Vacare Deo

Dawn was breaking on the first day of the week; the Sabbath was over.

So Matthew, in a quiet, unassuming way, begins his account of the resurrection.

Their sabbath was over – the three years they had spent with Jesus, following him as their disciples; learning; journeying; resting – a break from their ordinary lives.  A time during which they had been close to Jesus, being in his presence.

And then there was their other sabbath – a day of tiredness after the intense turmoil of the previous week.  A day of deep, deep grief, of loss, of perplexity and confusion.  A day of utter exhaustion – physical, emotional, spiritual.  Spent.

What had it all been about?  Why?  Their hopes crushed; their world shaken.  Jesus was dead.  God was dead.

The sabbath was over.  Had it all been nonsense – a meaningless break from the drudgery of life?  What next?  Would they simply go back to the humdrum of their ordinary lives?  Would everything go back to where it had been before?  Nothing changed?

No.  The sabbath was over; but that wasn’t the end.  A new day was dawning.  The first day of the week.  A new week.  A new beginning.  Spring was coming.  New life was about to burst forth.  Everything had changed, and they were about to discover the wonder of the resurrection.  Out of the sabbath – the rest, the stillness, the companionship, the joy; out of that other sabbath – the grief, the exhaustion, the suffering, the tomb; out of all that would come the risen Jesus, his gentle presence with them – touching, healing, leading, bringing hope and joy and infinite love.

So, too, with me.  My sabbath is over.  My three months in New Zealand – the rest, the refreshment, the time and space to be still and present – with God, in the midst of God’s creation.  And the honeymoon – the wonderful surprise of my new relationship with Lois, the joy of being together, the time of holiday.  The wedding is finished, the guests have gone.

So, too, my sabbath of grief is over – the winter, the dark night; the grief, the tiredness, the exhaustion.  That, too, is over, laid down.  Jesus has taken it and laid it in his tomb.  Out of the harrowing, the fallow ground, new life is breaking forth.

For us, too, a new day is dawning.  A day full of possibilities and hope; of wonder, of excitement, of new joys, of love.

Spring.

A fresh start.

Resurrection.

While the world’s cricket teams battled it out on the fields of Bangladesh in the ICC 20:20 series, I, too, was facing my own battles, wondering what on earth I was doing here for five nights at the end of this incredible sabbatical.

I had been so warmly welcomed by Brigadier General Golam Zakaria and his wife, met off the plane and whisked to the VIP lounge, bypassing the long queues at immigration and customs, and driven to their home through the dusty streets of Dhaka.

Dhaka.  Never before had I seen her streets, and yet they were all so devastatingly familiar: the children selling peanuts and roses between the jostling rows of cars, motorbikes, rickshaws and busses at each impatient junction; the luxury hotels and businesses vying for space with the shoddy apartments, one-room factories, and the multitudes whose homes waited patiently, wrapped in tarpaulins at the sides of the roads; the dust, the noise, the chaos, the pollution.

And, alongside all that, the colour, the life, the flavours and smells.  I was back in Asia.  Yet something in me was unsettled.  And my body and spirit chose to rebel.

Unusually for me, it was my gastro-intestinal tract that was the first to strike – staging an all-out violent revolution that left me, 36 hours and three toilet rolls later, feeling washed out and longing for home.

But the bigger battle was coming face to face, once again, with the stark realities of wealth and privilege, poverty, and futility.  Why was I, with all my years of visiting Asia, finding this so hard?

I had been treated, on my first full day, to a personal tour of one of the Capital’s finest private hospitals: its cleanliness, efficiency and resources rivalling any in the West.  The privileged haven of Bangladesh’s elite few, proudly displaying its grandeur, and, at the same time, offering small charities to many in need.

That evening, after a wonderful meal at the golf club restaurant (the probable source of my alimentary rebellion), I was treated to even more rich fare at the home of the chief executive of the hospital and their linked pharma corporation.  In luxurious surroundings, I heard of the wonderful achievements of the hospital and pharmaceuticals, of their plans for further expansion, of their links with prestigious institutions elsewhere, and of their magnanimous acts of charity – like many in this country, using their wealth, both personal and corporate, for the good of their fellow-citizens.  Philanthropy is such a strong ethos here, followed with equal diligence to the other pillars of their faith.

And meanwhile, my friend Nasreen’s brother, lay unconscious on the intensive care unit of that same hospital, ventilated with ARDS following a pulmonary embolism, while the whole family gathered in distress, wondering what to do next, having used all their resources to pay for the first eleven days of treatment.

Was it only the pending gastroenteritis that left the sumptuous food tasting bland in my mouth?

But who am I to criticise?  I who have been paraded throughout these few days as an eminent professor of paediatrics who works tirelessly on behalf of the poor all around the world; lauded as a great philanthropist; brought out to a small village to run a sham clinic, dishing out placebo vitamins and worm tablets to 62 undernourished, but otherwise healthy village children; asked to give my blessing and advice to the numerous small projects set up by those who genuinely want to serve and help the poor?

Perhaps I could just keep up the pretence; continue to fool others, if not myself, that I really am a great hero, and that everything I do really is making a difference.

But it doesn’t make a difference.  Not to the sixty two children I saw on Friday morning, most of whom will never complete school, and have no long term hopes of meaningful employment.  Not to the fourteen year old child-bride who served me roti with coconut.  Not to the old lady, with no possessions but the sari she stood in as she knocked desperately at the window of our air-conditioned car.

The hours and I lie awake, listening to the sounds of the city night.  Across the way a halyard flaps on a flag pole outside the Parliament.  A handful of taxis languidly scour the streets, scooping up their home-bound fares from clubs and bars.  In the docks below, clunking cranes lift their heavy boxes, while engines shunt backwards and forwards in the marshalling yards.  In the city’s streets and homes, sleep cradles the fortunate ones.  For many, though, its welcoming arms are as elusive as the clouds that flit between the moon and me. 

A homeless person wanders the unforgiving pavements, wondering where she might lay her head.  An alcoholic, red-eyed with drink and insomnia, picks up a discarded bottle, to drain a few more dregs, hoping to numb the lonely pain.  In a tiny bedsit, and a comfortable home, a baby cries, disturbing her mother for a bottle or a breast.  A concierge sits, bored, in the lobby of an hotel.  In an emergency department, bright clinical lights forbid sleep to those waiting as the doctors and nurses pass from cubicle to cubicle, assessing, treating, admitting, discharging, while elsewhere in the hospital, the nurses keep their subdued vigils.

A city clock strikes two.

A few more hours and a Tui will herald the coming, rain-damped dawn.  The cleaners and morning shifts will rise to take their places, relieving those who have worked the night.  The babies will rouse their weary mums, longing for a few more hours on this would-be day of rest.  The airport, harbour, hotels and cafés will pick up their reins, and the rest of the city will reluctantly stumble to its feet.

Where, for them, is the peace and joy I’ve known?  Can a Ngatiawa stillness be found in Wellington?  Or Coventry?  What can I do to offer warmth, and welcome, and rest to those who seek it through the city night?

In his book, Silence and Honey Cakes, Rowan Williams tells the story of a young brother who sets out to learn from two of the Desert Fathers.  The first, Abba Arsenius, sat with the young man in complete silence.  Not a word was said.  The other, Abba Moses, welcomed the young man warmly, sharing food and drink and talking freely.  The story finishes with two large boats floating on a river.  In one of them sat Abba Arsenius and the Holy Spirit of God in complete silence.  And in the other boat was Abba Moses, with the angels of God: they were all eating honey cakes. 

That picture captures well this time of sabbatical.  It has, indeed, been a time of silence and honey cakes.

I have enjoyed all the unexpected joy of my new relationship with Lois – the wonder of our wedding and our honeymoon at Papamoa; the beauty of the Queen Charlotte walkway; the companionship of friends in Auckland, Dunedin, Wellington, Hamilton; meals and time with Lois’ family.  A drink in the Inch Bar with Kristin and Steve; outdoor-cooked pizzas with Ian and Elaine; barbeques with Servants’ friends in Waikanae and Dunedin; the Ngatiawa Tea Parties, and so much more.

And I have enjoyed the peace and stillness of this place.  The quiet rhythm of daily prayer.  Sitting in the chapel of Tārore and absorbing the ever changing beauty through its many windows; quiet walks along the beach with Lois, enjoying the gentle silence together; or sitting with my feet in the water as the ever-flowing Ngatiawa tumbles past me.

Beauty and laughter, community and solitude.

The monastery itself is an expression of that wondrous juxtaposition.  It is a messy monastery – not here will you find the neatly-tended lawns of St Beuno’s.  A jumble of buildings thrown together like the jumble of trees in the surrounding forests.  Rough edges to the furniture and the people.  An amazing mix of characters, who somehow bumble along together, rubbing each other up at times, but forgiving, accepting, and moving on.  And welcoming me into their mix.

It is a place of fun and laughter, of exuberant games, and haphazard mealtimes.  The various toddlers and young children add to the chaos, disturbing the calm of the morning and midday prayers, but somehow, in doing so, adding to the sense of stillness.

John and Karen; Jacqui; Matt and Megan and baby Jonah; Ray; Ben; Stu and Gemma; Laura; Dave and Angie with Micah and Josiah; Courtney with Hannah; René and Kati.  All different, all unique, all lovabl in their different ways.  And all the various guests, like Lois and me, who come and go, each in turn receiving and contributing something to the community here.

I am so blessed to have been here, to have enjoyed the hospitality of this place and its people, to have learnt from their rhythms of life, to have rested in the stillness and beauty of Ngatiawa’s peace.

And now, as I leave this place and return to a new life back in Coventry, I pray that I might take something of that beauty with me; that my life might become one of silence and honey cakes.

Jesus, tired as he was from the journey, sat down by the well. (John 4: 6)

Looking back to my journal entry of 7^th October, I realise just how tired I had become by the end of last year, and, by contrast, how refreshed I am feeling now:

‘I, too, feel tired from the journey Lord.  Tired from my journey of being a parent; tired from my spiritual journey – of seeking to draw closer to you; tired from the journey of grieving; tired from my work journey – all those years of clinical medicine, child protection, academic work, of being a leader, and of seeking to support others; and tired from the journey of singleness – of being on my own, of coping with all my mixed emotions.’

Now after nearly three months’ break, I do feel refreshed.  I so appreciate the opportunity I have had to sit by the well here at Ngatiawa; to receive the hospitality of these strangers who have become my friends; to rest and be refreshed.

And, above all, I am so grateful for the blessing Lois has brought to my life – a companion to share the journey with, someone to lean on when I am tired and weary, and a soul mate for me, in turn, to support and to cherish out of my own weakness and vulnerability.

Am I ready to go back?

Yes, I think I am.  I am looking forward to returning to Coventry, to being with Esther and Joe.  I am looking forward to seeing again my family and friends; to being at home – creating, afresh, a ‘new’ home with Lois; to being a part, once again, of my family at Holy Trinity.

As I wrote that in my journal this morning, I started to write, ‘And I am looking forward, too, to starting back at work.’  And I was brought up short.

Am I?    Am I really ready for that?  What will it mean?  What will it look like?  Where will it lead?

I love my work – I find it inspiring, energising, challenging, rewarding.  I feel privileged to be able to do the work I do and that I so love – to play with children on the floor of my clinic; to receive the smiles and hand holds of disabled young people; to sit with parents in their struggles and grief.  I love the interaction I get with students from all sorts of backgrounds; the mental challenge of writing a paper; the joy of discovery in a new research project; the intensity of working on a child protection legal report.

And yet, I know it has drained me and will do so again.

Am I truly ready?

This evening I will take myself off for 48 hours of solitude in the prayer hut at Ngatiawa.  Perhaps, like my wedding, this will prove to be a highlight of my sabbatical.  Unlike my wedding, I am feeling a degree of trepidation: what will these 48 hours mean?  What am I being called to?

I have been reflecting this week on a small incident recorded in Matthew’s gospel:

When Jesus saw the crowd around him, he gave orders to cross to the other side of the lake.

With Jesus, it wasn’t just about the crowds, healing people, dealing with their suffering.  True, that was a part of it – he had just been healing people and casting out demons.  But it wasn’t the whole picture.  Jesus didn’t come to be just a miracle worker, magically fixing all the world’s problems.  A frank look at the ongoing war, violence, abuse and natural disasters we see in today’s news is enough to tell us that.

Nor did he come just as a great teacher, up there with the likes of Aristotle, Plato, Confucius, or the Buddha.  Again, that was a part of it – Matthew had just recorded the Sermon on the Mount – perhaps some of the greatest religious teaching of all time.  Jesus didn’t come to be a great teacher, to show us all how to live better lives so we can solve the world’s problems: again, a look at today’s news, or even at my own life is proof enough that, if that were his mission, he failed.

The uncomfortable reality, as I look at this verse in Matthew, is that Jesus wanted his disciples to go further and deeper – to cross to the other side of the lake.  He wanted disciples who would come away from the crowd, who would spend time with him, getting to know him, drawing closer to him.

He wants followers who will launch out into the unknown with him; who will cross to the other side of the lake.  Is that the place of stillness and silence?  Or the place of uncertainty, of turmoil and storms?

What about me?  Am I prepared to cross to the other side of the lake?  Will I take the risk of launching out into the unknown?  Will I press deeper to get to know Jesus, to spend time with him?  Am I prepared to scratch beneath the surface – to see beyond any popular conceptions of who Jesus is – whether as a teacher or a healer – and find Jesus as the suffering servant, the one who took up our infirmities and bore our diseases?  Am I prepared to join Jesus in the pain and turmoil of life?