maybe they were more on the Cameron Diaz/Amanda end of the tears spectrum! Now, almost a year into this whole pandemic thing, it wouldn't strictly be true to say that I've cried every single day since last March, but there are way more days when I've cried than when I haven't. Like, *way* more.

And so I've been thinking about tears. Specifically I've been thinking about what God thinks about our tears. I've been reflecting on those 2 extraordinary words that John writes in his description of the story of Lazarus. One of Jesus' closest friends has died, and his sisters, also dear friends of Jesus', are devastated. Jesus walks with them to the tomb where Lazarus is laid, and 2 short words tell us so much about the heart of our Lord: "Jesus wept." 

What beautiful words those are. That, and the time when he weeps over Jerusalem, are the only recorded instances in the gospels of Jesus crying, but I doubt very much that they are the only times that he cried. Interesting lines in Christmas carols notwithstanding, he definitely would have cried as a baby, and a child, because that's what babies and children do. But I wonder whether he also cried as a man. I wonder (and of course I can do no more than wonder) whether he cried when his cousin John was murdered. Or when his friends betrayed him. I think that perhaps he did. And I'm certain that he sees my tears, and that he understands.

I've also been thinking about that beautiful verse in Psalm 56, written by King David when he had been captured by the Philistines. It's a Psalm full of raw, real emotion, like so many of the Psalms. That's one of the reasons that so many people find such comfort in their words - because they remind us that we can come to God just as we are, with all of our messy emotions, and that he can take it.

Psalm 56:8 tells me that God has literally made a note of all of my tears. (It's worth reading the verse in a few different translations because there are some fascinating and beautiful different ways of saying that). What an extraordinary thought that is! All those moments when I've cried alone, when emotion has burst out of me, and when it's been buried within. God has seen my tears, he has understood my tears, he has even recorded my tears. (It may not surprise you, having read this far, to find that I am crying as I write these words!).

And then, my mind goes to the last book of the Bible, to the stunning vision of the world beyond this world, to the new heavens and the new earth, and I think of that verse which is sometimes read at funerals. John describes his vision of this future city, which God is preparing for his people. And then in Rev. 21:4 we read that "He will wipe every tear from (our) eyes."

One day, I will live forever with the Lord, and there will be no more crying. Who knows, maybe he'll show me the bottles (giant vats...) that he has collected of my tears over the years. Until then, I'll cry on (sometimes), knowing that he sees me.