All fun and games?

Recently my Twitter reading list has been full of games. Football, mostly, but I think there was some rugby at some point, and then of course there's still Wimbledon. Among those who don't follow any sport at all one of the topics seems to be, er, Big Brother.

Does this seem absurd to anyone else?

It's not that the games are trivial, though Big Brother might seem so at times. As a musician, I understand something of the rigour of athletics, of training for an event, working with others or alone and then, on the day, doing the best one can in circumstances one cannot control. I admire those who have the level of commitment require to attain a professional level in sport, even if I myself have very little interest in the actual games. I respect that it is hard work, and I understand that it can be beautiful, sublime even, for those who appreciate it.

But more people I know have casually mentioned football or tennis than any other one topic. The English flags I've seen hung off of windowsills or attached to cars have almost rivaled the number of adverts I've seen on the Tube, and then of course some of the Tube adverts have been football-themed too.

I'd love to see that level of involvement over... I dunno. Something that actually affects us all. Homelessness. Environmental damage. Electoral reform.

I can't be the first person to ask why this enthusiasm for football isn't echoed in other arenas. What does football have that church doesn't? Why will people faithfully follow a team but not get anywhere near religion?

I think one answer is this: for fans and spectators, football doesn't make many demands. Oh, there are people who will go to great lengths to show their support for a team, who will spend a lot of money on tickets for games, who will obsess on one level or another about managers, players, game strategies.... but for the most part, that doesn't actually affect the outcome of games. I don't doubt there are people for whom today's World Cup loss is painful, that there are people who are so very attached to their teams that this is a significant wound. But I am pretty certain that for most of them, "What could I have done differently here?" is not a question that is on the agenda. The game isn't like that. And that makes it easy to engage with, easy to follow.

In football, nobody is going to ask you why you haven't been kind to your neighbour. In football, nobody is going to expect you to make a serious attempt at finding out what you are for. In football, nobody says you have to change your life, nobody says you have to care, nobody asks you to look at what is wrong with the world and try to figure out how you can change it.

Of course it's popular. It has all the camaraderie of a shared hope without having to get to know your fellow-fans as people rather than as fans. It has all the excitement of a big battle, without having to actually take any risks.

Perhaps that's too harsh a judgment, but the same could be applied to music in some circumstances. Music can speak to the soul in songs of comfort, songs of challenge, songs of pain and songs of joy -- or it can keep the ears occupied for a while without making much impact. The same could be applied to liturgy, in some circumstances. I've certainly been to church services where people seem to feel good but they don't seem to be challenged in any way, though of course it's impossible for me to judge what is going on internally.

It isn't that I don't think there is value in entertainment. There is. The camaraderie of a shared hope can make future collaboration on shared goals and purposes easier. The shared excitement can be the basis for lasting friendships in which people do learn to see one another as human beings, rather than fans of one "side" or the other. Getting used to the disappointment of a cherished team losing may well be good practice dealing with losses that have more practical impact. There are probably other positive aspects that I don't pick up on, simply because I have never been a serious spectator of sport.

I was getting at something here, but I've forgotten what it is, and I'm too t to pick it up again now I think.

Money and worth and so on again.

At Nearest Church I'm in the process of trying to negotiate a contract for playing the organ. The rate that they pay is significantly below the going rate for this area of London, and that has consequences for me and for the longer-term viability of music at Nearest Church.

I'm finding it all very uncomfortable. You see, I wish I didn't have to deal with money. I'd like to be able to do all of my work for free. All of it is work I would do if I didn't need the money. I think if we were all generous enough with our time and energy, we wouldn't be so dependent on transactional labour... and I know that if I want that generosity to come about, I need to be willing to be generous even when others aren't.

I mentioned this to a friend today and her response was, "How are you going to live if you don't get paid?" which is quite a reasonable question.

I bit my tongue and changed the subject, got on with the task at hand. But my first thought, and the one that has been nagging at me since, was Why should I live and another not?

Why should I have enough to eat when there are people in the world who starve because of my food choices? Why should I have a roof over my head when there are people who are sleeping rough? I am not better than they are, I am not somehow more deserving. I know that with every fibre of my being. So why am I blessed with material abundance, a garden to grow my vegetables in, a safe bed to sleep in, medication to treat my nagging chronic health problems? By many people's standards I am not wealthy, but to those who are starving, those who are homeless, those who have no access to medical care, I am incredibly, unimaginably rich.

Why should I live so well?

So I eat out of a local veg box scheme, grow some of my own veg in the back garden, don't drive at all, try to buy fair trade for those things I can't get from local sources, try to be moderate in my consumption of electricity... but it is still my privilege to do those things. I have a choice only because I am already rich. Do these little things help enough to make a difference? If I'd make a bigger difference by giving it all away, shouldn't I do that? When I tell myself my skills are best used where I am, is that me being sensible, or is that me running away, crossing to the other side of the road? Do I live as I do out of obedience, using available resources to create a lifestyle that can sustain the work I am meant to be doing, or out of fear, turning away from the call to give away what I have?

Even having the time to think about these things seems like a completely undeserved luxury.

Working together and who knows what challenges may come?

Interesting times locally. Vicar of Long Walk Church is retiring sometime next year. Local C of E churches in Upper Suburbia are talking about working together more, but at Nearest Church there's significant concern that too much collaboration means no time or energy left for things that are ours. And I can understand that sort of isolationism, but I don't think it will work in the long run. I think we can collaborate and still contribute uniquely. I think we need to collaborate if we're going to have any sort of unique contribution to make.

I asked about mentoring, about having church music experts I can talk to after Networking Organist has moved on. It's been suggested that I go along to a service in Neighbouring Suburb, because the music director is very good and shares some of my interests. So that's where I'll be off to tomorrow morning.

I couldn't find said music director on that church's website. They do have a link to Anglican Mainstream. No no no no no no no goes my brain. I don't want to go. I don't want to get involved. I don't want to risk being in a position where I might have to say something, might have to upset people, might encounter some injustice or exclusion that I can, and therefore must, do something about.

Anglican Mainstream have the following quote on their website:

"If I profess with the loudest voice and clearest exposition every portion of the truth of God except precisely that little point which the world and the devil are at the moment attacking, I am not confessing Christ, however boldly I may be professing Christ. Where the battle rages, there the loyalty of the soldier is proved. To be steady on all fronts besides is mere flight and disgrace if he flinches at that point"

Martin Luther

Christianity posits that the truth of God is the love of God: merciful, unwavering, steadfast, faithful love. One of the places where the battle rages is in deciding how to show that. I don't think the debate on sexuality and ordination is really about sex. I think it's about perfectionism, about whether we can decide and judge what is human, what is acceptable to God. It's about whether we can accept that those different from ourselves are still human beings, still beloved children of God. It's about whether we have one standard for our sins and another standard for those things another might do which we think are sinful. It's about taking responsibility for embodying God's mercy.

I happen to believe that homosexuality is not sinful. I can't claim I have "done the theology" -- I was just raised in a reasonably liberal background. It's a no-brainer. But I am concerned with this argument around whether LGBT people should be ordained, not because I am convinced that homosexuality is not sinful, but because I am convinced that we are all sinners and even if I am wrong about the sinfulness of homosexuality I do not think that it is fair, just, kind or merciful to refuse the vocation of any human being based on something so minor. And it is minor, compared to so many things.

I know if I am asked, I will say the above, in some form. I will say that whether clergy are truthful is more important than whether they are gay, but that I probably don't know any clergy who haven't at some stage told at least a little "white" lie. I will say that whether clergy are jealous and covetous is more important than whether they are openly lesbian, but that I don't know anyone who hasn't had at least a tinge of envy toward a neighbour's house or car at some stage. I will say that in the grand scheme of things I hope that mercy trumps our judgments, I will say that I pray that love will topple our fears. And I will say it even if I think people probably don't want to hear my answer, because if they ask, I can't justify saying otherwise. To be steady on all fronts besides is mere flight...

Oh, bother.

Heresy Sunday

I mean, er, Trinity Sunday, of course. Although I think perhaps a better name would be Mystery Sunday, because how three can be one and one can be three is a mystery to me, and why three instead of three thousand is an even bigger one.

Something in Kathryn's sermon really struck a chord with me. She writes:
"...the love that defines and informs the one reaches out and spills over into the other
Look, says the Father.......look at the Son........
Look, says the Son...........look at the Spirit
And so the Three gaze at one another in mutual love and delight"

My best performances have been like this, in a way. They are the ones where I love the music, and am full of love or at least general goodwill for the listeners, and my desire to introduce one to the other is far more important than my nerves or worries about my own ability. "Listen to this," I want to cry, "isn't it amazing? Hear what these sounds, combined this way, do! Sing along if you like, get up and dance!" And that time, in that place, I am the performer, the audience are listeners, the specific pattern of notes that makes up the music is being performed... but those roles are provisional, fluid, and utterly interdependent. None exist without the others. All can control the outcome, too: if the audience gets up and starts dancing, you can bet it's a very different experience for the performer, and that the music is very different as a result.

I hadn't really thought about three persons of the Trinity that way before.

I've struggled with the Trinity; my experience of God includes a sense of overwhelming unity. I can just about cope with the Holy Spirit (though equating the Holy Spirit with the shekinah of Torah, which is feminine, and then speaking of it in masculine terms really bothers me), but "Father" and "Son" are loaded words, words we ascribe roles to, specific jobs for each of them to do, and then oops modalism!

It seems to me that an awful lot of our attempts to describe the Trinity end up with that sort of putting-God-in-a-box.

And that's okay, I think, as long as we don't take ourselves too seriously. We musn't kid ourselves that what we describe actually matches reality with 100% accuracy. Language doesn't work that way: saying a thing does not make it true. We just compare notes on our own experiences, trying to arrive at some sort of common meaning, common agreement.

This idea of each person of the Trinity pointing out another, though, and the bit after it -- the bit where we are invited to join in -- appeals to me. If the Church is the Body of Christ then the Trinity is not limited to three, but is infinite, as we each point out what is holy, with love and wonder and delight.

Back later. Gone dancing.

Order and Orders.

I wrote this in a comment over at The Church Mouse Blog, but I think it's worth repeating here.

Mouse writes that both Ruth Gledhill, who writes for the Times, Michael Perham, Bishop of Gloucester, have essentially stated that the debate around sexuality and ordination is essentially a second order issue. I have to admit I have some sympathy for this viewpoint. I get tired of all the debate, all the wrangling. I feel something like I do about discussions about the Anglican Communion: all this dithering is fine if you have the time and the money for it, but I've said before and I'll say again that the rest of us have work to do. It's very easy to jump from that to "this is not a first order issue."

It's not a first order issue for anyone who has been ordained or consecrated without controversy and has never had to worry about whether someone else will question their ministry because of their sexuality.

It's not a first order issue for anyone employed by the church who doesn't feel they have to hide or disguise or even break off a close relationship (not necessarily a sexual one) because of what others in the church might think and the effect on their livelihood.

It's not a first order issue for those who don't have to question whether their time and gifts as volunteers will be accepted and appreciated, those who don't have to "come out" to anyone, those who don't have to constantly answer questions from their friends about why they are religious if their religion (or at least its bureaucratic structure) is so anti-queer.

This is not a first order issue for those who have the privilege to ignore it.

I cannot tell my brilliantly gifted organist friend, made unwelcome for not fitting into a heteronormative mould after being a church musician since the age of six, that her pain at such a cruel rejection is not a first order issue. I cannot tell my spiritually astute friend who is not pursuing a vocation to ordained ministry because he is bisexual and feels the barriers would be insurmountable that this denial of his gifts is not a first order issue. I cannot tell my friend who would love to get involved in all sorts of outreach work, faith-based or not, that it is not a first order issue that the C of E is not a safe space for her. I cannot tell my friends that it is somehow okay for the church to behave this way as long as it does some other good in the world, or that I am not afraid for my own livelihood should I be deemed unacceptable in some way unrelated to my ability to do my work. I'm quite serious about that last point: I live with a man who is not my husband, I'm quite open about it, and I'm well aware that a number of years ago that would have meant I'd be considered completely unsuitable as organist/choirmaster. As long there is not full inclusion, we are in the tricky business of drawing lines in the sand, and it is only by God's grace that I am currently on the "acceptable" side of the line.

That doesn't mean I think the other work of the church is unimportant. That doesn't mean I think we should not be striving to heal the sick, comfort the mourning, bind up the brokehnhearted and proclaim liberty to those who are captive. Of course we must do these things, we must care for the widow and the orphan, we must alleviate poverty. But excluding people from any level of ministry based on their gender or sexuality seems to me to be at direct odds with that.

The basic underlying message of Christianity, as far as I can tell, is that God is loving and God is merciful; it will always be a first order issue when the church fails to act like it.

Blogging about not blogging, again

So, I've not been blogging much, here or elsewhere.

It's partly that i've managed to get to that point where I don't want to post something that isn't finished, isn't quite what I wanted to say, isn't perfect. But that perfectionism degrades the medium somewhat, and certainly makes the quantity of my output plummet.

What have I been up to?

Lots of rehearsing, a bit of performing here and there, still teaching, more projects than I have time for and I don't seem to stop having ideas for even more. I went up to visit Kathryn of Good in Parts and had a simply grand time, as always.

I was going to write a post about keeping a strict Sabbath when I was observing Jewish law, and how that experience affects my attitude toward days off etc now (especially as I am a self-employed musician who works most Sundays), but I haven't taken an honest-to-goodness, all-day, Proper Day Off since 7th May, and I kindof stayed up until 5am watching election results the night before, which meant it was perhaps not as restorative as it might have otherwise been. I'll do better this week.

I'm still behind on reading blogs, too, but still thinking of and praying for many of you.

I'm going to try to do a post-a-day thing to get myself blogging again, but most of that probably won't be here: my public, identifiable-as-me blog needs more of that attention.

May Day

A local Labour councillor came around yesterday for a chat. We nattered for a bit and he asked, as they tend to do, whether I had any concerns about local issues.

Now, I've not lived in this area all that long, and I've not gone very far out of my way to find out what the local issues are. The bins get emptied, and I feel relatively safe here, so I don't have much cause to complain to the council; if I did, they'd certainly have heard from me before now.

So I mentioned the people outside the local tube station. I said that I realise it's a systemic, complex problem and not something that can just be changed overnight, but that I do worry about the people begging, and I asked what support the council is providing for them.

He then proceeded to tell me that the vast majority of beggars are economic migrants,
mostly from Eastern Europe, who have come over for temporary labour and got stranded here by being laid off, and that the council tries to "help them get home". I could hardly believe my ears!

I don't think it's an accurate assessment of the situation. I've written here before about my shameful failure to actually talk to people who are asking me for spare change, especially when it's dark and I am tired, but I do listen and I don't hear an overwhelming majority of foreign accents. Most people seem to be from London and environs.

Even if these people were mostly not British, there are a whole bunch of reasons that I think simply sending them home would not always be the right answer.

Instead of chasing him off the doorstep I decided to try and waste as much of his time as I possibly could, though I'm afraid I didn't manage to change his assumptions.

If there had been any danger of my voting Labour to try and keep the Tories out, it has well and truly passed now.

(I've written a very similar post to this elsewhere, with identifying information; the readership there includes more locals, and I think they need to know about this.)

This morning I did a spot of guerilla gardening, as is my custom on May Day. Upper Suburbia is pretty verdant, really, but there is a small patch of land I walk past often that doesn't get much attention. There were some trees planted there earlier this year; one of them was destroyed by folks who apparently had nothing better to do, leaving a bare spot. The edge of the patch, near a garden wall, is also bare of grass but does get a lot of weeds.

I'm pretty sure that the sunflower seeds will be eaten by rodents, but it's quite possible that the fennel, rocket, lamb's lettuce or catmint might sprout and grow. The chives and garlic chives were in small pots already and will blend in nicely with the grass for a while until they get established.