Why I couldn’t judge you if I tried.

Posted on October 12, 2014 by

You can loosely divide up Christians in to types in all sorts of ways, but here’s one I’ve noticed recently: where they fall on judging other people.

In fact, I think this applies to everyone, but I say Christians because we have an explicit command from Jesus not to judge others. So what we do about that matters. It throws up problems for us about what that means and how we put it into practice, and we can’t ignore them.

We know in theory that it’s not our place, and that judgmentalism is one of those unfortunate Christian qualities that we’re rightly hated for. We want to avoid it. But we tend to err in one of two directions:

  • There’s the ‘anything goes’ route.

It’s often one I use to get myself off the hook when feeling confronted by other Christians, especially the holier than thou types. By equating ‘non-judgementalism’ with an abandonment of moral opinion, we can cast off the chains of all boring, out-dated ideas of appropriate Christian lifestyle and do whatever the hell we like. Drink as much as like, take whatever we life, sleep with whoever we like, blow all our money on whatever we like, even believe whatever we like (I know, really) because hey, who are we to judge each other?! [Note: the only thing that it's okay to judge people for under this regime is intolerance. That simply will not be tolerated.]

  • The other option is the ‘Now, I’m not judging, but…’ route, characterised by, well, thinly veiled judgmentalism.

Much like the old, ‘No offence but…’ prefix to an offensive remark, we take this route when we realise the need to protect ourselves from the accusation of judging others, while simply not being able to avoid sharing our opinion on each others’ choices. As our opinion is obviously the right one, it’s the only loving thing to do to point out their error as often as necessary, to the culprit and anyone else we think could benefit from this cautionary tale. The private glee we take in doing so is an unfortunate side-effect, but it’s got to be done.

Neither are, I don’t think, what Jesus had in mind. Neither are what I can imagine Jesus practising himself. So how do we find a route through, a way to acknowledge the existence of good and bad, justice and injustice, without putting ourselves in the place of God and condemning all those who fall short of our own self-righteous definitions of right and wrong?

The antidote to both is the same: to look ourselves squarely and unflinchingly in the eye.

[Warning: when I said this phrase to my writing buddy, currently sat across the coffee shop table from me, he attempted to do it without the assistance of a mirror, and the resulting facial expression was not pretty.]

It’s the intangible thing we call conscience that makes the ‘anything goes’ option unsustainable for any length of time when we’re honest with ourselves. Though I might not feel any guilt for lots of the things I used to think were morally wrong, I hope that doesn’t mean my conscience is dead altogether. I have to believe there’s such thing as right and wrong in my own and other people’s actions.

My response when someone else tries to question my behaviour is to shoot them down for being judgemental, but when I force myself to be honest with myself, when I stand in front of a mirror and look myself in the eye, I know exactly what I believe is right and what is wrong. There are far fewer grey areas and dilemmas than I’d like to make out. Accepting that doesn’t mean that I need to beat myself and punish myself for my mistakes. But it does mean I can’t hide so easily behind uncertainty and relativism. It gives me little excuse not to make the right choice in future.

When it comes to that thinly veiled judgement of others, the trick is the same. When I’m tempted to react to someone else’s choices with disgust, horror, proud glee or disapproving pity, I need to do that exact same thing. Before I send that ‘you’ll never guess what…’ text, or even pray that gossip-disguised-as-concern prayer for someone ‘struggling’, before I take them aside for a pastoral chat about their lifestyle damaging their Christian witness… I need to stand in front of a mirror.

Whatever it is they’ve said or done, whatever terrible choices they have made or are currently making, I need to look myself squarely in the eye and know that I am either equally culpable or equally capable. 

I’m probably equally culpable. If I’m reacting strongly with disapproval, it’s most likely to be the case that I’ve committed the same crime, perhaps in a slightly different guise. I’m probably dealing with my own suppressed guilt by condemning them for the very same thing. This truth is at the heart of what Jesus said about hypocrisy and judgement time and time again:

  • Let any one of you who is without (something very much like this) sin throw the first stone.
  • Do not judge or you too will be judged (for that time you did just the same). 
  • First take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.

But perhaps this time, my judgement feels justified because I’ve actually never done that. And I never would. It’s beyond the line I could ever cross. It’s too far and they need to know it.

Again I need to come back to that mirror, look into my own eye, and see that I am equally capable. If it’s within the realms of possible human behaviour, I’ve got the potential to go there. I am not above anything, nothing is beyond me. We all realise it in different stages: that first time you cross a line you never thought you’d cross, and feel like you’ve become a whole different category of person. One who’s done that. But the truth is we’re all capable. And much as we want to draw our lines in the sand, all we’re doing is setting ourselves up for a bigger shock when we surpass ourselves with bad decisions and stupid mistakes. 

Even now, I’d like to think this is only true up to a point. Surely there are acts that you and I could never be capable of. But given the right circumstances, the right pressures, the right motives of desperation or fear or anger or greed… I believe we’re all capable. Stanley Milgram’s famous experiment in the 1960s demonstrated how terrifyingly easy it is to have normal people carry out apparently awful acts on another innocent person simply by putting them under authority.

We share a human nature. We share both wonderful and terrible potential. We share capacities and capabilities. Until the day we die, we don’t know what choices we will make and what circumstances will push us to them. What we can do though is have compassion for one another, and work this ‘being human’ thing out together.

The least judgemental people I know are not those who eschew any sense of right and wrong. They’re the ones with whom I’ve shared my biggest mistakes, my darkest thoughts, my deepest longings and my most terrifying potential – only to hear them say, ‘I can understand that.’ Whether it’s because they’ve been there too, or they know themselves well enough to know they very easily  could, it’s the people who look unflinchingly at their own humanity who get closest to what Jesus meant.

I could never judge you. I’m just the same. 

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When God won’t say the word.

Posted on September 29, 2014 by

feet in chains

God, being all-powerful, could easily end the whole world’s suffering if he wanted to. Perhaps with the flick of a switch, the blink of an eye, or a simple word.

Terrible philosophy, right? Way over-simplified. It’s the kind of thing people only say when arguing against the existence of God at all, or making out that if he exists, he must be evil.

It’s an argument I used to have, but never felt much personal connection with. In Stalin’s words, ‘One death is a tragedy; one million deaths is a statistic.’ It’s an argument about the statistics, about the way the whole world is set up, our expectations about the collective experience of humanity. The world is like it is, it’s not changing, so our expectations of God and life have to fit in with that.

But down here at a much more personal level, the Christian expectation changes. When it comes to a particular sort of personal suffering, we do believe that God could fix it, just like that. And we’re taught to expect that he will.

It’s the sort of suffering that is both self-inflicted and yet apparently indiscriminate in its victims. It’s the kind that trips us and traps us, binds us and blinds us, incapacitating even the most capable and motivated of go-getters.

We’re meant to believe he can just step right in there and zap it away.

When it comes to addictive behaviours, spiralling thought-patterns, chaotic lifestyles, self-sabotaging choices and destructive relationships, all it would take is a word from God. 

I’m hooked on the idea.

I’ve had this song on repeat recently (see: compulsive behaviour; addictive personality):

Say the word, and I will be free. Say the word, I’ll be made whole. At your word, mountains are moved; seas that are raging will calm when you say the word.

Another that I used to listen to day in, day out had a similar sentiment:

Who am I, that the voice that calmed the sea would call out through the rain and calm the storm in me?

Of my many emotionally charged Soul Survivor experiences, the one that had the biggest impact on me was a talk and prayer time on addictions. The great promises of the Bible on freedom were spoken out with power and authority:

‘If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.’
‘Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.’
‘It is for freedom that Christ has set you free.’

To someone intimately acquainted with storms, recklessness, compulsion and addiction, the idea is as intoxicating as any drug. It’s the offer of relinquishing your losing battle for control, to find yourself held by one much stronger. 

However out of my depth I am, he can step in. However little authority I have over my own emotions, he can say the word. Perhaps he can take responsibility where I don’t want any. Perhaps the buck can stop with him instead.

(Why he doesn’t is as painful to ask as it is impossible to answer.)

In Matthew 8, a centurion comes to Jesus asking him to heal his dying servant. He doesn’t need Jesus to come to his home, to physically touch the man. “Lord, I am not worthy to have you come under my roof,” says this man of true faith, “but only speak the word, and my servant will be healed. For I also am a man under authority, with soldiers under me; and I say to one, ‘Go,’ and he goes, and to another, ‘Come,’ and he comes, and to my slave, ‘Do this,’ and the slave does it.” 

For the centurion, Jesus says the word. At apparently no cost to himself, no difficulty caused for others, the mighty authority of Jesus over nature and personal suffering is put into action with a simple, understated word: ‘let it be done for you’.

For the rest of us, the promise might have to be enough. There’s no choice; it’s too enticing to give up on. While others get on with justifying and arguing about the massive-scale, structurally-caused suffering in the world, and excusing God from doing anything about it, a few of us stay fixated by this small, personal hope of redemption.

Perhaps this prayer, this moment, this new wave of faith, will see it happen. Perhaps this time he’ll say the word, and I’ll be made whole. Mountains will move. Seas that are raging will calm… if he’d just say the word. 

 

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An ode to men.

Posted on September 22, 2014 by

‘I don’t think I could ever date a feminist,’ said an unnamed friend as he glanced up over his pint, little knowing he’d become the opening line for a blog post. ‘I couldn’t deal with a girlfriend who believes I’m just an ignorant animal, out to rape women at any opportunity.’

It’s a sadly common opinion that feminists have a low view of men, or even hate men. We often seem to be complaining at men, either as individuals or part of a patriarchal system. There’s quite a lot to say, what with all the discrimination and harassment and oppression, you know. But it’s just not the case that we have a low opinion of them. I, for one, am a very big fan.

Here’s the thing: by calling out a man on his sexist behaviour, feminists have a demonstrably higher view of men than those who excuse them for it.

This is an ode to men.

21st birthday with dad

Such an ode could only be represented by the best man I know.

Men, you – just like women – are incredible, highly evolved creatures. Through the eyes of faith, you’re made in the image of God, as his workmanship and his masterpiece. You’re creative and resourceful. You’re thoughtful and rational. You design and you discover and you dance and you doubt. You make a thousand tiny decisions every day. You have potential beyond anyone’s imagination.

So I refuse to believe that when you see a woman in a short skirt* in the street, you are rendered incapable of walking past without shouting obscenities at her.

(*Or, as it goes, any other item of clothing.)

I refuse to believe that if the woman in your bed changes her mind and says no, you just can’t help but have sex with her anyway.

I refuse to believe that, though you manage polite and civil conversation with all kinds of people as you go about your day, the only way you can possibly interact with that girl you met on Tinder is to send an unsolicited picture of your penis.

I refuse to believe that, despite your own uniquely fascinating take on the world, the only kind of humour you can engage with is sexist banter.

I simply refuse to believe those things are inevitable, that being male means that you have no choice but to walk through life treating women as pieces of meat to be ogled, rated and used. You are very much more than a slave to your sexual desires, your ego, or your reputation. You don’t come pre-programmed to hurt and abuse.

So if you or any other man makes a bad choice, the choice to harass or belittle or discriminate against a woman because of her gender,

if you choose to use the power and privilege you have as a man to your advantage over and against a woman,

if you choose to lazily accept aspects of culture that do those things, and so perpetuate them by participating,

…then feminists will absolutely kick up a fuss. Because we know they are choices you didn’t have to make. We know you could choose differently next time, so we want you and other men to think again.

It’s those who excuse sexist jokes and cat-calling as ‘just laddish banter’ who have a very low view of men. It’s those who ask what the victim was wearing and how much she’d had to drink who think men are incapable of taking responsibility for their actions. 

When I was young, around 12 or 13, I had my first significant encounter with a boy and he taught me all I knew about men. He taught me that men are controlling and manipulative, that they treat women as objects to be used for their pleasure, and that my feelings don’t matter to them at all.

I’m a feminist now because I’ve learnt, from so many wonderful men that I’ve known since then, that #notallmen are like that. I’m a feminist because I have an amazing dad who has taught me what it means to be gentle and strong and assertive and sensitive. I’m a feminist because friends and teachers and boyfriends and brothers have treated me with the respect and love that I now know I’m worthy of.

Dear men, I’m a feminist because I know you are much, much more than you’re sometimes told you have to be. Patriarchy hurts all of us. Let’s fight it together.

Posted in Gender, Recent posts, Social justice and politics | Tagged , , , | 9 Comments

Wake up and walk

Posted on September 18, 2014 by

There’s a little group of people who are very special to me.

Between them, they embody all of my favourite things: fun, honesty, faith, integrity, friendship, ambition, creativity, and a determination to see the world become a more beautiful and fairer place for everyone. Especially for those who live in poverty because of human systems and structures.

The best part is, I get to work with and be inspired by some of these people every day. The rest are spread out across the country. Some I know, many I don’t. They are students, youth groups, interns, volunteers, campaigners, fundraisers, writers, speakers and activists.

They – we – are the Christian Aid Collective, a movement of mostly under 25-year-olds (though some with a little more experience now…) who believe we’re made for more than mediocrity and more than injustice. It’s one of my favourite privileges to blog for them. Today’s blog appears on their site, here.

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Hospital bed

The doctors had explained to me very gently what was going to happen. My nose didn’t work properly when I was born, so now four years later they were going to fix it. They’d send some special medicine through a tube in my hand, and before I could count to ten, I’d be fast asleep.

Ha. I crossed my little arms and dug my heels in. There was absolutely not a chance I was going to fall asleep. They chuckled at my sulky defiance and told me there was no use resisting, it was inevitable. But I showed them. The anaesthetic went in, and I sat bolt upright on the bed to start counting. I’ve never felt so triumphant as when I reached ten and saw the baffled look on their faces as they cancelled the operation. I’d won.

Stubbornness, persistence, resistance. Whatever you want to call it, it can be an annoying trait in a four-year-old patient. I hate to think what I cost the NHS. But it’s a very useful trait when it comes to changing the world. Sometimes, despite the naysayers, we have to cross our arms, dig our heels in, and say this is so important that we can’t fall asleep.

Climate change is that important.

On 23 September, Ban Ki-moon (Secretary-General to the UN) is holding a Climate Summit in New York. Yes, yet another meeting. I’ll be honest – it can feel like these world leaders from governments, finance, business and civil society, are always meeting up to have a chat about climate change, and never getting anywhere.

Every time, we write letters, we pen persuasive Tweets, we share articles and blogs, we even get on our knees and pray that this time they’ll take decisive action to cut carbon emissions and protect the poorest people in the world from the effects of our lifestyles.

It can get a little disheartening to feel ignored. It’s very easy to become numb to the problems we’re trying to change.

But if the great campaigners of the past have taught us anything, and if my four-year-old self was here to give her words of wisdom, it’d be this:

Stay awake! Don’t give up! Don’t let the anaesthetic get to you!

The movement is growing. We’re making an impact. And it’s worth pressing on. For the love of the millions of people affected by climate change, for the future of our planet, for everything we’d lose if we keep silent, it’s worth drawing new breath, planting our feet on the ground, and making the loudest noise we can again and again, until we crack this.

So, Ban Ki-moon and the leaders of our nations are coming together next week, and thousands of us are going to let them know we’re watching. On Sunday 21 September, we’re joining a whole host of other charities, faith groups, campaigners, students, pensioners, and everyone in between. We’ll march through London and raise our voices and shout out for justice.

Join us. 

For the love of all that is good and under threat in the world, please join us.

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Church: a call to wake up angry

Posted on September 8, 2014 by

Credit: Jmcdaid. Licensed under Creative Commons Attribution

The one about overseas mission and the one about the environment. Those were the two annual church services that I hated most, and would avoid if I possibly could.

Boring as I found it though, I sort of got why we gave time to overseas mission: Jesus told us to make disciples of all nations, and even if I wanted no part in it myself, I appreciated that other people were busy devoting their lives to making international disciples and the rest of us could give them a nod for it.

But the environment? All that slightly wishy-washy, liberal, loving-the-planet crap? Surely a waste of preaching time in any truly evangelical church. Here’s a few reasons why I couldn’t care less:

1) Human beings are special. 

Only we had the breath of God breathed into us at creation. Sure, we were given the earth to look after, but if we’d kept it running for what, 6,000 years or so by now we must be doing an alright job. What more was there to say? To give plants, land or animals any more significance than that was verging on paganism in my book.

2) We won’t be on this earth long anyway.

We’ve each got 75 to 100 years at most. To clear up this place would be like decorating the run-down hostel you were staying in the night before you caught a plane to paradise. If you set your mind on eternal things, there’s no need to worry about earth.

3) Jesus gave us good news to proclaim, we’ve got to get on with it. 

It’s saving souls, not landscapes, that matters to God. We need to get our priorities right – we’ll have all of forever to enjoy the new heaven and the new earth. What mattered for now was getting people their tickets there.  If I was really to love my neighbour, I’d be preaching to them to repent and be saved, not picking up litter from their front garden.

It all felt a bit pointless, sitting through the creation story from Genesis yet again, hearing how we’d been given dominion over the earth, and that we should be good stewards. Each time I concluded that if I wasn’t torturing hamsters in the microwave or pouring oil into the sea, I was probably okay and we could get back to the proper Bible-preaching for another year.

And yet. I woke up this morning angry about climate change. In fact, I wake up a lot of mornings angry about climate change. I’ve been fortunate enough to spend the last year with some passionate and humble people who lovingly teach people like me why our caring for the planet matters to God more than I ever imagined.

I wrote an article last year called ‘Can you be a Christian and not be a feminist?’ (My answer was no.) I’d go as far as to argue the same here: it’s impossible to take seriously the teachings of Christ and to follow him, while not caring about climate change. Here’s why:

1) Human beings are special. 

We believe that every human being on this planet is made in the image of God, loved by God, and has a right to life and dignity. Millions of people across the globe are already having their lives and livelihoods destroyed by the effects of climate change – weather patterns are changing so crops can’t grow and people can’t eat, let alone make an income; extreme weather events like hurricanes and typhoons are becoming more intense and causing unprecedented damage to homes, villages, towns; new water shortages are pitting neighbour against neighbour, battling for their share of the scarce resource because their lives depend on it.

2) We won’t be on this earth long anyway. 

We’ve been doing damage to the earth with terrifying efficiency since the industrial revolution, but now we’re at a crucial tipping point. If global temperatures rise by 2 degrees celsius, scientists say we’ll hit runaway climate change: self-accelerating damage to the planet that future generations will be powerless to prevent; whole communities destroyed because of our actions. 

Surely we can’t be so shortsighted as to think we can love our neighbour while hating our children’s neighbours? Love is patient, love is kind, and love does everything in its power to avoid destroying the lives of the other’s communities for generations to come. 

3) Jesus gave us good news to proclaim, we’ve got to get on with it. 

It’s the poorest people in the world who suffer the effects of climate change most. Those who depend most directly on access to the earth’s resources to eat, drink, sell and build. Those who don’t have a safety net when their fishing boat is destroyed by a storm. Those who can’t afford to flee when the floods are coming. Those for whom life is already a struggle for survival, who are doing everything in their power to lift themselves out of poverty, are having their problems compounded by the effects of climate changed caused primarily by more developed countries. It seems a hopelessly unjust situation.

But throughout the Bible, God is firmly on the side of the poor. In his mission statement, Jesus says he comes with good news for the poor. News of justice. News of hope. News of a kingdom where the rich and powerful are humbled and the poor are raised up, and no-one is oppressed by the other. 

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The Church is called to live out the love of God for every human being. That doesn’t just mean being a bit extra-friendly to a non-Christian in the hope that they might come to our church. It means being willing to make sacrifices in our lifestyles for the sake of people we’ll never know or meet, because they are loved by God as much as we are. 

The Church is called to use our short time, our talents, our money and our energy to make a difference in the world while we can. We’re called to spend ourselves on behalf of the hungry, not least those who are hungry because of climate change. We’re called to think beyond our own lives, to leave a legacy of good, to teach the next generation how to love their neighbour by our example. 

The Church is called to be good news to the poor, to speak out on behalf of the voiceless, to shout out for hope and justice. We do so much shouting about the wrong things, against people not for people – we at least know how to make a noise. We know how to be brave and bold and take a stand; let’s come together to shout about how important this is. 

The Church is called, I’d argue, to join the People’s Climate March on September 21, just a couple of days before the UN climate summit in New York. Marches around the world will bring together people of all faiths and none to say to our leaders that we give a damn about the people around the world suffering the effects of climate change, and we want to see action. 

In London, it’s happening on September 21, 12.30pm, Temple Place (Embankment). See you then.

In the meantime, there are a million ways we can tackle climate change – for the love of God and our neighbour, let’s start acting justly. 

 

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Act of defiance

Posted on September 1, 2014 by
Bread and wine.

Flickr: Kim Mc.

It’s the last place you’d look for a powerful action. It’s the last place you’d expect to have to be brave. You walk a few steps from your seat, following the crowd. You eat a small bite of food, you swallow a sip of drink. You return, you sit, and the world carries on as normal.

You’ve just been part of one of the most subversive acts of defiance to happen in the world. And you’ll do it again next week.

Uninvited, it’s a move of unprecedented arrogance. To stand up and take part in this, this sacred mouthful, this understated, under-appreciated moment of communion with the one and the all and the everything. It’s a privilege you never feel worthy of.

But each time you think you can’t do it again, the words beckon you to come.
‘All you who are weary.’
‘Not because you must but because you may.’
‘Because you love the Lord a little and would like to love him more.’
These are the words that pierce the wall you’ve built this week and dare you to stand and come again.

There’s every reason not to.

The doubt, it should stop you. Surely you, struggling to believe your cries are travelling further than the bedroom ceiling, are not welcome here.

The apathy, it should drain you. Surely you, who turns away from your own good resolutions in favour of the easy and the comfortable, are not welcome here.

The pain, it should blur your vision. Surely you, who can’t see beyond the salty water collecting in your own eyes, are not welcome here.

The mistakes, they should pin you to the chair. Surely you, having done it again and again… and yet again, are not welcome here.

The frustration, it should harden you. Surely you, torn between exhaustion and stubborn persistence, are not welcome here.

The isolation, it should trap you. Surely you, failing at mercy and patience and understanding for those you most long to be close to, are not welcome here.

The demons, they should persuade you. Surely you, hearing and believing their every whisper, will never dare to believe you are welcome here.

But with every shaky step, with trembling hands outstretched, you defy it all. As you swallow before you can chew, and feel the burn at the back of your throat, and croak out your Amen, you defy it all.

It takes all your courage to receive. But this table is for you. This table is for all.

 

 

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Love, you x

Posted on August 29, 2014 by

Note to self:

Take it easy on yourself and be kind.
Say sorry, try to mean it.
Say it ‘til you do.
Forgive when you don’t feel it.
Love until you do.
Put grace into practice.
Model compassion.
Parent and nurture;
don’t shout, don’t despise.
Speak honestly and carefully
as to a child.

Rest when you need to.

Never underestimate treats.
Listen to your body as well as your heart.
Breathe.
You can’t be overwhelmed forever.
It’s okay to leave the light on.
While there are trains, you’re never trapped.
Tomorrow will happen.
It’ll all come out in the wash.
It’s not weak to need help.
Or just to want it.
You’re cut from a certain kind of cloth.
Don’t worry. There’s a lot of it around.

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