GRACE

Thank you for bearing with me through my silence. I have just returned from a two-month stint in East Africa and was enjoying my segue back into London life via the underground, when I noticed the next blog-worthy event unmask itself before my eyes, (some very significant things seem to happen on tube trains.)

So there I was, feeling like a first-timer in London again, eagerly anticipating the wind on my face and the inimitable smell of recycled tube air pushed forward by the train coming through the tunnel; and as it arrived, eventually breaking to a noisy halt, I could see, through the melee of people on the platform, that there was one vacant seat in the carriage in front of me.
One’s pulse always quickens at the sight of an available seat on the tube, but on this occasion there was a man who entered before me, and so, of course, he took it.
I do not have any real objection to this; there aren’t any stringent rules anymore, unless the situation involves the old, pregnant or obviously infirm, but it was the look on the man’s face and, in fact, his whole demeanor that has preoccupied me enough to write.

As we got onto the train and in the second before he sat down, the man glanced over his shoulder, no doubt sensing the great weight of people behind him, and for a split second after he saw me, I could swear that he hesitated before moving forward to take the seat; then I am utterly convinced that his look was one of awkward embarrassment as he stuck to his decision to sit down .
In that moment, I actually felt a pang of compassion for him, perverse though it may sound, not because he was physically challenged or an elderly gentleman, but because of his discernible discomfort at the choice he had made.

And it seems to be somewhat indicative of the zeitgeist: nobody knows what to do anymore. For some, the fact that the rules have gone out the window is a good thing, but personally, I think that we are a lot worse off without them.
Before you anticipate me launching into some sort of anti-feminist argument here, let me assure you that I have no intention of doing so, as I don’t think the issue is as glaringly about gender as we make it out to be.
Now that us girls have got our way and we are no longer considered to be the ‘weaker sex’, we are free to grapple with a man for a seat should we wish to, or turn him down in the event that he might offer it up. Great! But my point is, that I am not so sure that anyone feels very comfortable with either of these actions anymore, because, I believe, we have lost something vitally important in the fight for our so-called liberty, and I think that something is grace.

The point of interest for me in this, is not the selfless grace of giving, but more the exquisite grace that can be involved in the act of receiving. The lack of this in our modern lives, is what, I believe, rendered the aforementioned train man hesitant and confused about taking the only seat: because, were he to offer it to me instead, his gesture, nowadays, would run the risk of being received as condescending and even offensive.
Before you think I go to far, let me tell you about an experience I had on a London night bus not very long ago (significant things seem to happen on buses too.)

It was very late and the bus was quite crowded, when a kindly man decided to take his life into his hands and give up his seat for a woman who was standing. She was immediately affronted: “Are you saying I’m fat?” she offered, thinking he was implying she was pregnant, which she apparently wasn’t, and as he tried to answer, a fist came from the area of her boyfriend standing behind her and a lively fight broke out.

I have since spoken to a few men about their feelings on the subject and there seems to be an element of fear that surrounds it. For some, it’s as though, in stretching out their arm to open a door for a woman, they leave exposed a weak point in their armour, ready for the fair maiden to plunge a sharp instrument into it.
The gesture seems to have morphed from one of base-line chivalry into dare-devil madness, and the knight taking his life into his hands to aid the damsel in distress, takes on a whole new meaning.
But this newly discovered confusion is not exclusively the realm of the male; women don’t know whether to be pleased or patronised when a man offers up his seat now. Do I accept because I’m knackered, or because I’m a woman?

Our post-Enlightenment thinking seems to be marked by a sense of ‘chacun a son gout’, a phrase which, in it’s soft charm, belies the ugly reality behind it. Each to their own, works only in so far as your own does not prevent me from getting mine.

Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Philippians 2:3

I have always seen this scripture as a prompting to do more things for others, to let them have what I really want, to put them first by giving something up. But only after the train incident have I entertained the possibility that receiving could be an act of giving in itself.

A certain member of my family, (you know who you are,) is famed for her inability to take a compliment, and having discussed this idiosyncrasy with her in some depth, we have come to the conclusion that she simply cannot accept that the giver of the compliment is sincere and so, on hearing such a comment, she simpers and cringes and makes a funny noise that I cannot begin to describe.
But though this may seem amusing, I have noticed, first hand, that when you are the giver of the compliment, it is bordering on hurtful to have it rebuffed. It’s as though your gift of praise has been thrown back in your face and you are considered lacking in any real discernment.

I used to be an actress before giving up the stage, in favour of whatever it is I do now, and looking back, I notice how absolutely astoundingly bad actors are at receiving compliments. They may seem nauseatingly confident on the surface, but if you have ever been to see a friend acting in a show and attempted to praise them, only to have your comment refused because they are convinced that their performance was dreadful, you will know what I mean.

I am still waiting for someone to explain the cultural history of why the British are so famously self-effacing; perhaps it is a result of latent guilt from the global atrocities we have committed over the years, but I am yearning to see us shake off the false humility epitomised by practically every character that Hugh Grant has ever played, and replace it with a genuine acceptance, that is imbued with the kind of warmth the Americans are capable of giving so readily, making the encourager feel encouraged for their words of encouragement.

I think it was the philosopher Thomas Hobbes who first suggested that we are never capable of an act of pure altruism because at the core of our motivation is always an ardent self-interest. Even acts of charity, he argued, are only ever performed because they make us feel good. But I think receiving graciously, when you feel completely unworthy of the gift could possibly be an act of true humility.

I am sure this is why we are so cynical about God, because basically we don’t believe him. It takes humility to accept this free gift of God’s Grace, or unmerited favour, which he constantly offers us, whoever we are, whatever we have done.
Our lives are so independent now, some of us genuinely believe we don’t need God because we are perfectly capable and can get by on our own, and we don’t need that seat on the tube either. We fear an ulterior motive, like God might be trying to ruin our lives or the stranger on the tube might end up following us home. Neither seem worthy of our trust.

But what is life without risks?

Perhaps, if we learnt to receive more graciously, then those around us might be encouraged to give more generously, and Grace would course through our lives like a river.

I suppose we won’t know if we don’t try.

Morning

I have often thought how wrong it feels to be on public transport very early in the morning. This is not because I am a grumpy old grouch-bag first thing, it’s just that one feels so vulnerable at that time. It’s almost like a train, bus or plane load of complete strangers suddenly turned up in your bedroom, which would be wrong; and it always makes me feel like I’ve forgotten something vital – like my trousers.

This morning I left for the bus stop very early and as I set off, pulling my coat around me against the cold, I spotted a man coming towards me; he was clearly just going about his business, like me, but as he drew nearer I suddenly realised that I was going to have to greet him; not because I knew him, which I didn’t, but because it would feel utterly wrong not to.

Exchanging pleasantries with strangers is not something I am entirely averse to; if it wasn’t for the risk of being pursued by odd-balls I would do it more often, but here’s the thing that suddenly struck me as interesting in that moment: if it had been the afternoon or the evening, I would not have had the same compunction to engage with this man. Why?

People ignore each other constantly in this city; you know the rules if you live here: don’t make eye-contact with anyone, and if you commit the arch faux-pas of actually making physical contact with someone by, perhaps, brushing past them, you must say sorry but do not, I repeat, do not look them in the eye.

So why was this occasion any different?

Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope:
Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
For his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;

There is something ridiculously honest about the morning – one’s reaction of horror or relief at what did or did not occur under the veil of darkness during the night before; the realisation that a decision might be a wrong or a right one; and then, of course, there is that wonderfully cool, fresh smell that seems so natural even in the city, bringing with it a sense of newness and hope.

I always used to think that the Bible scripture above, from the book of Lamentations, meant that while we were asleep God, who was deservedly exasperated with us, managed to let off some steam, like a stressed out parent cracking open a bottle of wine, and by morning had summoned up the magnanimity to forgive us our sins. Who knows whether there is actually an element of truth to this but my point here is that perhaps we, being made in His image, also have our compassions renewed each morning.

Perhaps this is what prevented me from putting up the barriers which are usually firmly in place by lunchtime; and why two strangers greet each other at 7am and it feels like the most authentic exchange that’s happened in months.

Known

Exactly how much do you know?
Did you know that I would love you?
Did you know, though, at first I would say ‘no’ to your approaching?
Did you know, also, that slowly I would seek to know every little thing that you know?
Knowing me, you probably thought: “I know! I’ll wait.”
You know, one thing that I know now and I don’t know how I know it,
Is that one day, I will know you in the same way I am known.

Ransacked

There must be a back window that you knew about;
You waited for just the right moment.
When everything got really dark, you smashed the glass,
The pain broke,
You shone your torch on everything inside.
With the perverse discernment of a consummate professional,
You took away the tat and left all the good stuff.

Amen

So there I was praying the other evening, it had been a good day, I had accomplished a lot and my prayers seemed to be flowing along nicely. I felt them drawing to a close, said “Amen” and was just about to get up and go on to the next thing when I had this overwhelming feeling that I had just slammed the door in God’s face. It felt like He wanted more and I was somehow short-changing him and I suddenly became aware that every time I say Amen it is like a closing Statement – when perhaps it’s meant to be more like a sort of battle cry propelling us into the mission field of every day life.

Isn’t it funny that when we pray, so often we put on this solemn or breathy or even slightly sexual undertone (awkward I know, but I’ve heard it a lot), then we say “Amen” and it’s back to our normal voice again – why? Have you ever waited for the “Amen” so that you can speak or eat or get up and go? I have. But even when we are alone in our prayer closet, having some really deep time with God, when we eventually come to finish and say Amen, there is this sense of closing a book and then we move on to the real part of the day. Why is this so? Why do we compartmentalise everything? We love labels and schedules and we have a special name for the part of the day we devote to God: “Quiet Time” as though you can’t be quiet at any other time, or time with God can’t be spent leaping and shouting and singing…….

But wait, doesn’t God tell us to pray at all times and without ceasing? And perhaps it’s conceivable that he tells us not to worry about what we will wear or eat so that we will spend more time gazing into His face.

I think God is showing me that He wants us to tarry and to go hand in hand through the Amen, down the stairs and then out onto the street, to go with Him, everywhere. I long to have this sense of connectedness with God constantly, sometimes it’s such a battle just to get to Him, to hack my way through the “crust of self” as George Macdonald calls it.

How do I get to the point where I say Amen and then go with God and not ahead of Him and stay with Him, in every interaction, in every thought, word and deed? Is it possible?

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same, 10

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. 15

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 20

Robert Frost 1874–1963

Disturb me Lord

Disturb us, Lord, when
We are too well pleased with ourselves,
When our dreams have come true
Because we have dreamed too little,
When we arrived safely
Because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us, Lord, when
With the abundance of things we possess
We have lost our thirst
For the waters of life;
Having fallen in love with life,
We have ceased to dream of eternity
And in our efforts to build a new earth,
We have allowed our vision
Of the new Heaven to dim.

Disturb us, Lord, to dare more boldly,
To venture on wider seas
Where storms will show your mastery;
Where losing sight of land,
We shall find the stars.

We ask You to push back
The horizons of our hopes;
And to push into the future
In strength, courage, hope, and love.

Sir Francis Drake -1577