Performance Indicators

I loathe and despise The Annual Review. Mine own were conducted by well-meaning examiners with no concept of the complexities of my role, which was great, because I agreed to stupid 'goals' that needed no particular effort to 'achieve'. This was easy for me, because I'm a very bright woman with an honest face.
My true performance indicator was to engage in (legit) projects with an element of travel to clock up as many miles as I could without spending a penny. I made 100,000 miles before my career ended. Of this, I am unjustifiably proud. ( You know I'm not a good person, don't you?)
My staff got PI's like:" You've got children, get yourself home on time and don't take work with you." This paid dividends in staff loyalty and excellence of performance that far outweighed the "gains" obtained by stressing them out with unrealistic numbers of Level 3's or whatever the current nonsense was. The pendulum will swing back my way, one day, you'll see.
I am so reminiscing because of Baroness Jenkin's weigh-in against The Poor and their lack of ability to cook. You know what your Baronessness, I know Poor who have nothing to cook ON, or WITH but she doesn't, so I guess I should be making allowances. (Thought about it: Naw, she's not excused.)
Sometimes, I am a born-again Christian. That is, until other born-again Christians engage in gay-bashing, or in other ways show themselves a lot more interested in other people's bedroom habits than is healthy for their souls. " I am not of you," I get to thinking, "So I guess I must be something else now. Don't know what, but there you are. "
Make no mistake, I still embrace and revel in the teachings of Jesus, especially when practised. I puzzled for ever over the enigmatic, "The Poor (whom he blessed by the way, it was the rich he sent away empty) will always be with you." Well, yes, so it seems, but why? I read of the Baroness's 'apology' - for saying that being hungry was The Poor's own fault because they were too something (Idle? Ignorant? Stupid?) to cook. Then I knew what the Bethlehem Babe meant: The poor will always be with us because the powerful will do anything to hang on to their riches. If Baroness Jenkin went out and talked to The Poor, and involved herself in their lives, she would become a whole, new, and much better person.
Have I lost the plot. This piece was about Performance Indicators wasn't it? Yes.
One day, and every day, I have to give account of my stewardship. The checklist doesn't have boxes for: Did you make a lot of money? Win any wars? Believe all the right doctrines? Belong to the right church? Get an enormous number of converts? Or even, God help us, Sleep with the right people? No. (I expect you've got where this is going...) I get rated on these criteria: Mary, tell me, did you: Feed the hungry? Comfort the afflicted? Visit those in prison? Clothe the naked?
Did I? Sometimes.
How about you? Find someone who's hungry and feed them this Christmas/Saturnalia/Sun Return ... ! It will make you both feel better. Yes, really, it will.

Report:
http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/politics/tory-baroness-poor-people-go-hungry-because-they-dont-know-how-to-cook-9910671.html

PS Only three vouchers are allowed for Food Banks. Just sayin'.

Contemplative Prayer

Because I speak in tongues - not an unusual accomplishment for a Pentecostal, but slightly embarrassing for a Roman Catholic, someone asked me if I was a mystic! How I laughed! I am not.
The speaking in tongues began as spontaneous outpourings of love and gratitide, not even too sure as to Whom or What, when I was a child. Still is.
I have long since moved from noise, however mystical, to silence. I am learning ( who could ever say they have learned?) to open my heart and still my mind and observe, compassionately, what arises. It's a fantastic practise, neither easy ( or it wouldn't be worth the effort) ... Or difficult (or I couldn't do it) just liberating!
Imagine! Not having to work out what's best for me, you, the planet, the universe and ask God to do it. Instead, to wait, and stand under His knowing, and trust Him to let it be, and to let it be good.

Mission Impossible?

I'm not sure about prayer. My dear friend Caroline, is making a steady recovery from an aggressive cancer, and we prayed, so it could have made the difference,  but I rather wish she hadn't got sick in the first place so I prayed, 'Holy One, let no-one ever get cancer again...'  Takes a LOT of faith that one, and I'm not up to it, I guess.

Something got to me yesterday.  A light-headed joy that enthused the whole of my day.

I wondered whether I really wanted to get up and go to work at the Mission. Since the bust-up over John - he was deprived of his internship because, among other things, he didn't tow the line on hell, and he doesn't hold with Hebrews-having -been- written-by-Paul (Or-should-that-be-Peter?). I agree with him on both points, but have had the sense to keep quiet. You don't rattle fundamentalists and get away with it.

I don't want to give the wrong impression. The Missioners are very dear people, who have at least found a God that gets them off their pewsides and out onto the streets feeding people who probably will never give two hoots about who wrote the letter to the Hebrews.

Anyway, I went because I love the work.

It's the school hols.: we were short-handed, so I was glad I went. We pray like Protestants. More like telling God a story. Preamble, filling him in on the reasons why we're bothering him. Ramble - lengthy and heartfelt pleading for this and that. ôGamble - kind of 'let's put it out there and see what happens'. I write this with affection. It's hard to convey tone, I don't think God minds. He has more patience than me.

Phil, the one who thinks Catholics are the spawn of the devil, was really friendly. I looked into his eyes and they met mine (always a good sign) he volunteered a hug, and he even told me a couple of jokes. Gosh, I'm thinking, (having got The Legion of Mary to pray for him) SOMETHING MAJOR has shifted here.

('What do you call a deer with no eyes?' 'No idea'. 'What do you call a deer with no eyes and no legs?' 'Still no idea.' I didn't say they were GOOD jokes.)

I volunteered to take a trolley full of food, with Tony,  to the Vaughn Centre: the day centre for the street people and addicts.

Eliza's waiting to go into rehab. She found an American cent on the street this morning. 'Look!' Sure enough, 'Liberty' on one side, and ' In God we Trust ' on the other. It's a sign, she's sure of it, and I hug her so tightly. She will die if she doesn't get off the stuff. For you, Liza, in God I will trust too.

Martha, the Slovakian is with a new, new man. Vlad, the old one, who beat her, fell into the canal and drowned last year. Zenco looks much kinder. I can but hope.

John lay sprawled across three chairs. He used to sit outside with the drinkers, but alcohol is now banned from the premises. John doesn't want any food, but summons up the energy for a brief chat.  He"s off the drink, but not the heroin. He's going to collect his prescription today and shut himself away and stay there until he doesn't need the drug any more. 'It's going to hurt like hell,' he says.  'I'll pray for you John,' I say, and God, I mean it.

There are Christians among them. Stan who's life I wouldn't want to live, and yet who's shining face and gentle smile speaks of serenity amidst this chaos. Robin, who belongs to a youthful and vibrant church shyly speaks of a  'gig' at The Guildhall on Saturday. I wish, right there and then, that my church had gigs. He's jubilant because after two years on the streets, he's finally been housed.

Pies, soup, fruit, chocolate, all dispensed, indiscriminately. Laughter and thanks, this week. I am uncomfortable with the gratitude, I really am.

Tony and I wheel our ridiculous little trolley back through the streets. The Mission Room is still open. Andrew and George are leaving. 'Come here my favourite men!' Something indescribable is bubbling up inside me. I think it's love. I manage to give them both a hug at the same time.

'You're such a tart' Andrew laughs. 'How right you are, ' I laugh right back, and kiss them both. It IS love.

Sandy is still sitting over her coffee. She's trans-gender and of all of our street people, she is the one that suffers the most, I think. She's beaming. The last time I saw her she was deeply depressed. 'You prayed for me!' I did. And I thanked God that I hadn't forgotten. Both times. Once for the visit to the psychologist that was the wrong date, and once on the right one... . SOMETHING'S CHANGED!

'You just have to tell them, Sandy, that this is who you ARE, not who you're trying to be.'

Mind you, I thought it politic NOT to ask The Legion of Mary to pray for a man to get the operation to make him a woman. I handled that one all on my own.

Time for Sandy to leave. I ask if I might give her a blessing. She accedes:

' May The  LORD bless you and keep you. May He  make His face to shine upon you and grant you His  peace.'

ALL of you.

Love Repaid

Neurosurgeon Eben Alexander died and went to heaven. He's a neurosurgeon, so he not only knows what death look like, but has the scans to prove he had it.

Obviously, he came back again, and wrote 'Proof of Heaven' which is a pretty good read, but in the interests of saving you time and money, I shall tell you what he came back to say:

You are absolutely and unconditionally loved. The other side of the great divide, Love is indeed, all there is.

You have nothing to fear.

You can do nothing wrong.


There's freedom for you!

Two thousand years ago today, Someone Else returned from the dead to say pretty much the same thing.  Sadly, the wonder and the joy of  the message of  the  Christ is almost lost to the world outside the church. Almost.

Happy Easter!


Sunday, March 31, 2013
Easter Sunday

How Does One Really Love God?
Meditation 36 of 52

Ordinary Christianity has emphasized that we should love God. This makes sense, but do we really know how to do that? What I find in the mystics is an overwhelming experience of how God has loved us! That’s what comes through all of their writings, and I do mean all—that God is forever the aggressive lover, God is the protagonist, God is the one who seduces me out of my unworthiness. It’s all about God’s initiative! Then the mystics try desperately to pay back, to offer their lives back to the world, to the poor and rejected, and thus back to God. Love is repaid by love alone.

Mystics are not trying to earn God’s love by doing good things or going to church services. That question is already and profoundly resolved. The mystics’ overwhelming experience is this full body blow of divine embrace, a radical acceptance by God even in their state of fragmentation and poverty. That’s what makes it “amazing” and “grace” (see Romans 11:6).

Adapted from Following the Mystics Through the Narrow Gate Richard Rohr,
. . . Seeing God in All Things (CD, DVD, MP3)

How Not To Get Mad

My brother, in his youth, left the British Communist Party because it wasn't left wing enough, and then by a series of possibly random events, largely to do with disillusionment, became a Born Again Christian. He is very happy in his beliefs, and generally comforted by them, which makes me happy too, because I love him.

Aaha! Aaha! I used to say, with the arrogance of a woman who knows the answer, when I read Pilate's, 'What is truth?' Now I am as convinced as I want to be, that Pilate was on to something.

Pontius, I don't know.  I used to know, and thought it extremely important that everybody else did too. Perhaps, if he'd lived as long as I have, Pilate would have saved his breath to cool his porridge. You can just make it up as you go along. As long as you can convince yourself, you can believe whatever you like and get away with it. Once I discovered this particular construct, I let go of a lot of junk that never made an iota of difference to me or anyone else, except as the means of separation from others, generally with the aim of engendering superiority.

I remain  a theist. As a theist I began a journey out of certainty, and I like it here.  Many of my friends are theists too; ready to stand up and be laughed at, though there are still enough of us to count. I'm not even a serious doubter. I say the Nicene Creed with fervour, and pray every day, but there's a growing list of things that I don't believe in, which can be summed up as anything that makes me mad at you. 

I'm through with being told what to believe, and to return the compliment, I won't tell anyone else what to believe either. Except, perhaps, my brother... .

So my brother wants to engage me in a little Dawkins-bashing.

'Dawkins, I say to him, 'Is entitled to be as disagreeable, contentious, angry and dismissive as he likes.  YOU are not.'

The Christ didn't say, 'Worship me.' He said, 'Follow me.'

Go on, I dare you.



Think: Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.