Tag: honesty

Celebrating the Queen’s life: 5 ways she inspired me

It was with great sadness that I, along with you all, heard of the Queen’s passing yesterday. As we take time to mourn our loss together, whatever our feelings about the monarchy, let’s acknowledge that the Queen was a solid, faithful figure, always there. Most of us haven’t known a time when she wasn’t on the throne.; it will take some getting used to not having her around. The media is, quite rightly, full of stories about her life and reign. Many Christian leaders have written tributes noting the role that her faith had. I certainly admired the way she spoke increasingly of Jesus in her Christmas messages. 

Here are some of the things I have learned from the Queen’s life, which I hope to incorporate in my own – and gently encourage you to consider for your own life too. May we be able to say, as she did in her Christmas speech in 2002: ‘I know just how much I rely on my faith to guide me through the good times and the bad. Each day is a new beginning. I know that the only way to live my life is to try to do what is right, to take the long view, to give of my best in all that the day brings, and to put my trust in God!’

1. Have a servant heart

Even six years before her coronation, the Queen spoke of serving others in a speech to the Commonwealth on her 21st birthday: ‘I declare before you all that my whole life whether it be long or short shall be devoted to your service.’ It is indisputable that the Queen’s reign was hallmarked by sacrifice and a servant heart. In John 13 Jesus blew his disciples’ concept of his ministry out of the water when he took a towel and a bowl of water and began to wash their feet. They were aghast but he said: ‘I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you’ (v15). Are we willing to serve others, even when it may be uncomfortable or put us out?

2. Keep showing up

There must have been times when the Queen would rather have had a duvet day than undertake the duties that had been arranged for her, and yet she remained steadfast and faithful. Even during her husband’s funeral, which I’m sure would have been far easier away from public scrutiny, she sat alone, masked. What a poignant image of a faithful public figure, following what were the current social distancing guidelines in the pandemic, even in the midst of her grief. So many shared that image when the news broke of the unlawful social gatherings in Downing Street.

Our integrity as human beings matters and, like the Queen knew, our actions are being watched. We are being ‘read’ and, when we show up faithfully even in those moments that perhaps we don’t feel like it, those around us see. While others in a position of leadership may abuse it, the Queen didn’t. Whether we are leaders or not, let us be faithful and steadfast in what God has put before us each day.

3. Don’t be afraid to speak up

The Queen’s Speech in more recent years had a more defined reference to her faith, which was noticed. Back in 2017, The Guardian said that of her by then 65 annual Christmas speeches, 17 referred directly to her Christian faith. She explained how it was ‘the anchor in my life’ (in 2014) and in 2016 said: ‘Billions of people now follow Christ’s teaching and find in him the guiding light for their lives. I am one of them because Christ’s example helps me see the value of doing small things with great love…’ In 2000 she used her speech to describe Christ’s life and teaching in detail, saying they ‘provide a framework in which I try to lead my life’.

While we may not have the opportunity to give speeches that are broadcast to millions, we are urged in scripture to: ‘Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect’ (1 Peter 3:15). In this day and age, when people are ‘cancelled’ for holding an opinion different to the crowds’, there is a cost attached to doing this. But as Christians we are called to be different, and to count the cost (Luke 14:25-33).

4. Be honest

I personally found it refreshing when the Queen did not shy away from referencing difficulties in her family. For example, in 1992, a year that saw a fire destroying part of Windsor Castle, three of her children divorced and ongoing scandals surrounding Princess Diana and Prince Charles, she described it as ‘annus horribilis’ in a speech. While not commenting directly on events, she was not afraid to be honest about finding the year difficult.

Too often we can pretend that life is fine – even think that that is what we should do as Christians – and yet the truth is we need to be honest, and to find ways to process our pain well. Jesus himself said: ‘In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world’ (John 16:33). We can and should acknowledge the difficulties, speaking up rather than stuffing down our pain. But, ultimately, we can take heart from knowing, as the Queen did, that Jesus is our ‘anchor’.

5. Ask for support

During her coronation speech, the Queen referenced asking the public to pray for her on her coronation and beyond: ‘that God would give me wisdom and strength to carry out the promises that I should then be making’. While she was absolutely resolute in her sense of duty over her long reign, she understood right at the start that it was a huge undertaking that she couldn’t do in her own strength. Knowing that God’s ‘power is made perfect in weakness’ (2 Corinthians 12:9), she reached out to him for strength, and asked others to uphold her in prayer as she did so. We each need that support as the body of Christ (1 Corinthians 12:12-31).

We are made for community and function best when we are connected, holding one another and each doing our part so that others can flourish too. While it can be a natural human tendency to hide away when we are struggling, it is so important to speak up when we feel we need extra support. Let us be gentle and supportive of one another, too, as we navigate this time of national mourning.

This article was first published on Christian Today’s website.

Can we be honest about Christmas?

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I was thrilled to be asked to endorse Lucy Rycroft’s book Redeeming Advent earlier in the year. It was published in October and she is now in the throes of a blog tour – I am delighted to welcome her to my website today. And the fantastic news for you is that she has provided a free copy of the book for one of my regular readers to win! (Please see below for details of how to enter.)

It’s a privilege to be guest posting for Claire today. Her passion for honesty and authenticity has been inspiring and challenging me ever since I came across her writing.

Claire’s ministry is vital because, in real life and on social media, I’m increasingly noticing that people desire integrity over ‘relevance’. Once upon a time we all thought we had to dress a certain way, have a few piercings, act and speak ‘cool’ in order to draw others to Jesus.

But the gospel has always been, and will always be, more relevant than any of us could ever be. It doesn’t need glitz and glamour, it needs authentic people, sharing vulnerabilities and weaknesses, prepared to stand up and say ‘I struggle’ or, even, ‘I’m not very cool’.

This is the thinking behind my blog The Hope-Filled Family where I share the honest chaos (and believe me when I say it is chaos) of my family life. With four children aged 5–10, a clergy husband, an open home and a plethora of church and school commitments, we frequently boast laundry mountains, sinks full of dirty dishes, forgotten packed lunches and badly-dealt-with tantrums.

I mess up so much – and yet, in that mess, God affirms me as His daughter, Jesus redeems me from my failures and the Holy Spirit inhabits me with peace and joy.

THE BIRTH OF AN IDEA…

The blog is where my new book Redeeming Advent was birthed. In December 2017 I decided to write an Advent reflection for each day leading up to Christmas. This in itself could have been another item on my ‘failures’ list, but – by God’s grace – I made it to December 24th!

Each day I would take something that had happened that day – however mundane – or something ‘d been mulling over, and write what God might be teaching me through it. There was plenty of reality, honesty, humour and potential embarrassment, as I shared the highs and lows of our Advent that year.

Early in 2018 I found a publisher for these devotionals, so in the summer I found myself editing the whole lot, to tie them together in a way that would work for a book.

BEGINNING TO QUESTION MYSELF

During this editing process, as I read what I’d written the previous December, I started to think: Is anyone bothered about this? Do people care that I bought too much gift-wrap one year, or that I have a fear of under-catering, or that I don’t know how to use a real-life bookshop?

Of course all writers need to ask themselves questions as they write, challenging themselves to write deeper or more descriptively or in a more accessible style.

But the problem with the questions I was asking myself was that they were rooted in deep fear. Fear of what people would think of me. Fear of coming across like an idiot. Fear that literally no one would be able to relate to me. Fear that I was alone in my thoughts.

We read in 1 John 4:18 that ‘perfect love drives out fear’, and it can sound hollow to those of us whose fears are very real, very dominant and don’t look like they’re going anywhere. But I can tell you that it is only the love of God that made me confident to write openly and honestly about Advent: the fun traditions alongside the stresses and strains.

I have come to realise that I write for the people God puts in my path. That means it doesn’t matter if 99 people who read my writing think that I’m an idiot, if one person relates to what I’m saying so much that it draws them into closer connection with Jesus.

CULTURAL EXPECTATIONS

Letting go of the desire to meet others’ expectations as I write parallels the way I believe we need to let go of the cultural expectations of Christmas.

I’m not suggesting that we shouldn’t decorate our trees, give presents or enjoy special meals – in fact, Redeeming Advent talks quite a bit about redeeming these ‘secular’ festivities to glorify God. 

But there are a lot of expectations around this time of year that weigh heavily on us, and these will be different for each one of us. 

Perhaps you are the person in the family who others expect to organise the Secret Santa/host Christmas/make travel plans – and it’s just draining all the joy out of you. 

Perhaps you’re a sucker for the John Lewis Christmas adverts, and feel you’ll never be able to meet this (unrealistic, by the way) cultural expectation of a beautiful Christmas from start to finish. 

Perhaps you feel the weight of your children’s expectations to provide elaborate presents, when you desperately want them to treasure Jesus first of all.

LET’S BE HONEST

This Advent, I want to plead with you: Can we be honest about Christmas? Please? Can we acknowledge the tricky family dynamics, the tight financial budget, the job uncertainty, the worry about our children, the state of our mental health, the marital difficulties, the grief, the loss, the sadness?

Because, if we do, I think we might discover better connection to others, as we share our burdens and empathise with the suffering of others.

And, even more importantly, I think we will discover more of the Jesus who came down to this damaged earth in a busy, messy way, who knew what it was like to be a refugee, an outcast, an oddball, a target of others’ attacks.

This, friends, is where we will find our perfect Christmas. Not in the perfectly arranged place settings at the Christmas table, nor in the perfectly coordinated baubles on our tree, but in the perfection of our Saviour, who endured the suffering caused by others, so that He might rescue us from ours.

Have a very blessed Christmas!

Lucy Rycroft blogs about parenting, adoption and faith at  The Hope-Filled Family. Her first book Redeeming Advent is an accessible 24-day Advent devotional and you can buy it here. Lucy lives in York with her husband Al and their four children.

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I will yet praise Him

Reflections based on Psalm 25:1–7; 33:18–22.

‘Guide me in your truth and teach me, for you are God my Saviour, and my hope is in you all day long.’ (Ps. 25:5)

I love the psalms. Their passion – and their total honesty. They reveal the struggles the authors had with their personal circumstances and how, at times, they literally had to talk to their souls: ‘Why, my soul, are you downcast? … Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Saviour and my God.’ (Ps.43:5).

I find refreshment when I turn to the psalms, because they give me hope. Even when I am feeling surrounded or simply low, there is usually a psalm that articulates how I am feeling. But it doesn’t allow me to wallow, as it usually then turns my thoughts to God. 

Have you ever noticed how many times the word ‘hope’ appears in the psalms? It occurs 38 times in Psalm 119 alone! The key to the effectiveness of the psalms is, I believe, the way they are honest but don’t stay there. They turn their gaze heavenwards and allow the truth to bring fresh hope.

If you have never written your own psalm, why not try writing one today? Bring your troubles to God, but also remember to speak His truths and declare ‘I will yet praise Him’.

Optional further reading: Psalm 42, Psalm 119, Psalm 146.

Fighting despair

Reflections based on 1 Samuel 22:1–6; Psalm 142.

Reading in Samuel, we discover that David is running from Saul and takes refuge in a cave. He had already been anointed king by Samuel at this point, but the current king was not ready to give up his throne. It is interesting to see how God allowed David to go through this time of testing. He didn’t simply triumphantly walk onto the throne: God worked on his character through these testing times.

David wrote a few of the psalms while hiding from Saul. In Psalm 142 he is totally overwhelmed and desperate. He believes no one cares about him. And yet, even in the depths of despair, he turns to God. He tells Him how he feels. This might seem shocking – he says to God ‘no-one is concerned for me’ when obviously deep down he knows that God is. But I believe this psalm is important because it shows us that God wants us to be honest with him, in the way that David is here. Notice that he does turn things around though, and it is when he remembers where his hope lies that things change for him. As we see in verse 2 of our Samuel passage, God brings 400 men to him who form the start of his army. While he may feel he is hiding away, God is giving him an opportunity to work on both his own character and the development of leadership skills to run an army.

How do you respond when the heat is turned up in your life? Do you have a tendency to wallow in self-pity? If so, try to articulate that to God rather than keeping it inside and dwelling on it. Then remind yourself that He is the only real source of strength and hope.

I have found that I can have a tendency to get stuck in negative emotions. Learning how to lament, using the psalms as guides, has been an incredibly helpful form of release. I try and articulate all of my emotions through writing them down, and then remember God’s faithfulness to me in the same way.

For prayer and reflection: I am sorry Lord when I hide away from You, too low even to speak. Help me to lift my eyes to You, be honest about how I feel but also remember that You are my hope.

Getting real

 

Today I have the huge pleasure of introducing Catherine Parks as a guest blogger on the Unmasked: stories of authenticity blog series. Catherine has written a brilliant, challenging book called Real: the surprising secret to deeper relationships. In it, she describes how she discovered that repentance is the key to creating genuine, authentic relationships. She expands on an extract of the book below to share with us how she learned to cultivate the habit of repentance in her own life.

I’m not generally one to talk about the deep parts of myself – my fears, sins, or even triumphs. I naturally shrug off questions about myself, partly afraid to let others in, distrustful of my motives and heart, and partly because I’m not always aware of what’s really going on in my heart. But thankfully, the Lord has given me two dear friends who, over time, have learned to pull me out of myself. One of these friends moved to my town a few years ago, and we immediately started spending regular time together. After the first few occasions, I noticed that whenever we met up she would ask, “How’s your heart?”

To me, this was an awkward question, and a little strong coming from someone I hadn’t known that long. Not one to go too deep too quickly, I didn’t have a great answer. The first couple of times I just said, “Oh, good, I think. Yeah. Nothing much going on.” And then I turned it back on herand she told me some of the things she was struggling with. She eventually commented on how I was so laid back and must just not be dealing with much. She thought my marriage was perfect. She thought my kids must be angels.

It wasn’t so much that I was trying to hide some secret sin from her; I just didn’t really know how my heart was. But I didn’t want to give her the wrong idea about things, so eventually I started preparingon my way to meet her, trying to figure out what I would say when she asked me. I was motivated by her opinion of me.I wanted her to think I was reciprocating in the relationships, and that I didn’t think I was perfect. I was driven by pride and thinking too much of myself.

While my motivation was wrong, the effect was so good. I started actually examining my heart, praying for sin to be revealed, and then confessing it to another person.I had always analyzed everything around me, but tended to neglect my own heart.

The benefits of this friendship started to affect my other relationships.I was more open with my husband about my struggles because I was actually putting a name to them. I was quicker to admit failure and sin to other friends,particularly one who had waited for years for me to be more forthcoming and transparent. And because I had identified specific struggles, I was learning to recognize my temptations and to pray for help in the moment.

Vulnerability takes time and trust.I could trust my friend because I had spent time with her. I knew she cared about me. I knew she was on my team, helping me to fight my sin. And I saw her own willingness to be vulnerable,which paved the way for me to follow.

Yes, this takes time and trust – but it is worth it. Because ultimately, in relationship with other Spirit-filled, grace-loving believers, confession isn’t about judgment and guilt – it’s an opportunity to rejoice in the gospel together, side-by-side, praising the Savior whose sacrifice brings us the forgiveness and grace we all so desperately need.

Catherine Parks loves to help women build friendships around scripture. She has written for the Ethics and Religious Liberty Commission and Christianity Today. She lives in Nashville with her husband, two children and a cute mutt named Ollie.

 

 

 

 

On wearing masks in ministry

After far too long a break, I am delighted to welcome another guest contributor to the Stories of authenticity blog series. Mark Meynell has written an incredibly honest, and exceedingly helpful, book on his own experiences of facing depression. He has kindly provided an excerpt from the book here, which looks at when it is appropriate to wear a mask – and when it is really unhelpful to do so. It is an interesting discussion around the whole subject of mask-wearing, particularly for those leading some kind of ministry, and he handles it with real wisdom and insight. He introduces the excerpt below:

I have been in Christian ministry for 25 years. And in common with practically everyone else alive, I have worn masks. Not literally, of course. At times, a mask has been the means of self-preservation, at others a ministry preserver – and even an act of generosity and service. In other words, masks can and should have their place. To some extent. But they are also detrimental to psychological wellbeing and community life. They conceal rather than reveal. They can do even more damage to the wearer than they do to those who only encounter the external presentation.

I found myself thinking a great deal about this as I wrote my book on the experience of depression in ministry. I realised it was a recurring theme and that I was never going to improve until I faced up to what I had instinctively done since before even becoming a teenager, and then dealt with it. So here are some of those thoughts from the early pages of the book, taking us back to the glory days of ancient Greek theatre…

—

Imagine some great theatre, a monumental seashell carved out of a Mediterranean mountainside. At the base of this banked semicircle is the circular stage, backed by a great wall of doors, alcoves and openings on multiple levels, from which actors playing gods might intervene in the drama. All the main action takes place on the central stage, however. The genius of these buildings is that the sightlines and acoustics are perfect, despite being open to the elements. An entire audience can see and hear everything. Because all the actors wear identical clay masks, however, the one skill they never require is facial expression. Their movements are rigidly stylized as well. Instead, they must rely entirely on the script and their vocal skills to move audiences to tears or laughter. But this they consistently achieve.

The purpose of these masks was to focus an audience’s attention on the charactersand not the actors bringing them to life. The effect, I suppose, is a bit like movie stars hidden by layers of prosthetics or digital animation. The mask also reminds the audience that this is make-believe; it is pretence; it is in fact a lie. All acting is lying. But here is the great paradox of drama: if these lies are acted convincingly, truth (whether about reality or relationships) gets conveyed powerfully.

We are perfectly familiar with this, and, in our entertainment-obsessed world, we applaud those who can pull off the widest range of parts.

But should we always be so impressed? The ancient Greek word for actor was hypocritēs (ὑποκρῐτής), which, at first, only implied someone who explained or interpreted something. But by New Testament times, it was more negative. It suggested someone who was untrustworthy. They pretended to be one thing while underneath being something else; they presented a good front to mask their reality.

Of course, it needs to be recognized that this is not always negative. Temporary masks have their place, and nearly all of us make use of them. On occasion, it may even be right to use them. We really shouldn’t blurt out every thought that pops into our heads. That usually does more harm than good. Self- control is an important virtue, and so this type of mask is as much for others’ protection as anything else.

At other times, it is neither appropriate nor necessary for those around us to be aware of every vulnerability or anxiety. A mask is thus a form of protection, necessary to shield emotional wounds from being aggravated, or from being exposed at an inappropriate moment. It is an act, in some ways – ‘I’m fine,’ we say – a pretence that all is well. That is not a lie as such, but an act of self-defence. As one good friend remarked to me, ‘fine’ can actually serve as an acronym, standing for ‘Feelings Inside Not Expressed!’. It is an understandable mask, and if we never made use of it, we would probably never escape those after-church conversations that already seem interminable enough.

MINISTRY MASKS

This mask is particularly important for those in Christian ministry. As we seek to pastor and love others, especially the vulnerable, there are times when we must swallow our pride or irritation, ignore our own needs or pressing concerns, for the sake of the urgent or important. We must show consistency and integrity, of course. But when I climb into a pulpit, I may be feeling 1,001 different things, most of which would be irrelevant, inappropriate or unhelpful to mention.We have a duty to teach what is true and healthy, even if we might wish to be miles away. We act out of Christian duty, which invariably conflicts with our emotions and passions. This is true even in normal family life, where it might be necessary to park a discussion or argument because of something more pressing (such as friends coming for a meal). Unsurprisingly, it is necessary in upfront ministry as well. This is not avoidance, but finding the right moment (unless, of course, we don’t return to it).

In the strictest sense, that could be defined as hypocrisy. We are pretending. We are acting. But because of the complexity of human nature, there is a sense in which none of us can avoid being hypocritical to some degree. None of us ever has perfectly aligned motives or desires. Even Jesus found himself in great conflict in the Garden of Gethsemane – his deepest fears were militating against his determination to do his Father’s will (Matthew 26:36–46).

What matters, I suppose, is how regularly this happens when doing our duty. No-one can be expected to hold in constant balance their duty and passions, their beliefs, feelings and actions, their words and deeds. Being ‘out of sync’ is not hypocrisy – only the pretence of always being ‘in sync’ is. And this is where we begin to home in on what Jesus was so critical of. He lambasted the Pharisees for their claims to perfection and their subsequent self-righteous contempt for others:

You are like whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of the bones of the dead and everything unclean. In the same way, on the outside you appear to people as righteous but on the inside you are full of hypocrisy and wickedness. (Matthew 23:27–28)

WHEN THE MASK BECOMES A HABIT

The issue is how honest we are about our weakness and flaws. Self-defence masks are like that. They are not Pharisaical, they rarely claim perfection, nor do they make people self- righteous. The problem comes when wearing them becomes a habitual, or even permanent, way of being. This was what happened to me. Since childhood, I had developed self-defence habits that kept me going temporarily, but which proved unsustainable long-term. It was as if the ancient actor’s mask had become glued to my face. I played a part – of the approachable, sorted, though emotionally up and down, friend, and later pastor. So, for example, after I first mentioned my depression diagnosis in public (during a question and answer session at a church retreat), a friend came up to me in shock. She remarked that had she known there was a church staff member with this diagnosis, she would never have guessed it was me.

But this mask was artificial. It concealed reality and inhibited support. Nobody who’s ‘fine’ needs help . . . right? So the mask inevitably started cracking, revealing that things really were not right.

Mark Meynell is Europe & Caribbean Director for Langham Preaching (a programme of Langham Partnership), and a part-time Chaplain in Whitehall. He is married to Rachel and they have two (almost) grown up children, He is the author of a number of books on various subjects, and is currently working on his first novel. This excerpt is taken from When Darkness Seems My Closest Friend, published by IVP.

 

 

 

Kate Bowler on grief, cancer – and touch

There has been a lot of noise about Kate Bowler’s book Everything Happens for a Reason and Other Lies I’ve Loved. And rightly so. In it she is incredibly honest about what it is like to live with a cancer diagnosis. How difficult it is to go through treatment, cope with friends’ and family members’ processing, as well as receiving endless explanations from strangers about why she has cancer (she wrote an article for the New York Times).

Knowing about my Unmasked blog series, Kate’s publicist and publisher offered me the chance to share an extract of my choice from the book. It feels especially poignant to be doing this now, as just last week I lost a dear friend to cancer. I am certain that she is now fully pain-free, and with her Saviour, but for those of us who are left behind we mourn and grieve. I am so grateful for those moments that I was able to share with her in her last days. Grateful too for this book, as it taught me how important touch is – and so I remembered to reach out and give my friend a hug as I said goodbye for what turned out to be the last time. It’s also taught me that grief starts early, which I am finding in another situation I am currently experiencing.

I know cancer is a particularly emotive subject, and full of pain for many. I hope that Kate’s naked honesty, and sprinkling of humour, will help others to understand what it is really like for those with cancer – and how we can be better at supporting them even as we process the emotional pain ourselves. Over to Kate…

There must be rhythms to grief, but I do not know them.

People begin to take their turns grieving me because it can’t be done all at once. Family and friends who could not be at the hospital for my operation come to stay at the house, and we start all over at the beginning.

I sit outside, wrapped in the same blankets and taking in the sunshine, all my favorite people orbiting around me. My pastor takes out her Psalms and reads a little, gripping my hand. My mom cooks a lot, stocking the freezer with everything that is suggested to be anticancer. My older sister, Amy, sends treats and constant encouragement, while Maria, my younger sister, gives me her words when she can’t be there, sending me poems and bits of trivia from New York, where she is working as an editor for a Catholic magazine. She has two big hopes for me: one, that I will be cured; the other, that, before it is over, I will punch the nearest inconsiderate person in the face.

I have so many fears, spoken and unspoken. When I first got my job at Duke and realized that I was going to live in the United States for some time, I made a lot of loud protestations about how “I will not die in a foreign land!” I also made clear that I would not die in my office, not only because that had happened before to professors (prone, as they are, to get preoccupied by their research) but also because it seemed sad, at twenty-nine, to feel exiled to the Land of Opportunity for eternity. I think back on how I casually strategized about where I would be buried, concerned that I would never be able to reconcile all the parts of my identity. A daughter who lives far from family. A friend who spends too much time at work. A wanderer but a type A planner. I wondered if I would ever be one, whole person. But now I am not hoping for completeness of any kind. All I can think of are the logistics. One night I wake up almost every hour because my mind has seized on a horrible question: Wouldn’t it be a paperwork nightmare to move my body? To take me home?

When I teach pastors at the seminary where I work, I lecture them about the First Great Awakening and religious responses to the Civil War and how their political differences will ruin their next Thanksgiving if they don’t learn to shut their traps. But as a historian, I have never spent any time teaching them how to perform baptisms, officiate weddings, or conduct funerals. And I have certainly never told them what to say when they visit someone who is dying and how not to sit on her couch, mouth full of cookies, and ask endless questions about how cancer treatment works. I did not tell them how few of their words are needed but how much their hands are wanted, a hand on my back as I tear up, a hand on my head for a soft prayer for healing. When I feel I am fading away, these hands prop me up and make me new. When my older colleague Frank, who lost his own adult son, found his way into my hospital room, he wrapped his strong hands around mine and said, quietly: “I wore this clerical collar to impress you. And also to get through hospital security.”

Kate Bowler is an assistant professor in the school of divinity at Duke University. She lives in North Carolina with her husband and son. Currently the experimental immunology treatment she is undergoing is working, and studies suggest Kate has at least another year to live.

 

 

Embracing the broken

I am delighted to welcome Liz Carter to my blog, as she continues the ‘Unmasked: stories of authenticity’ series. This will be the last post before I take a little break for the holidays – but will be continuing with this series in the New Year. Liz is incredibly honest here and I resonated with a  lot of what she shared, including the pressure felt as a pastor’s wife and also feeling the need to learn to lament well…

‘How do you feel now?’

I stand there, my head bowed, my body stiff as I contain the pain raging inside. What do I say?

‘Are you feeling better?’

I bite down on my lip. ‘A little, yes, thank you.’

But inside I am berating myself. That’s not true, is it? I don’t feel a little better at all. If anything, I feel worse, the pain made somehow more obvious by the prayer. I feel just that bit smaller, that bit more invisible, the real me hiding behind the reality that once again, I am not healed. Once again, I have let somebody down, someone who wanted to pray with me, to see me set free from the pain which holds me in fierce bonds.

You see, this is my mask. This is the face I put on. It’s the face I have put on all my life, growing up with a degenerative lung disease. And it’s the face I sometimes put on with God, too.

It’s the ‘I’m fine’ face. It’s the words I say when folk ask me if I am better yet, the smile I smile when people tell me I look so well. It’s the false mask of pretence; a way to escape being too real, because sometimes it’s just too hard. Too exhausting to reveal my inner self with all its pain and loneliness, enclosed in a body which keeps me caged from the world for so much of the time. So instead of sharing my unmasked self, I nod. I smile. I’m fine, thank you.

Somewhere along the way, I learned to hide my feelings. Growing up with this disease meant that I had to put a mask on every day, to face the world, to be a person who deserved a place in the world. If I took my mask off, I thought I was showing that I wasn’t good enough, after all. That I was too weak and helpless. Too pathetic to be of use, because my body always let me down. The easiest way was to hide the fact that I was in pain. To pretend that all was well.

I started doing this in church, as well. I thought that people didn’t want to hear that I had another infection or felt too exhausted to go out of my house or that pleurisy was racking me yet again. I thought that I wasn’t displaying God’s power at work in my life if I was sick. I thought people wanted to hear bright and positive stuff.

But I was wrong.

People long to see authenticity

They yearn to see people being more honest, more open about their struggles. And when I share what I am really feeling, how I am struggling, then that brings me to a better place, as well. A place where I don’t have to pretend, anymore, a place where I don’t have to be lonely in my pain, because others have taken some of it and held it along with me.

Unmasking is scary. It’s risky. It doesn’t always go down so well, either. There have been the times I’ve tried to be more real with folk and they haven’t wanted to know. The shutters have come down, the glances over my shoulder more marked, the barriers erected. The platitudes start: ‘I’m sure you’ll be better soon.’ ‘You just need a bit of fresh air/exercise/aloe vera.’ Some people don’t want to be faced with the reality of my pain.

But there are actually far fewer of these people than I once told myself. Once upon a time, I felt I could only be open with my closest friends and family. Now, I’ve found that saying how I really feel can open conversations in the most wonderful way. I was talking to a lovely lady the other day – I don’t know her very well, so was all ready to say ‘fine, thanks,’ when the question came. But I caught myself, and told her that I was feeling fairly broken, actually, and that this year had been really bad for me, with multiple infections and a hospital admission. Instead of the conversation continuing on the superficial level it had started with, it got deep quickly, because this lady was released to speak about stuff going on for her, too. My decision to be real meant a much more profound connection. A healing conversation.

The perfect parson’s wife

I’m especially aware of this as a vicar’s wife. Perhaps there’s a script running somewhere in my mind telling me what a vicar’s wife should look like and act like, something which says that a vicar’s wife is always impeccably presented, and coolly calm and confident. I couldn’t possibly show folk who I really am, because that wouldn’t be appropriate.

I know that script is really a load of rubbish. It’s an archaic leftover of old novels I’ve read featuring distant and collected parson’s wives (we’re talking Austen and Bronte here.) It’s nothing like the reality of living life with honesty and integrity – which leads to messiness.

But messy is good. Messy is important, and real. Standing in coffee time after church with tears running down my cheeks means an unmasking which gives others permission to give of themselves, too. It means a sharing of lives marred with brokenness, an honesty about suffering which still crushes us, an authenticity about those times we just don’t get it.

Because a life lived with God does not mean a life lived without pain. And if we can learn to be honest about the pain then we can reach out to each other so much more. We can listen to one another and make the world a less lonely place, even if for only a moment or two. We can reach out and catch hold of the work of the Spirit among us as God brings healing through our willingness to open ourselves up. Even when it hurts.

We’re allowed to shout at God

I’ve had to go through a journey of being real with God, as well as with others. I got too good at pretending that everything was fine. That I didn’t mind when others were healed and I wasn’t, that I was good with it, that it was okay because I wanted those people to be happy. I told God that I was fine with my sick body if that was who I was supposed to be. I plastered a grin on my face and carried on.

Some of this was authentic. I found joy in worship, and felt that I had come to a place of acceptance of where I was. I’d lived with it forever, after all, so had known no other way, so perhaps it was easier for me than for others who suddenly get sick or become disabled. God was so much more than my feelings, and I found that I could take hold of contentment in God’s presence rather than in my circumstances.

But in all of this, I forgot to actually acknowledge my feelings.

I forgot that it is important to tell God how we feel.

I forgot about lament.

The Bible is an incredible model of how to be authentic. Right through all the books, we see broken people responding to God from out of their brokenness. We see people shouting at God, moaning, weeping, screaming. We see people battering their fists into God’s chest.

We even see Jesus in the deepest grief, sweating drops of blood as He asks God to take this great burden away from him. We see in Jesus’ desperation the most profound authenticity, an honesty not afraid to express His fears and His pain, while always saying Yet not my will. Yet not my will, but yours be done. Jesus had no need to put on a mask before His Father, no need to say that He was fine thank you, that He was really okay with what He knew He had to do.

Because He really wasn’t okay. He was sweating blood.

In the psalms, the writers so often share their brokenness in the most raw words, ragged and haunting poetry which expresses their pain. How long, O Lord, how long?… Why, my soul, are you so downcast?… Do not hide your face from me! The writers don’t hold back from God, because they know that God can take their grief and their shame, their agony and their hatred. They give us a model for how we can be genuine in our prayers. How we can share the depths of our hearts with God, even when those depths are so very dark, because there is no darkness that cannot be lit up with God’s dazzling light. Those psalmists always move on from laying out their brokenness to trusting in God, even when things look bleak. And it’s in their active decisions to remember God’s work in their life and to praise God anyway that they find their healing, that they find their mourning turned to dancing and their lives lifted from the pit.

Their unmasking leads to their healing.

This is my experience, too. Pretending does nothing, before God and before people, because pretending leads to superficiality, and there is little point to that. Honesty – even in all its raw brutality – does so much more. It lays bare truth and its vulnerability speaks to battered hearts and crushed lives.

‘Are you feeling better, now?’ the person praying asks of me.

I begin to speak, but stop myself for a second.

‘I’m still in pain. So much pain. Why can’t God take my pain away?’

And we weep together. We weep in the waiting and in the brokenness, but our weeping is seasoned with hope, the hope we both know, the reason we keep on asking.

The hope that will never let us go.

Liz lives in Shropshire with her Rev. other half and two teens. She loves writing more than most other things and blogs here. Her Bible study book about Beauty and the Beast is available here or you can get an e-copy for free on her blog. Liz’s first book is about contentment living in a broken world and will be published by IVP in 2018.

Encouraging yourself in God

 

Reflections based on 1 Samuel 30.

‘David was greatly distressed because the men were talking of stoning him; each one was bitter in spirit because of his sons and daughters. But David found strength in the Lord his God.’

Encouragement gives us fresh hope, as well as the courage to carry on. David is a great biblical character to show us how to find encouragement in God. At this point in his story (covered by chapters 27, 29 and 30), he had decided to escape King Saul’s pursuit of him and went to live within the Philistines’ land. He ended up serving a Philistine king, which must have been bizarre for them all (as he had previously killed the Philistine giant Goliath)! Indeed, not all of the king’s men accept him and eventually David and his men are sent back to Ziklag, where their wives and children were. While they had been away, Amalekites had raided and taken their women and children captive.

At this point, David’s men begin to turn on him. What was David’s response? He didn’t despair, run or try to plead with them; we are told he ‘found strength in the Lord’ and then asked for the ephod so he could ask God what to do. How did he encourage himself in God? It isn’t spelt out in scripture but, given what is revealed about him in the psalms he penned, I think he probably brought to mind past examples of God’s faithfulness and stood firm on God’s promises. A look through psalms 34–41, for example, shows that David wasn’t afraid to be honest about his circumstances and emotions, and yet he always turned to praise, reminding himself how trustworthy and faithful God is. I love the tone of Psalm 37 – it is as if David is revealing what he has learned over the years: ‘I was young and now I am old, yet I have never seen the righteous forsaken’ (v25). In other psalms he tells his downcast soul to look to God. I think we can learn a lot about how to encourage ourselves through reading the psalms he penned.

Meditation: Spend some time thinking about ways that you can encourage yourself in God today.

Letting go of worry

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nature-sky-sunset-man“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 4:6-7)

Yesterday we looked at the negative affects of worry. I’m now going to share some things I have found have helped me during those times when I know I’m allowing worry to overtake me. If you have a tendency to worry, I hope they are useful for you too.

  1. Be honest with yourself – and God

Look at what it is that you are worrying about and decide: is this a legitimate concern or an irrational worry? Then take it to God and ask for His help. If you feel you are really struggling with a particular worry then it can be helpful to share it with a close friend who can pray with you and keep you accountable on the subject too.

  1. Spend time each day focusing on God

Remind yourself of who He is and what He is capable of. With a different perspective, our problems and worries can seem to literally shrink before our eyes.

  1. Remind yourself of God’s promises

Look at the particular thing that is causing worry and ask yourself: what can I do and what should I simply leave up to God?

If you are struggling with a particular area then it could be beneficial to do a study on God’s promises specifically about that. So, for example, if you worry about finances look at what the Bible says about God providing for us.

  1. Learn to ‘pray continually’

If we get into the habit of talking to God throughout our day – bringing Him the big and little things – then it is much harder for worries to overtake us and blow us off course away from him. Here’s another great quote from Corrie Ten Boom: “Any concern too small to be turned into a prayer is too small to be made into a burden.” In her book, Having a Mary Heart in a Martha World, Weaver describes how she consciously learned to turn every little worry into a prayer.

If you know your thoughts are mainly made up of worries, try turning those thoughts into prayers.

“Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18)

  1. Learn to be thankful

This is where a journal can be so helpful. If we record all the ways that God is faithful and how He has worked in our lives, we have a constant supply of practical reminders of how He does look after us and how He “will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 4:19)

There are a few of us in our book group who have spent time either writing in a thankfulness journal every day or tweeting three good things about our day each evening. Each one of us commented on how it has made us more aware of those little details that made our day special, but which are so easy to overlook without such a discipline (as our minds have a tendency to focus on the difficulties). If you know you find it hard to be thankful or recollect positives, why don’t you try writing down three things you are thankful to God for each evening?

  1. Actively ‘take captive every thought’ (2 Corinthians 10:5)

We can so easily let thoughts come and go in our minds, feeling that we have no control over them, but the Bible is very clear that we have a part to play in ensuring that what we think about is beneficial and edifying to us:

“Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable – if anything is excellent or praiseworthy – think about such things.” (Philippians 4:8)

Have you ever stopped and reflected on what your mind has lingered on in the previous 10 minutes? It can be really revealing – and challenging!

  1. Change what you meditate on

We can think that reading and meditating on the Bible is far too difficult a practise to do daily, but we are often very well versed in meditating on our problems and worries! We simply need to re-educate our minds to focus on those things that will help us rather than hinder us.

Why not try replacing a specific worry with a scripture that speaks directly to it? Each time the worry pops into your head, speak the scripture to it.

Worry is one of those things that we know the Bible tells us not to do, but we can so often struggle to be free of. Putting some of the above simple ideas into action can help us form new habits. Because worry is a habit in itself – and a toxic one at that. Learning to recognise when a worry rears its ugly head, and being equipped with some simple ways of replacing or dealing with it, can be so helpful.

This is taken from an article that first appeared on Christian Today.