Brought to you by the letter ‘S’

There are some lovely things in my life right now.

It is sunny. Cold, but sunny, and almost like summer, and this makes me a happy Nori.

There were scones in the park. And splendid people. And ducks. And it was exciting.

And I am presently in Edinburgh. Where there are Scottish people. Who are very lovely. And there has been mac and cheese, and  silliness, and laughing, and lots of singing. And that is an extremely happy thing.

That is all.

Unicorns and all, it’s bedlam.

So, this happened. At practice this evening, we’re talking about designs for our new team t-shirts. And submitting ideas. So this is mine. Yus.

Because I was told there were no limitations. And since have been pushing for (preferably sparkly) pink unicorns. Hells yes.

Wish me luck.

Also, I’m on a massive postal kick. So, if you’d like a letter, drop an address to me somehow (carrier pigeons accepted).

Bad Habit

Over the last few days, I’ve written a lot of things that give the impression that I’m a Christian. It’s Easter, that happens.

But I’m actually quite uncomfortable with it.

There is a massive part of me, that in spite of being a practising Christian happy to share with people and keen to hear from them, is terribly afraid that people will find out. Terribly afraid.

On the occasions where folk say to me ‘oh yeah, I figured you would be’, I take it not as a compliment – that maybe I am living the faith I’d like – but with deepest suspicion. Shameful as it itself is, I recoil. What does that mean you think of me? What in the way I acted gave you the idea that I was one of them?

I’ll be honest, probably not the best attitude to have. Particularly if one is a synod youth rep for a major British denomination. But I do. I do, and not necessarily without reason. Perhaps without good reason, but I find it hard to let go the idea.

I am ashamed to be called Christian. And not because I’m ashamed of what I believe. I’ll sit and talk you silly, explore things, explain things – I’m a bloody theology student. I’m involved in the church. I’m not afraid for people to know I’m Christian, but I’m ashamed of what that means.

I’m ashamed. Not just because the church gets a bad rap, but because it bloody deserves one.

I’m ashamed to be part of a hypocritical faith. I’m ashamed to own up to belonging when there’s so much I detest. I’m ashamed that when people know I’m a Christian, they’re less likely to see Christ in me.

I’m proud of many things as well. Culturally, personally, spiritually. But how can I share those things?

When people hear I’m a Christian, what does that say? I come from a very different angle and attitude to the majority of Christians I know. And not because of what I was taught, but what that taught me to believe. The influence of others has been monumental – but I can safely say, rightly or wrongly, that most of what I’ve learned is what I won’t be like, not of examples I can follow. I know that people who perceive me as Christian put me in a box. Equally so, those who are Christians themselves. How many people in the church have stopped to ask me what I think, what I believe, how I see things? They assume we’re seeing the same. Because Christians are, right? We’re all one in Christ?

But that’s the jews and the gentiles. The slaves and the free. And one hell of a lot of different ways to see things and know God. How can we assume what anyone understands? How can the perception of a mass affect so much?

I’m ashamed to be associated with a faith from which so many bad things have come. From crusades to witch-hunts to unjust law in the name of God. I’m far more ashamed to be part of a faith from which so many bad things come every single day.  A faith which hates, excludes, judges, and hurts. And all so un-necessarily. Because I think that every  Christian, when taken a step back and asked honestly, would say that it was wrong. Not that they don’t have a point, but I think people skew religion an awful lot. And would recognise that.

I describe myself as a bad Christian. Because, by most definitions, I am. But not for a second do I think that matters. I’m a horrifically fluffy liberal, so a lot of this is perhaps not unexpected, but it’s not my place to care.

I don’t think I’m right to support gay rights, abortion, a man-written view of the Bible, rights to death, evolution, progression of most things, and a million others the church tells me is wrong. I think those things because I don’t know how to not. I could be so very wrong. But that’s the case for everyone. Not matter what you believe, no matter how much you can back it up, it is still only a belief and you are most probably wrong somewhere. That’s the beauty, I think, but it’s a cause of so much tension. There’re many things that just I don’t share with people who know me as Christian, because the judgement would boot me right out of the church.

More than once, I’ve openly admitted to being Christian. Only to be told ‘No, you’re not!’.

Hell. And I’m downright ashamed to admit that I believe this. That I believe the same things that justify all this. I’m ashamed that people will think I do exactly the same as they expect. And I’m ashamed that I could. Maybe I should be ashamed that I do.

I don’t want to be a Christian. But I don’t want to renounce my faith. If describing myself as Christian meant what it meant to me, it would make life a lot easier. Because, dammit, being thought of as Christian gets in the way. But our language doesn’t support individuals. Maybe I shouldn’t be ashamed, but I am.

Indeed

I danced on a Friday
when the sky turned black
It’s hard to dance
with the devil on your back
They buried my body
and they thought I’d gone
But I am the Dance and I still go on

It’d probably take a damn fool to not notice that I like dancing. Despite the fact that you’d think it highly improbable – here I am breaking the ‘Eleanor’ stereotype.

I’m not always good at expressing how much I enjoy things, but I do love dancing. I do it because it’s fun. Full stop. And there’s something there which I get in few other places or ways. No, God forbid I write a post with a point, I don’t know what it is.

Much of my life is carefully constructed escapism, there’s no way around it, and dancing very much fits in there. Even when I’m rattling around my brain in a panic, flailing everywhere, completely unable to think of my place in the next figure, I do get some of my best thinking done when I’m dancing. And at the same time, it’s possible to be completely lost in it. Not in a romantic oh-golly-I’m-a-ballerina-lost-in-her-portrayal way, but in a this is dancing, nothing-else-is-here-in-this-moment-with-me type-way.

Sometimes it’s damn hard to dance. On a practical skills (or lack there of) level, a physical level, and, indeed, a mental-emotional level. It really is hard to dance with the devil on your back. But I’ve spoken about my two life philosophies before, and I stick wholeheartedly by number two: ‘Dancing makes everything better. No exceptions.’ However, that doesn’t mean it isn’t bloody hard sometimes. Worth it, but painful often on a lot of levels.

Dancing can be so freeing. And not from being freestyle-virtuoso lost-in-my-brilliance expression. But from doing what you do, as you should do (hopefully), and working everything else within that. Also, part of being a bigger picture. I would hate (and do hate) to dance on my own.

I do love dancing. I am not good at dancing. I am wholeheartedly frustrated with it and myself. I very rarely get it right. But it is something which I love. And love doing. And yeah. It goes on. It does go on.

Foliate

Today has completely failed to feel like Easter Saturday. Such is life.

But there was dancing with bells on, and visiting the farm, and scaring lots of little children. That latter being somewhat off-and-on. I quite enjoyed the two wee Austrian girls having the story of the Green Man and the spring told them, all the while wide-eyed at the leaping fools in front of them.

Did you know, that for the first twenty years of my life I completely failed to know about the Harrowing of Hell? Which is a little embarrassing, with the bit where I’m now reading theology, but I guess if noone tells you…?

So, in the celebration of this festival, Jesus is in Sheol just now. And according to a million Orthodox paintings, taking Adam and Eve by the hands and leading them up and away.  Sort of like a springtime in itself (I’m reminded of that Luther, ‘Our Lord has written the promise of resurrection, not in books alone, but in every leaf in springtime.’), but I for one still felt the chill in the air today. It’s not springtime yet. Still waiting. For something, even if I’m not very sure at all what that is. I don’t know what I’m saying just here, but I guess Jesus’ days are a damn sight more productive than mine. Even when he’s dead.

 

Were you there when the sun refused to shine?

Can such a clown of sorrows
still bring a useful word
when faith and love seem phantoms
and every hope absurd?

Maundy

What would you have washed from your feet?

Today I know exactly where I was a year ago. I don’t remember two years ago, let alone more. I can’t honestly say I know where I’ll be this time next year.

Feet can get plenty dirty in the mean time.