The What and How of Intergenerational Worship

Some great insights here. Our Church has been thinking along similar lines so pleased to see that others are also taking the leap

Still Waters

It seems as if more and more churches are looking for ways to provide an intergenerational worship experience. Also, more families are looking for churches where they feel comfortable to worship as a family. Worshiping as an intergenerational community is not easy. It is challenging to plan a worship that is intellectually stimulating for the adults and spiritually meaningful for the kids. Often the trap that churches fall into is either dumbing down the message or inserting kid-friendly moments like children’s sermons. Unfortunately, this rarely satisfies anyone.

After all, what is intergenerational worship? Is it merely people of all ages being able to worship together? The simple answer would be ‘yes.’ I believe it is more than that. At the church that I serve, intergenerational worship encompasses the full diversity spectrum of the congregation. Not only does it address the young, old, and everything in-between, but it addresses the young…

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Forgiveness and Community

How many times have you heard someone say “forgivenes is not for the other person, its for you”? People are often encouraged to forgive with the view that in doing so, they obtain some semblence of peace or release. This all sounds very noble and for sure, there is some truth to that notion. But what if I told you there was another side to forgiveness, one that is not so often spoken about, perhaps because, well, it offers nothing to the person doing the forgiving and instead is a benefit to the one being forgiven.

I was thinking about forgiveness the other day because there was someone I needed to forgive, and it occured to me that I had missed out on an important truth regarding forgiveness. One of the tenents of Christianity is the notion of a forgiving God; a God who is magnanimous, generous, and loving and I suddenly thought, what benefit does God receive in offering forgiveness to us? How is God’s life made better, his conscience clearer because he is forgiving? The more I pondered on those questions, the clearer it became to me that in fact, God’s forgiveness was to our benefit rather than God’s, and if we are called to forgive as God forgave, what does that mean for us?

In that moment, it dawned on me that there was something about forgiveness that screamed inclusion, belonging, welcome, and community: in offering us forgiveness, God invites us to be in communion with himself, to identify with him, to be included in his divinity. Forgiveness, therefore, becomes about restoring back to fellowship and community; it is an act of generosity in the face of hurt, anger, or grief. I’m not lying when I say I felt challenged by this: as I thought about the person I needed to forgive I wondered how my failure to forgive had unintentionally ‘disfellowshiped’ them from being in community with me, or caused them to feel ostracized to some degree.

Yes, forgiveness has some benefit to us, (we feel better, for example) but if we simply focus on that, it becomes a selfish act rather than one of generosity. Here’s the difficulty in seeing forgiveness as an act of generosity: it raises question about perpetrators of what we might consider heinous acts: if forgiveness is about inclusion and community, what does that mean for the person who was raped, or whose loved one was murdered? Dare we include peodophiles, sex traffickers, and such like? How do we extend generosity in such situations? To be honest, I do not know, and that is why I do not believe we should encourage other people to offer forgiveness, because generosity cannot be coerced – we need to allow people to come to that place for themselves. It is up to them to choose to offer the opportunity for belonging or inclusion.

Is it any wonder that we struggle to forgive if we are constantly told forgiveness is for us? Does my pain go away once I’ve forgiven? Do I no longer bear the scars of the act done to me when I forgive? No and no, because forgiveness is not intended to rid me of my pain, anger, or grief, but to bring back into fellowship those who have wronged me. For this reason, I consider forgiveness to be the highest form of generosity we can extend, because in forgiving I am choosing to to offer my hand in fellowship to the person who has done me wrong, not because it is beneficial to me, but because I recognsie that unforgiveness means that we are no longer living in community with each other.

So, the next time you feel inclined to say to someone, ‘forgiveness is for you’ perhaps think about what it is you are asking of them, and if you have opportunity to offer forgiveness, consider what ‘being in community’ with that person might look like. I would say also, don’t feel guilty about any inability to forgive that you may experience: it may be that you are not ready or are unable to offer forgiveness and that’s okay. Take your time and count the cost, so that your offer of forgiveness may truly be the greatest act of generosity you have proferred to another.

 

Standing on the Shores

She stands on the edge of the shore, waves gently crashing, laps of water caressing her feet. Her toes sink into the damp sand, moveable, yet firm, and she ponders the ways of the waves. What brings them to shore, and how quickly they dissipate into nothing, wave meeting wave, after wave after wave.She considers how much like the waves of the sea her life seems to be at the moment: an endless onslaught of emotions, each one colliding with the next, until they merge to form an endless blanket of pain and sadness and grief, stretching her until she finds herself limp beneath their weight. Perhaps like the waves of the sea, there is a reason for all this, she ponders.What if, just like how the grinding of shells and other materials, cause the beautiful shimmering sand, brought to fruition by the waves, the events of life that currently leave her shattered will somehow forge a thing of beauty she has yet to imagine? What if the deep pain she feels in her bosom is the birthing of something so pure, it has yet to be experienced?She struggles to see the shimmers of pink in the sandy grains of her life and sees only the gnarled bundles of seaweed, intermingled with bouts of litter scattered across the shores of her present life. She yearns for the day when her deep pain will be no more: when memories of recent events will fade away into the night, becoming just the hint of a memory. Dare she hope? Dare she wait in eager expectations of that which is to come? What will her new normal look like? Can she look forward to days of sunshine sprinkled with wafts of cool breeze, blowing away her painful thoughts?She desperately wants to believe in happily ever after again. And so, she stands on the shores face held up to the sky and she breathes in the rays of sunshine, warm and soothing on her skin. She squints and takes in the radiant blue of the sky above, and as she feels the cool of the water gently caressing her feet, hope seems possible once again.

Stuck Between Betrayal and Resurrection

Shouts of “He is risen” punctuate my social media timeline: it is Easter Sunday and I have just led an interactive, engaging service to a packed church, followed by engaging conversations, coffee, and cake. All in all, a good day, by ministerial standards. But there is something amiss: my usual excitement over Easter Day seemed to have eluded me. As I reflect on this I realise that I am stuck on Holy Saturday, that in-between stage of uncertainty and hopelessness. My thoughts have been on how the disciples would have felt the day after the death of their friend, on their pain and fear as they try to come to grips with the events of the day before. I could pretend that my thoughts are due to some deep theological reflection only, but the truth is, I too , feel stuck on the “aftermath”, and perhaps, for the first time, I feel the grief of the disciples.

As Christians we tend to look toward Easter with the benefit of knowing how the story ends and some of us may even choose to ignore the events of Good Friday, preferring instead to herald those around us with “Sunday’s coming”! And rightly so, because it is that hope of a resurrection that seals our faith and propels us into a life of expectancy and freedom. However, the problem with moving on too quickly to resurrection is that it could lead to not fully appreciating  what it is we are being resurrected from, while also denying the anguish of those around us who might still be waiting for their Easter day to arrive.

For me, life at the moment is one of Holy Saturday. Unlike the disciples, I am looking forward to Resurrection because I know better, but waiting is hard and painful.  The uncertainty of not knowing what will be makes it difficult to embrace any kind of resurrection, and like the disciples, I want to hide away until it all blows over. That in-between stage brings more questions than answers and can leave one feeling like hope is completely out of reach, and that the least one can look forward to is some kind of reprieve from the angst and turmoil. Sounds depressing, doesn’t it? And therein lies the temptation: to make like the disciples and lock ourselves in a room.  The truth is, locking ourselves away does not make the pain of waiting any less, neither does it bring forward a resurrection. So what is left to do?

Firstly, embrace the Holy Saturday in your life – go through it gently, allowing yourself to feel the varying emotions that will undoubtedly  assault (sometimes) your senses, Secondly, celebrate the little moments of hope that will occasionally make an appearance. There is something quite profound about living in the moment: allowing oneself to soak in every aspect of life in such a way so as to appreciate the ebbs and flows. Lastly, hold on to the promise of resurrection. For me, the greatest thing about the Easter story is the promise of hope. I love the fact that out of something so horrid and unexpected comes the promise of life. In the midst of my waiting; in my moments of doubt and uncertainty; when I am feeling overwhelmed by life’s events, I find glimmers of opportunity for hope, not because I can see any, but because I know that the One in whom I trust has been where I am; feeling grief, alone, betrayed, abandoned, and his resurrection power means that I will not be in this place forever, even though it feels like it.

So if you find yourself struggling to echo choruses of “He is Risen”, take courage, you are not alone; just hold on until you experience your own resurrection.  I know I am ….

Stripped Bare

(I wrote this late last night as I was thinking of some stuff that life has recently brought my way. Hope it speaks to someone)

Broken Pieces

So much has happened since my last post – I feel several posts coming – including the death of my youngest brother, as well as some other personal stuff.  I have written many blog posts in my head – haha! – some of which may make it here. Tonight on my drive home some words came into my head so I thought I’d share them with you.  Not sure if I should call it a poem, but it’s some sort of literary thing 🙂

“I need something from you”. The words came unexpectedly.  I shuffled around in attempt to find something worthy of one such as him. “What are you doing?” God asked. “Look in the mirror. That is what I want”. “Are you sure?” I was hesitant, thinking surely he meant I needed to make some changes so that I could be just right. “Yes. I am sure”, the words came back to me, firm, yet gentle. Embarrassed, I cobbled together the broken pieces of me and handed them over tentatively, wondering what on earth could be made of such a mismatch of life’s experiences. God smiled a “Thank you” as if my  gift were a precious metal. And now, I wait, not quite patiently, but in hopeful anticipation of what God will make of my broken pieces.

The interesting thing in all of this, is, sometime after I wrote this in my head, a song my Matthew West entitled ‘Broken pieces’, came over on the radio station I was listening to …. Listen to it here ….

Gym Lessons 101

Today, I went for a trial visit to a local health and fitness centre.  I haven’t been to the gym in about a year and it shows.  Lately I’ve been feeling more slob than swish and as I’m not getting any younger (who knew!), I’m aiming to get fitter and healthier.  (I’ve been here before!)

When it comes to gyms, I have special requirements: I am a social ‘exerciser’ so I need somewhere that offers classes.  I’m also keen on relaxation so a pool/sauna/steam room is perfect for me. I got a free pass into Nuffield Health Club so I dusted off my gym wear and off I went.  Once I’d been shown around, I was left to my own devices to try out the gym’s equipment.

Understandably, I am a bit rusty in terms of exercise, so I stuck with what I knew and started with the treadmill.  I set myself a time of 10 minutes and slowly worked my way to a reasonable speed and incline. The speed at which I went and how tired I felt at the end confirmed just how unfit I am!  Undeterred, I made my way to the rowing machine, and again, struggled through what seemed like the longest ten minutes of my life.  Motivated by the anticipation of time spent in the steam room, I persevered.  I should say at this point, most of the patrons in the gym at the time all appeared to be a lot older than myself, which may have contributed to my extra determination to keep going!

For the final 10 minutes of my thirty minute target, I chose the stationary bike (is that the technical name for it?) and mounted one next to an elderly gentleman and behind an even more elderly woman.  By this time, I am dripping in sweat, my legs feel heavier, heart rate faster, but determined to not throw in the towel.  Inspired my my elderly gym colleague, I start cycling and it soon becomes obvious that this last segment was going to be a tough one. With a burst of fresh determination I cycled faster with my eyes closed and in my mind, for about five minutes.  So imagine my surprise and disappointment when, upon opening my eyes, I realised that I had been cycling for less than a minute!

As I watched the second slowly slip by and felt my legs move at rapid speed, something occurred to me:  moving quicker has no bearing on how quickly time goes – time is its own boss and moves at its own pace.  I thought about phrases like “busy yourself”, “not enough time in a day” and “too little time, so many things” and wondered why it is we think we can change, beat, outrun, time?  We move at alarming rates, busying ourselves with this, that, and the other, and wind up in exhausted heaps at the end of the day, sometimes with our lists unfinished, and with feelings of dissatisfaction and lack of accomplishment.

What if we slowed ourselves down? What if we stopped trying to outdo time? What if we realised that time exists to make us more productive, not make us feel unaccomplished.  Maybe the reason we “run out of time” is because we are trying to fill time with more than can be done within that ‘time’?  Just like me thinking that by pedalling faster the time would go quicker, we have disillusioned ourselves into thinking that the best way to use time wisely is to fill it with ‘stuff’, to cram every nook and cranny of time with every imaginable task or function that we can.  We have turned busyness into something to aspire to, to be proud of, to be lauded. And in doing so, we look down on those who appear to be moving too slowly; at those who seem to be wasting time because they are not busy enough.

So here’s my tip (for what it’s worth): slow down.  Twenty four hours will still be that whether or not you have a list of 10 or 5.  And guess what? Tomorrow you get another twenty four hours! Can you believe that?  Pause for a while.  Sit with that thing that’s bugging you, that is causing you anxiety at the thought of ‘getting it done’.  Ask yourself, what will happen if I move to a slower rhythm? What are the risks involved in doing less? What are the personal costs to me if I take some time to ‘smell the roses’? And equally, what could I gain from taking time to breathe, take in my surroundings, sit with my ‘stuff’? Go on, see what you discover ….

 

Stepping Out of the Shadows

About 8 years ago I had what is described in mental health as a crisis.  I remember the day well: a few weeks before I started feeling unwell with varying symptoms from headaches, tiredness, dizziness, to slurred speech.  After several visits to the Doctor I tentatively asked if any of those symptoms could be due to underlying mental illness.  But that question wasn’t an out of the blue question because for about close to a year I had been feeling that something wasn’t quite right.  In the latter months I experienced this dread and an inexplicable fear of dying.  Okay, the thoughts in my head were telling me I was going to die.  Every time I left home I feared that today would be the day when it would happen.

The backdrop to this is that from since a young age I experienced ‘weird’ emotions and extreme mood swings, racing thoughts and moments of gloom.  I learned to accept is as part of who I was and just got on with it.  After giving birth to my daughter I was diagnosed with post-natal depression and from then on began to accept depression as part of my life.  The depression came back about a year or so after my son was born. When that crisis day happened I had been back on antidepressants for a while, was receiving counselling, and feeling rather positive about things.

On the day of the crisis I went for my regular check-up with my GP who was happy with my progress, and I remember telling her I felt positive about things.  I left the GP’s office and went across to the supermarket to pick up a few things, and then it happened:  basket in hand, I walked around the store in a daze unable to focus on why I was there.  All I could feel was everybody staring at me and it suddenly felt like the shop was full of people talking and looking at me.  I felt the sudden urge to escape, and confused, I put the empty basket down and headed back to the Doctors.  By the time I got to the receptionist I was a wreck (it was a 2 minute walk), and I tried to explain that I needed to speak with the Doctor I had just seen.  Without an appointment that was not happening so I left but only made it just outside the door where I crumbled into a heap on the floor.  I managed to ring a friend but couldn’t get the words out properly.  Luckily, another receptionist saw me and came to help, and took me in to see the Doctor.

In that moment, I knew I needed help, that all the fight in me had gone.  I remember the Doctor asking me what I wanted and I just said through the tears, “I need help”.  The events that followed involved an awful experience at a Mental Health Crisis centre who couldn’t help as I did not have an appointment, despite being sent there by the doctor (I waited over an hour in that place), but luckily my friend had come to meet me and took me the hospital.  I don’t remember much what happened then but it seemed like the longest night of my life.  I was signed off work for about 5 months and I’m thankful for the support of my husband and my friend during that time.

Memories of those few months are a blur but I think I spent most days in bed, and unable to face the outside world.  Eventually  I would try going for short walks, but even that proved too much at times.  I don’t know how I could have taken care of the children without hubby, or indeed, take care of myself.  Some days were darker than others, with moments where I would collapse, unable to speak or move.  Eventually, I was able to get back to work after an emotional re-entry to work interview.

My mental illness is something I have learned to accept but it has been a struggle –  trying to pretend that everything is okay is hard work and about 2 years ago I decided I was tired of trying to keep it all in.  The mood swings, the sleepless nights, the myriad of thoughts, the erratic behaviour, were becoming too much and I didn’t want to pretend anymore.  My best friend/adopted sister is a Doctor in the US and on a visit to see me get ordained as a Methodist Minister, asked me point blank about my mental health.  I couldn’t lie to her , she knew me too well, so we had a very emotional conversation.  She got me to do a test for Bi-Polar and insisted I go back to my doctor and ask for them to investigate if that was a possibility (that was her suspicion based on what she knew about me).

Just over  a year ago I finally received the diagnosis of Bi-Polar 2 disorder.  My illness doesn’t manifest in mania, and to be honest, over the years, having learned to mask the illness, I don’t think many people would have suspected anything.  But if there is one thing I have learned over the years it’s that no one can get through dark moments on their own.  I hear people say things like, “Just get on with it”, or “You’ve got to keep it together” and I think no, I have been doing that for most of my life and I don’t want to be that person anymore.  I joke that I am too much of a coward to take my own life (there have been times when I fantasised about dying), but the truth is, without the support of my husband and if my life situation was different, I’m not sure I would be writing this today.

Mental illness is a serious thing. It doesn’t make you weak for admitting you have a problem, neither is it a sign of failure.  In fact, not speaking up about it is the biggest mistake one could make. Growing up, I watched my father exhibit varying forms of mental ill health (although that is a retrospective observation), wreaking havoc on our family, but there was no help for him apart from the bottle. This year marks 21 years since he took his own life, leaving a note which simply read, “I can’t take it anymore”.  So in this week of mental health awareness, I urge you to not suffer alone.  And if you know someone who suffers with mental illness, be there for them, not necessarily to offer any advice or solutions, but just to be that person they can lean on when they find themselves falling.  Like that B.T advert used to say, “It’s good to talk”.

Christmas is for the poor or Why I love Christmas

My Christmas tree is up! Yeah!! The lights are all sparkly and bright and they make the traditional colours of red and white stand out, resulting in, as hubby put it “a professional looking tree”. Okay I admit, in the grand scheme of things, being able to have and decorate a tree may seem trivial, but bear with me.  I love Christmas! Unashamedly so. And here’s why ….

Growing up, we didn’t have much. Now we were not unique as pretty much all my friends were poor.  You may have heard the phrase “dirt poor” – well, I had friends whose floors were exactly that: dirt. No fancy carpets or wood, just plain old dirt.  So anyway …  I remember loving the feeling that came with the approach to Christmas: my father would be in a good mood (apart form that one Christmas where he went all terminator style on our house, but that’s another story); we would most likely have food to eat; the house would be filled with handmade decorations (my mom would bring in branches and we’d make paper chains and other paper decorations) and depending on the year, we might have had store-bought tinsel and lights; friends and family would stop by each other’s homes sharing in refreshments of sorrell and ginger wine, rum soaked fruit cakes, and other yummy Caribbean delicacies.  As children, we got to stay up late listening to the adults tell stories and drink rum.

Now here’s the thing, I don’t remember fancy presents as such, although there was this time my older brother bought my sister and I a doll’s house which had everything in it.  I loved playing with that, imagining myself one day living in such luxury. It was the atmosphere that was created; it was the fact that in that moment it didn’t matter that we were poor; it didn’t matter that my dad beat my mom from time to time, or was abusive to my brother; it didn’t matter that I was wearing hand-me-downs or that my sister and I shared a room with our parents and had to live with listening to the sounds of unwanted sexual advances by our dad to our mom.  It was Christmas! A time of joy and merriment and I loved it! When I reached mid teens, things were slightly better – my older siblings worked and looked after us, particularly my older sister.  And the tradition of making Christmas special continued.  Again, it wasn’t the presents – there was no expensive or fancy stuff – it was the sense of family being together, the sound of Christmas carols and the smell of spices and baked ham.

For all I know, there were only two or three Christmases like I described: I’m sure my older siblings have different stories to tell, but that is the memory I carry with me.  Sadly, I believe that something happens when people start to do well in life: we forget about the small pleasures and we get a bit grumpy, complaining about carols being sung too early, or trees being put up in Advent – shock, horror! Actually, when I say people, I mean Christians. Seriously peeps, chill out already!  Let people have their moment, let them savour in the warmth of the Christmas season if they so choose!  I myself have been guilty of that and I’ve had to stop myself and say. “Ramona, get a grip”.

We talk about the Christmas story being about a refugee family searching for welcome and hospitality, of a baby born in a stable, and then we complain because people are starting the celebrations too early, or are spending money unnecessarily.  Who are we to judge? What do we know of others’ stories, of their daily struggles?  Maybe, just once in a year, they put their problems aside and try to find meaning in their lives.  Isn’t that what Christmas is about? Is it not a story of hope, of light in darkness?  A child born to lift us up out of our dreary existence and transport us into a place of dazzling lights and community, friendship, and hope?

Of course I know that’s not the whole of it. Of course I do not like the over-commercialisation of Christmas and the unnecessary greed that can occur during this time of year.  But we all come to Christmas differently because our lives the rest of the year are also different.  And yes, I want others to know the reason for Christmas but berating them about carols is not exactly in keeping with the spirit of Christmas is it?

I read an article the other day that talked about how those who are not in want find it easy to restrict themselves.  Think about it: have you ever heard of someone who was struggling to feed themselves talk of going on a diet? This really struck me especially as I’ve been trying to follow a pattern of reading during Advent, as well as focus on the idea of waiting and preparation.  It reminded me of how judgemental I have become because the story of my childhood is not my current story.

So I keep my Christmas traditions going and drive my family mad in the process as I try to recreate the feelings of childhood Christmases, wanting them to savour each moment we spend together.  And this is why I say Christmas is for the poor: it is a time when families come together to make memories, and the excessive buying of presents perhaps for some might be a way of creating memories for their loved ones that they themselves did not have, or an attempt at masking the dreariness of their lives even for a day. This Christmas put your judgement aside and instead ask, what can I do? How an I help create warm memories for those around me and in particular those who find he season a struggle? And if you don’t know who or how to help, why not volunteer at Crisis?

Merry Christmas!!

 

It’s Okay Not to Feel OK

The Psalms offer a rich diversity in expression of emotions, from joy, to laughter, to tears, to anger, to pain.  Not surprisingly, most people look to the Psalms when faced with situations they can find no words or explanation for.

Today’s thought challenges a society that thrives on being pain-averse, in an age where self gratification and self care go hand in hand.  Don’t get me wrong, I like most people, want to live in a pain free world; when tears are the result of uncontrollable laughter as opposed to deep, searing anguish.  This reminder is timely because as we look at the Christmas story we tend to bypass the emotional turmoil of the characters, jumping straight ahead to the birth of a baby, because surely, that’s what Christmas is all about? Indeed it is, but to make a convenient detour from the darkened alleyways of the story and into the dazzling lights of Christmas means we miss out on some important truths: that the baby was born into a family which had its fair share of darkness; in a time where, just like today,  there were those who lived in dark alleys of their minds: who spent their days hidden in plain sight, trapped in caves  built by themselves and by others.

Here’s the thing, though: who are “they”? Is it not in fact, “we”? Are we not the ones mangled by the inescapable voices in our heads, wearied by the torturous memories of experiences past, and burdened by the constant drip-drip of news stories full of gloom and doom? Where is the lament? Where is the crying aloud and raging at our inner pain of all that threatens to consume us?  Zechariah and Elizabeth knew such pain.  Barren into their old age with no prospect of their family name being passed on – in that context this was no light matter.

Okoro, (Silence and Other Surprising Invitations of Advent) suggests that lament serves to remind us that things are not as they should be (I’m using this book as my Advent reading so will refer to it from time to time).  As I think about this, I see Lament not as a place in which to live, but as a stopping point, or something to pass through: we do not remain in Lament but we recognise it as part of a bigger set of events, and so we acknowledge its existence; even choosing to rest in it for a while.  To rush through lament is a bit like having your eyes closed for parts of a journey – you tend to miss things that way.  In a weird sort of way, lament serves as a reminder that we are human.

So, what burden are you carrying?  What is your cause of lament? Acknowledge it and find a different kind of freedom: “It’s okay NOT to feel okay”, and until such time as you find your way through the fog that’s threatening to envelope you, and into the light,  “Linger Attentively Midst Each Niggling Thought”.