Paul Chambers

(L’Ancresse bay, Guernsey: Canon 30D)

… another year passes and even though there were some big moments in my life this year, to say I am glad to see the back of 2008 is a bloody understatement! Still, I promised myself this wouldn’t turn into a depressing ‘oh woe is me’ post; so onto something more positive. Was watching my kids last night and they chose this as their story. I thought it was poignantly beautiful. It actually made me ache… why do children’s stories do that? I guess this story/poem sums up how i feel at the end of a year i will try not to look back on in anger.

I remember the sun

as a baby – red and squashy,

cradled on the horizon.

As a child it danced with leaves

and looked at itself

in clear water.

We always knew that

it would be bright.

It did the usual teenage stuff:

throwing things (usually shadows)

climbing things (usually sky)

becoming shy and hiding

behind clouds.

There was the day that

it burned someone’s skin

and the time it set a forest on fire

but it said that it didn’t mean to

and I believed it.

Middle-aged, it stuck

at the centre of the sky.

This was its peak.

It said it could go no higher.

As it got old

it became weaker.

Its energy seemed to be going.

At times it looked washed out,

pale.

The end came suddenly.

I think it must have been a shoot-out

or an ambush.

There was blood everywhere;

the sky was splattered.

Then everything went dark,

as dark as the grave.

(A Life in the Day of the Sun, from the book ‘The moon has got his pants on’ by Steve Turner: Lion, 2001)

My heart goes out to those who hurt; to those in Palestine, to those being bombed in Gaza, to my friends Big John, Jules and their wee ones. I guess that love comes to those who still hope even though they’ve been disappointed, to those who still believe even when they’ve been betrayed, to those who still love even though they’ve been hurt before.

Or as the magnificent CS Lewis points out “I have learned now that while those who speak about one’s miseries usually hurt, those who keep silence hurt more.”

Talking of CS, I will sign off 2008 with a couple more pearls…

“You don’t have a soul. You are a Soul. You have a body.”

“God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks to us in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: It is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world”

Here’s to not being deaf…… 

(ripples: Canon 30D)

You know there comes a time as a writer one just has to admit that someone else has said what you wanted to say so much better than you are able. That happened to me the other day. Whilst in the middle of a visit from my old friend ‘writers block’ a package from Amazon arrived, in it was Annie Lamott’s latest offering ‘Grace (eventually) – thoughts on faith.’

The prelude begins:

The world, community, the family, the human heart: these are beautiful and complicated arenas in which our lives unfold, wherever you look there’s trouble and wonder, pain and beauty, restoration and darkness – sometimes all at once.

Yet amid the confusion, if you look carefully, in nature or in the kitchen, in ordinariness or in mystery, beyond the emotional muck we all slog through, you’ll find it eventually: a path, some light to see by, moments of insight, courage, or buoyancy. In other words grace.

See what I mean? When it happens all we can do is take our hats off to greater minds than our own and quote.

Hence this on the 5th day of christmas…

‘Dear God
When were you last slapped,
hard in the face,
out of the blue,
so you were stunned,
had pins and needles,
lost your sense of being for a second
and then watched your skin swell, darken, run
red
…and stretch to its limits?

When did you last last hold a baby up to
your own face, God,
smell the warm body,
touch the innocent skin,
know the life pass between you, with no words?

Do you have feelings too, God?
Do things touch you?
Are you spirit or are you substance,
for real or only ether-real,
or you there or everywhere?
If we reached out and touched you
would our hands pass right through
…your elusive, divine self?

What about any distinguishing characteristics?
What colour are you God?
How’s your eyesight,
what’s your body like,
would we spot you in a crowd,
would we stare at you for some disability?

How many senses have you got, God,
five, six, eighteen, ninety-four?
And your sense of touch,
is your handshake firm as a vice
or slippery as an eel?
What do you smell of God?
Anything in particular, 
the universe, is it,
planets, oceans, space, skies?

If it’s true that your Spirit is always willing
…is your flesh ever weak?
And if the Word was made flesh,
are you flesh of our flesh,
bone of our bone?

Is that you there, meek and mild,
meanly wrapped in swaddling clothes?
Is that you, Baby J,
Word of the Father,
now in flesh appearing,
is that you, screaming as you arrive
like the rest of us,
screaming at the shock of the new,
the shock of the cold and old and broken?
Is that you,
slipping clumsily out from between
a Virgin’s legs,
covered in blood and gunge and straw,
when moments before,
you had been covered in glory?
Tied to the mother of God by stringy flesh,
sucking for your very own life on a woman’s breast
…what a come-down.

And is someone slapping your bum,
a world-first,
God gets a thrashing,
God gets to feel flesh on flesh
and it makes him cry?

Still, at least you had an audience,
cows, was it, or maybe a goat or two?
Did they look at you in awe and wonder,
were the cattle lowing a bit,
or were they a smelly nuisance?
But ‘little Lord Jesus no crying he makes’.
Well, that doesn’t sound right.
The thing about flesh is that it makes you cry;
for better or worse, you’ve got to cry.
‘Who is he in yonder stall
at whose feet the shepherds fall?’
Did they fall?
Did they recognise you up close,
did they know that it was you, God,
starkers, in the flesh,
or were they just intrigued by
the heavenly host
and that funny star?

And did the flesh inconvenience
and annoy and anger you,
like it does the rest of us,
your fleshy creatures?
Did your nose run green,
your skin flake or bruise red,
Did your breath catch with asthma
in that smelly barn,
your chest tighten in fear?
were you irritated by flies and gnats
(ones you had made earlier),
…or did they show some respect?

And later on, what did you do about 
your fleshly lusts?
And, just out of interest, where, on earth,
did you go for your private moments
- are there miraculously fertile plants
there today,
trees with roots for miles
and branches into the heavens
forever bearing fruit
…or are those places
where the divine squatted in squalor with his
lowly creatures,
and wiped his bum with leaves,
just like any other place?

When you were tired,
when it was all going wrong,
when your friends misunderstood,
lost interest, 
wandered off,
did you think,
‘What did I get into this body-business for?’
swapping spirit for flesh,
swapping omnipresence for being somwhere
…in particular?
Did you feel trapped in that body,
or didn’t you know what it had been like
before you became body?
When were you in-carnate
…did you recall what it was like 
being out-carnate?
Flesh doesn’t fly, usually,
flesh can’t be in more than one place at a time,
flesh is limited, awkward.
Did you ever notice it,
did you wonder at the restrictions of 
the body corporeal,
or were you just one of us,
God Inc.?

Did the flesh exhilarate you,
excite you,
did you run and laugh and fall,
did you sweat and wrestle and argue
and were you grateful to live
on earth
a human
in flesh
to be one of us?

“He was little, weak and helpless,
tears and smiles like us he knew,
and he feeleth for our sadness,
and he shareth in our gladness.”

And how’s your body now,
do you wear a halo, or a crown,
is it of gold, or is it of thorns,
are there marks on your palms,
have you got blood on the side of your shirt still?

Jesus of the body, of the flesh,
Jesus of the teeth and hair and toenails,
welcome to the body, God
and thank you for taking it,
for putting flesh on the bones of 
our skeletal lives,
thank you, Jesus, for becoming body among us,
that veiled in flesh Godhead we see.

Flesh is all we have
but, as you know now, 
flesh is not all we are.’

Crafted by a great man, my friend Martin Wroe from his book, ‘When You Haven’t Got a Prayer: A journalist talks to God’ (Lion, 1997)

Now, as anyone who knows me will tell you, i love feasting (bloody relieved that heaven is going to be one big banquet), and what better reason than to celebrate the birth of the god-man, but i think there might just be something worth thinking on here….

hope you all had an incarnate time and experienced something of a thin place… remembering someone who was…

incarnate of the holy spirit

…born of the virgin mary

worshipped by men from iraq

offered asylum in egypt…

delighted in the company of palestinians

…moved by the faith of a syrian woman

…yoked to a libyan…

and embraced by an ethiopian

who was not the marrying type…

(wounded: canon 100)

i met him in a bar. late night conversation, his confidence coming from a bottle somehow seemed strange and yet obvious from one so gifted – a man not comfortable in his own skin. he was made to feel at home – what else would the late night L5 people of greenbelt at the thistle do? pip, big john, dave, foster et al all holding him and seeing through the bull shit… we are all wounded. mr michael mcdermott is more than most – you tube him…. these lyrics from ‘wounded’ saturate my soul:

‘i’m too tired for sleeping

i’m too wounded to hurt…’

this year has been pretty rough, for many of us i guess, it’s one i am glad to leave behind, let’s press on though into the hope of what tomorrow, next year will bring… these words of michael epitomise how i feel about 2008:

i lost a grand in memphis
i bought a gun in reno
i sold my train ticket…..in milan
i missed a plane in dublin
i hopped the boat in frisco
i miss my pretty girl
who’s memory lingers on

i drank alot in houston
was a whore in chicago
did alot of powder…..everywhere i could
but its so damned confusing -all this abusing
i never seem to do,,…the things i know i should

i don’t know if i’ll make it to heaven
i can’t’ tell between the sunset and the dawn……..i’m just a pawn
from may to december…..i’ll always remember
the year it all went wrong

I hurt some friends in new york….
i lost a girl from england
i wondered where i might be 
a year from now
would i be breathing
or still deceiving…
i’m runnin out of time
to turn this ship around 

i scarred a scarlet sunset.
i painted a fallen rainbow
i saw an ancient castle
that had lost its king
i

i don’t know if i’ll make it to heaven
i’m not sure what street its on……..what have i done
maybe i’ll awaken,…..from this dream where i’m forsaken
in the year it all went wrong

i’m searching and seeking….
though my boat seems to be leaking
and maybe someday i’ll l find the shore
where peace flows is an river
and the good lord still will deliver
on a journey inward…..toward a heavenly door

i smoked my dreams in hollywood
built em back up in philly
had a friend die in st louis
who was looking to score

got towed in saint paul
got snowed in, in denver
got picked up in detroit
got blown off in baltimore

i don’t know if i’ll make it to heaven
i don’t know,…..if i’m that strong…..or if i belong
i did nothing,…..i shoulda done something
the day it all went wrong

And the songwriter’s comment after finishing writing …”Shit it’s only September”

what a beautiful mess this life is…. here we are, in our contradictions

love, yearning, tears and hope to my fellow palestinian big john, jules, grace and danny this day… join me in weeping with those who weep – i pray for the repose of your ma’s soul my friend

x

(gorse, icart point, guernsey: canon 30D)

‘I dwell in possibility.’
emily dickinson

bloody knackered tonight, but got a feeling sleep will be elusive. have been thinking a lot this eve, about many a thing, loss, hurt, faith, hope, love – even kissing. not sure i have much to offer all the same, but maybe, in the end, we are the ones who shape our destiny and not some divine puppeteer. i never bought into the predestination crap, the seed of choice planted deep in our soul is possibly the greatest gift we have been given and the very grace that ultimately allows us to dwell in our possibility…

(step by step behind the wall, Palestine: canon 20D)

The more I know the less I understand. Life, with all its concurrent struggles and painful beauty, has brought me to the point where all the things I thought I knew I am now having to learn again. In the long run (and the long run is all there is), when everything is said and done, James was right; by their fruit shall we know the truthful ones. Shaped by the practice of church culture it just may be that we have limited the context of the road to God. What do I mean by that? I mean that we have made God way too small and faith into some kind of crux.

Life is not so much full of contradictions; rather I think it overflows with them. Faith is a part of life that brushes up against us every now and then, a world within a world, the no space between all of us and all of God – the see through – at one with God and yet invisible. What am I rambling about? What do we no longer know that was once so obvious? What is it that our hearts are trying to break into? What is the name of that world beyond language? Put simply, it is the complex matter of faith. 

I have been thinking about faith a great deal of late because of an intoxicating book I re-read by David Maine titled ‘The Flood’ In his brilliant debut novel, Noe’s family – his wife, sons and daughters-in-law – tell what it’s like to live with a man touched by God, while struggling against events that cannot be controlled or explained. For when Noe orders his sons to build an ark, he can’t tell them where the wood will come from, just that God will provide. When he sends his daughters-in-law out to gather the animals, he can offer no directions, money or protection. Just faith. 

But once the rain starts, they all come to realise that the harshest test of their faith is just beginning of a never-ending journey. The Flood is a wickedly funny, wildly imaginative retelling of one of the most dramatic stories known to mankind. At its core it’s about a family caught in the midst of an extraordinary event and David Maine infuses this timeless tale with humanity, tension and wit.

But it’s this difficult notion of faith that has been hounding me. Faith in people who you can touch is hard enough, but with an almighty deity that we can’t sit down to dinner with, well, that’s a different kind of difficulty all together. Why? Because ultimately faith is about being guided by a hand you cannot hold.

Faith is the space where God and humanity touch, and is best symbolised by a journey, a journey to the safety of home. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks concurs with this allegory in his book ‘Faith In The Future’ where he suggests that the way though is always further than we thought and the route more complicated and beset with obstacles than we could ever have imagined.

As I said, faith is no crux, it is hope, a map of charting our way through a confusing world. Faith is surely all about restoring that which we have lost – a sense of family and community. If faith has a message and purpose for our time it is this. That faith will shape the future and rebuild the ruins of heaven here on earth.

Having devoured David Maine’s book once again I am reminded about what really matters, how I want to live out the rest of my days, and how I only want to surround myself with the good kind of love, and that ultimately faith is not a word spoken but rather a journey to be made.

Now, it’s 3.23am and I need some sleep…

(150 years old: Canon 30D)

There is a beautiful Haisidic story of a rabbi who always told his people that if they studied the Torah, it would put Scripture on their hearts. One of them asked, “Why on our hearts, and not in them?” The rabbi answered, “Only God can put Scripture inside. But reading sacred text can put it on your hearts, and when your hearts break, the holy words will fall inside.”

‘How strange that we should ordinarily feel compelled to hide our wounds when we are all wounded.’
M. Scott Peck, A Different Drum

(the valley of the shadow of death, jerusalem: canon 20D)

‘The night lifted, leaving behind it a grayish light the colour of stagnant water. Soon there was only a tattered fragment of darkness, hanging in midair, the other side of the window. Fear caught my throat. The tattered fragment of darkness had a face. Looking at it, I understood, I understood the reason for my fear. The face was my own.’

(Elie Wiesel, Night)

Why are ruins so attractive, mysterious, beguiling even?

What seduces our hearts toward them?

Why is it so many find their sadness intoxicating?

What seed is being watered in these feelings?

What are our eyes trying to say with their tears?

Maybe ruins bid us surrender to our strivings and our ideas of perfection and fulfilment. That we cannot defy time or our common humanity and brokenness. They tell stories whose message is one of the folly of giving up peace of mind for unrealistic and unstable rewards. Sometimes, old stones make us aware and allow us to feel and see our anxieties about our achievements (or lack of them) and who we are.

And maybe the real gift of ruins is that they point to a bigger picture, they move us away from the temporal to the eternal – they remind us that some things just can’t be fixed this side of a much better place. Maybe even they give us perspective and in their presence we are granted a glimpse of our own insignificance…

(the falling maple: Canon 30D)

As we grow up, we learn that even the one person that wasn’t supposed to ever let you down probably will.

You will have your heart broken probably more than once and it’s harder every time.

You’ll break hearts too, so remember how it felt when yours was broken.

You’ll fight with your best friend. You’ll blame a new love for things an old one did. You’ll cry because time is passing too fast, and you’ll eventually lose someone you love.

So take too many pictures, laugh too much, and love like you’ve never been hurt because every sixty seconds you spend upset is a minute of happiness you’ll never get back.

Don’t be afraid that your life will end, be afraid that it will never begin.

(Havelet Bay, Guernsey: Canon 30D)

this is how it happened…

man flu for over a week, cut short animals christmas dinner on friday night as not really up to it (very unusual) – arise not feeling great, pack bag for london town, wedding awaits, and so does the extra surprise of the lovely miss adam being back in town.

check in, and sit feeling a little sorry for myself, coughing and sniffing a great deal. 5 minutes until boarding i suddenly take a turn for the worse and realise travelling is not going to happen…attempt to tell the nice man in uniform but next thing i know I’m in recovery position.

collapsed, in front of about 300 people…. out for a few mins and paramedics, i am informed, are on their way – sure enough a few moments later i can hear the sirens – they attach things to my chest, take blood etc etc – they tell me i won’t be going anywhere today, let alone board a plane – blood pressure not good – low… seems i am not well at all…. doctor visit beckons tomorrow

i have slept over 26 hours of the last 36

am sorry i missed your wedding andy and alison….