WASTED - why I want Kate Tempest to be my friend

Thing is, in a few hours – I’ll be staring at her name on my phone, too late to call, coz she’ll be gone, and I’ll just be sat there like a prick, staring at the shape of the letters, the way they fit together, so perfect, just like her, and I’ll sit there, wishing I could show her that when I’m with her I feel so fuckin’ real, like, not pretending nothing, just who I am. I feel like I can be the man I want to be. And I do want to be that man, Tony. I do. But for some reason. For some fuckin’ reason.

I’m in a play this week called WASTED by Kate Tempest, and it breaks my heart in the best possible way – the way that only great art can – where it’s just gently tragic, but in a really satisfying way because you go ‘YES, that is it, that is what it’s like to be a person.’ The part I’ve just quoted gets me like that. To be honest it sums up a lot of what’s going on in the play – this sense of the characters wanting to be something more than the lives they are living, wanting to be better, wanting to be more real, wanting their life to mean something, but for some f**ckin’ reason they just can’t quite do it.

I asked the other guys who are in the play why they loved it, and my mate Jake said something I thought was really interesting. He said he thought it expressed something universal – and at first he wasn’t quite sure what that was – but then he said maybe it was a universal feeling of inadequacy, or maybe of connectedness, or both. And I think he’s nailed it – what the play captures so beautifully – as does pretty much everything Kate Tempest has ever written, is this agonizing tension between our human longing to be part of something bigger, something meaningful – some world-changing moment, some shining city – and this unshakeable reality that we are not what we want to be. That we are a mess. Glorious ruins – standing and falling together – hoping for more but settling for less. Tempest knows like no one else I’ve ever heard, just how deeply we were meant to be more than this, but at the same time how seemingly impossible it is for us to really change. For some fuckin’ reason.

And the really funny thing is, that she’s got no idea how to fix it. There’s a bit of poetry that we all perform together at the end of the play, and it’s trying to tell the audience how to make things better – but to be honest, it’s not that good. It feels a bit hollow and cheesy, because all she can say is stuff like, your dreams are worth pursuing, mate, you do deserve everything you dare to want. And it feels empty because we know that’s not enough, it doesn’t really change anything. It makes us feel a bit upbeat, but ultimately, that hope is not lasting, and like she says we end up desperate for someone to help us, but convinced we can’t be saved.

And I find myself doing this play, wishing so much – as to be fair I do anyway – that I was mates with Kate Tempest. Because I want to tell her that there actually is hope. Take just one example. One of the things the characters are always longing for is to break out of their monotonous, nine-to-five lives, and go somewhere, do something. They all want to cut loose, change stuff, be free. But they’re either powerless to change or addicted to security. And I want to say, what if there was a God who said, “Come to me, be my kid, and then go – go and do something incredible and terrifying because I’m the king of the universe and I’ve got your back, and if you fall flat on your face I will still love you and be so, so proud of you, so go.” That’s the kind of freedom these characters are longing for, and honestly, not being arrogant, but on the days when I realise the truth and really get it, I have that kind of freedom. Because God’s my Dad.

Or take another thing – all the stuff in that first bit I quoted about how beautiful it is when you’re with someone and you can be real, not pretending, just who I am – but at the same time not just wanting to be what you are, but to be the person you want to be, to be better. It’s all the way through the play, the longing to be seen and known and loved exactly as you are with all your imperfections, but also to change, to become more. And it seems like a paradox, like it’s impossible. But I see it and I want to grab Kate Tempest and say “It is possible!” What if there was a God, who knit you together and knows you better than you know yourself – there’s this bit in the bible that I love so much where it says -

As a father has compassion on his children,
so the King has compassion on those who fear him;
for he knows how we are formed,
he remembers that we are dust.

He knows that we’re a mess, he sees our glorious ruins and he has compassion for us. He flippin’ loves us. Exactly as we are. But way too much to leave us that way. And this is the epic thing, is that he also gives us a real hope, the real power to become who we were meant to be. There’s a bit in one of the ancient prophesies were God promises his people -

I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you;
I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.

And through Jesus that is just what he’s offering right now. To any one of us who’s willing to trade in our old heart – the heart that longs for something better but just can’t do it, can’t bring itself to change, the heart that can’t help putting itself first – to anyone who’ll trade that in he’s holding out the offer of real hope, real change – a new heart that is really alive in a way we just can’t get by ourselves, that loves him, and loves people, so deeply and richly that it almost forgets itself. We were made for so much more than what we are. And in the play, when we just tell people that, and tell them to be better, it feels hollow because it’s like we’re asking everyone to receive something but there’s no one actually giving it – it’s everyone’s round but no one’s buying – something this good, this big, has got to cost something. But the thing is, what God is offering, does cost him something. He had to die to bring us to life. And he did – he’s paid the cost, and it hurt – but he’s holding out the hope he’s bought for us. Jesus is saying ‘Come to me, and you can have my Dad as your Dad, and my Spirit as your Spirit, and you can be free.’

I feel like it’s unlikely I’m ever going to get a chance to tell Kate Tempest this, so I thought I’d write a blog about it, and who knows, she might see it some day.

P.S. If you’re in Cambridge, come see the show. https://www.facebook.com/events/374964179368061/

the rest is footnotes

There is an ancient song,

that speaks of shattered earth,
of mountains swallowed whole by
foaming, white-teethed mouths of rabid seas,

that speaks of dark days,

crumbling,
of earth’s foundations
quaking fearful underfoot.

But the refrain is sweet,
and deep, and gentle.
His voice, his voice, his voice.

He lifts his voice –
amidst the roar
of fear and fall –
He lifts his voice –
amidst the roar
and at his call
all is not put back
neatly in its proper place,
as if it had not seen

that all-surpassing face,
all is not as it had been
as it was planned,
unaltered by this
all-sufficient hand –
He lifts his voice –
amidst the roar
of fear and fall
amidst the roar
and at his call –
the whole earth melts.

God is God;
the rest is footnotes.

And now I must remember this old song,
Surrounded as I am by bustle and by throng,
By stress and pace and all that is not peace;
remember Who it is that lies beneath.

Beneath, above, before and beyond,
exalted before this small life had begun.
And know that even now I have the chance –
right here
amidst the roar
on quaking ground –
to hear that voice, and learn to dance.

A Poem About Valentines Day (and some wise words max said about it)

The other day I bumped into my mate Max at a poetry slam. Max is a wise man and he writes devastatingly wise songs, and on this occasion he said something particularly wise that particularly interested me.

I was competing in the slam (by which I mean, I was performing three minutes of poetry which would be judged by five random members of the audience against seven other poets, the person with the best scores being awarded honour and glory and a much needed boost for the somewhat-leeky poetic ego.) My name came out of the hat last, which is actually a big bonus for me because you usually get a better score – it is emotionally much easier to keep giving people nicer and nicer scores through the evening! Anyway, by the time I went on to do my poem, there had already been a couple of poems about religion – there usually are a few – in fact Max said when we were chatting afterwards that in his experience its one of the main tropes or genres of spoken word poetry: ‘residual religion’. I thought that phrase captured it pretty well. Lots of people write these really powerful poems where either they are using the language of a religion they grew up with but have now abandoned to describe the new thing that they feel is divine in some way, the new thing that they are worshipping – usually that’s romantic love. So they talk about it in terms of sin, and penance, and prayer, and glory, and it paints the whole thing in this rich, transcendent light – like the sun is shining on it through a stained glass window. Or sometimes people write poems about the act of abandoning religion. An amazing poet did one this particular night about trying to shake off ‘mother church’ but never quite being able to get away – bursting out weeping as she swam beneath Greek sunsets, unable to escape. It was heart breaking.

One thing that’s really sweet about this is when I then do a poem about Jesus in a positive way, and I’m chatting to the poets afterwards, and they apologise and they worry that they might have offended me! I’m touched by how sensitive they always are, even when the church has been horribly insensitive to them – but I’m not offended at all.

And when Max made his particularly wise comment it made me realise why – he said,

‘What’s interesting is that all the poems that are negative about religion are talking about the institution, the organisation; whereas your poems never talk about that, they talk about the relationship.’

When he said that I quite wanted to give him a cuddle.

Because it’s absolutely true. I don’t write about the church very much. I don’t write about the buildings, or the activities; the organisations, or the leaders; the habits, or the structures because they are just not what I am bothered about. I write about my family. Because I love my family. It is bizarre, and terrifying and wonderful, and it is drenched in love, and I love it more than anything. And the centre, the heartbeat, the father and the mother, the one who brought it all into existence and around whom the whole thing spins, is of course ‘Our Father in heaven’, and his Son – Jesus of Nazareth, the rightful King of the whole cosmos. It is a very strange family to be adopted into – with an unimaginably glorious Dad and eldest brother, and then a somewhat motley crew of flawed and failing siblings, growing a little bit more like the Father together every day – but, though it might be strange, it is certainly a loving family. (And if your experience of the church family is that it isn’t loving, I’d honestly say to you, I am sorry, please look for a different church and give us another chance!) And the only reason I enjoy, and am grateful to, and am part of the activities and organisations and structures is because they help gather the family around Jesus. An old guy called Frederick Faber puts it way better than me, so much better in fact that this quote made me weep the first time I read it:

“Wherever we turn in the Church of God, there is Jesus. He is the beginning, middle and end of everything to us… There is nothing good, nothing holy, nothing beautiful, nothing joyous which He is not to His servants. No one need be poor, because, if he chooses, he can have Jesus for his own property and possession. No one need be downcast, for Jesus is the joy of heaven, and it is His joy to enter into sorrowful hearts. We can exaggerate about many things; but we can never exaggerate our obligation to Jesus, or the compassionate abundance of the love of Jesus to us. All our lives long we might talk of Jesus, and yet we should never come to an end of the sweet things that might be said of Him. Eternity will not be long enough to learn all He is, or to praise Him for all He has done, but then, that matters not; for we shall be always with Him, and we desire nothing more.”

So, that’s all I want to say really. I’ve heard a lot of poems about how hurtful and bad the institution of the church has been – and even though it breaks my heart to hear, I don’t get offended. To be honest, because I know that it’s true, the church really can be hurtful. I really can be hurtful. And I just want to say to anyone who is reading this who I have hurt, or ignored, anyone who’s got the impression from me that Christians think they are better than other people, anyone who has got the impression that Christians are boring and only talk about Jesus and don’t care about other people, or any of the wonderful things in this world – I am really sorry. I’m increasingly aware of how bad an impression I give of my Dad and my big brother a lot of the time. Please forgive me. And please don’t judge Jesus for adopting people like me into his family.

Also, here’s the poem I did that provoked Max’s remark! I hope that you enjoy it!

What is love? it keeps on changing.

Why is the course of true love rough?

Why does the beauty keep on fading?

What is love, is it enough?

What is love?

Is it what brings hope when all seems lost

Like the leaf of an olive in the mouth of a dove

Is it soul-mates perfected predestined from above 

Is it just two people fit together

like a hand in a glove

or is it inconveniently something that does not rhyme with ‘love’?

Newton Faulkner says love is a verb

And it must be true because he has got dreadlocks.

Ginger dreadlocks, so it must be true,

But when people say ‘I fell in love with you’

it seems like something happened to them

At least as much as they happened to something.

So what if love, is like adopting a baby lion.

You did not create it

but its yours.

And usually it’s friendly

but its claws

Still frighten you sometimes.

And you lie next to it at night

And it’s warm, and furry,

And you’re never quite

sure if it will eat you while you’re sleeping

Because the lines are a little blurry

About whether it belongs to you

Or you belong to it.

And love is like that a little bit, isn’t it?

Love is like a hunger.

Like a tingling desire

That is never quite satisfied,

the burning of a fire

Inside, that says that this is right,

And the hotter it gets, the brighter it glows,

the more stuff you feed it, the hungrier it grows

Its greed is increasing, its need is exceeding

All of these moments you give it to consume

And you know in your heart if you don’t keep feeding it
it will start to consume you.

There is a black hole at the heart of love.

distorting and swallowing up time and space,

but also holding the universe together.

So don’t get me wrong.

I’m not saying love is bad,

I’m just saying that it’s strong,

And the only thing that’s strong enough

To save us from bad love,

Is a better love.

So what about a love that’s not just 50-50,
not just give and take,
not just pull and push and shove and twist and bend and break,
what if Prince Charming would not steal kisses just for his own sake,
but would sleep the sleep of death himself so Sleeping Beauty could awake?
What if love would bite the poison apple?
What if love would drain the poisoned cup?
What if love would give itself completely,
before it would give up?

What if there was one love unfailing,
what if this one love was enough,
what if the beauty would stop fading
and yes the course of true love’s rough,
but what if one had walked the way before us,
his bare feet had trod that path,
so our soles could be bare and safe and tender,
because his are pierced with shattered glass?

What if this one love was unchanging,
what if this one love was enough,
what if the beauty could stop fading,
what if this love is enough?

It's not God's fault.

In my last blog about Stephen Fry I said this:

“I think that in the bible, and in Jesus, God presents himself not as a kind of ultimate dictator who watches approvingly over every agony, but as a God who to a very serious extent has allowed the world to be not what he wants it to be, and feels the pain of that. There are loads of reasons for him doing that, and it would make this blog way too long to go through them, but the most important thing is that in Jesus we see God himself not as the perpetrator but becoming the victim with us. And for us.”

Unsurprisingly, a couple of people have mentioned that they would, to be honest, like me to give some of those reasons, and I see their point! So here goes. I didn’t try and fit it in the original blog because, as you will see, there’s quite a lot to say – I think mainly because our culture has developed in quite a different direction to the Bible on a couple of significant values involved. So you’ll have to bear with me!

As is reasonably famous, the biblical storyline from the beginning of Genesis is this: God creates the world good, no death, no pain, just goodness, finishing with humans, man and woman, created in the image of God and very good – no brokenness no hatred no rebellion no pride no bitterness no envy no shame no guilt no fear, very good. But God gives them instruction not to eat of one particular tree – amidst a whole garden of great fruits – and warns them that if they do they will die. They don’t trust him, they eat that fruit, and as a result, everything gets broken. Their relationship with God, their relationship with each other, their relationship with the world, their relationship with themselves, and even the world itself gets broken. But God promises Eve that one day one of her descendants will crush the head of the serpent that brought this utterly destructive whisper of distrust into the world.

Now just to clarify, I don’t think this was written as a science textbook – either for the Israelites who got it originally, or for us. How it interacts with what we know about the science of the thing is an entirely different question, and isn’t the issue here, because I think that the thing the Bible is obviously concerned about here is not the chronology, but the causation. Why is the world as it is? What made it this way? Those are the questions the story is seeking to answer, and those are exactly the questions we’re wanting to look at – so that’s a nice coincidence.

So let me point out some of the key things that this incredibly rich narrative is designed to say to us about the causation behind the current state of creation.

1)   God creates good things. God is very clearly not directly responsible for anything that is bad coming into being: from shame, to loneliness, to earthquakes. But I imagine that most people will have noticed the slight slipperiness of that word ‘directly’ (I put it in italics just in case). Of course if God knows what he’s doing, and he clearly does, then he knows what will come of his decisions – how can the outcome be something other than what he wants?

2)   The vital thing is that men and women are created “in the image of God”. That means, reflecting some of the qualities of God not shared by the rest of creation. I think there are probably a fair few of these qualities, but a huge one is freedom. It’s very clear in the story: God creates them and then gives them an instruction – ‘please do this, but don’t do this because it will harm you.’ It would be nonsense to say that to a tree. A tree is not free to do as it chooses, whereas these people are created with the ability to choose. And the initial choice presented to them is simple – as C.S. Lewis points out in his Preface to Paradise Lost, it’s not some crazy magic apple (in fact the bible doesn’t even say it’s an apple!) – the fruit is not at all the point, the point is will they trust God? Will they trust that he wants the best for them? That obeying him is the right and best and brightest thing to do? Have you ever had a situation where you’re trying to find something out, and someone says, ‘You don’t want to know’, and really means it? And there’s that wrestle because you’re really curious and you do want to find out but this person is telling you that the knowledge just won’t be good for you. And the question is, do you trust them? Do you think they love you, have your best interests at heart, and are wise enough to be making the right call? It’s that sort of thing here. They have a choice about whether or not to trust God, and they choose not to.

3)   Well then, why did God give them the choice in the first place? Why not just create people who would do the right thing? I think that the simplest answer to this question is about the nature of love. As good ol’ Newton Faulkner says, love is a verb. Love is fundamentally connected with freedom. Picture a lover, getting ready to propose.  Surrounded by some impressive romantic thing, he gets down on one knee, opens up the ring box, and then, breathless, looking into his lovers’ eyes he says,

“You will marry me.”

That would be all wrong. Obviously. Because you have to ask. You can’t just tell someone to love you and commit to you and give themselves to you, you have to go through the terrifying, gut-wrenching process of offering yourself to them and giving them the power to reject you. Giving them the freedom to love you or not love you. The dignity to make the choice. And I think God has given us that dignity.

4)   But is love really that important? Does God really think that us having the capacity to trust or not trust, to love or not love, is worth bringing all of the suffering and death and pain into the world? Basically the Bible’s answer is yes, love is ridiculously important to God. In fact it says that God is love. And even if that seems weird and wrong to us, I think surely we have to accept that if there is a God – who created us – if we disagree about priorities and what’s best for the world, the chances are that he is right.

5)   Even accepting that, why does humanity’s freedom, and our decision not to love God have such devastating consequences? It does seem that there might be a way to create a world in which we were free but there still wasn’t all this suffering. But for a couple of reasons, I’m not sure it is quite possible. I remember reading about a doctor who spent his life in India treating leprosy patients. He said that pain was one of the greatest gifts that humans possess. He believed this because one of the effects of leprosy is the loss of sensation in limbs – including pain – and he’d seen countless men and women burn themselves horrifically, lose their hands, destroy their feet, simply because there was no pain to tell them when something was wrong. In fact, the doctors had devised alert systems, that could flash a little red light or make a sound when the person was doing something that damaged them – but it didn’t work. A warning, it turned out, just wasn’t enough deterrent to stop people picking up the hot pan or walking over the sharp ground.

Pain is how we know that something is wrong, and the reason that we try to do something about it. Imagine a world where there was no pain – how much desire would we have to change that world? So if we have rejected God, and that means something is wrong, the world is not as it should be, and we are not as we should be, and things need to change – then we need pain. It would be cruel of God to numb us to the reality of the wrongness we are living in the midst of. It would be cruel of him not to make it clear to us that we need to find a solution, we need to do something about it. Ultimately that we need him.*

6)   One last problem. Doesn’t the Bible say that we are all inherently sinful in some way? In fact – surely it must do because otherwise how come of every person that has ever lived no one has managed to decide to always love God and trust him and do everything right? And if in some way we’re born sinful, then can it really be our fault? Surely its God fault that we do things wrong and all of this argument is pointless. This is probably the question I find the most difficult, and I think it’s because I’m so thoroughly brought up in the post-Enlightenment Western mind set of individualism: the idea that I am responsible only for the things that I did myself, and did entirely of my own accord. The Bible doesn’t seem to share this mind set – along with a huge range of other cultures in the world now and throughout history – it seems to say instead that people are parts of a community, and that in part what we do is influenced by that community, but we are still responsible for those things, and in fact we are also partly responsible for the actions of our community as a whole. We stand and fall together, put simply.

I think one place where maybe we can see that this is actually a more full picture of the reality is the issue of racism. Imagine a white male born in the 1940s in Birmingham, Alabama. Imagine that the family and the community he grew up in considered white people to be better than black people, and both did and encouraged cruel and inhuman things to blacks. This man grows up and is, of course, shaped by this community. He thinks many of these thoughts himself, and does many of these wrong things. But now imagine that this man reaches the age of 40, and somehow, perhaps through an unintended friendship, or a powerful conversation, or an eye-opening experience of some kind, or just through his own reflection over time, he realises that he has been wrong. He realises that black people are equal in character, rights and dignity to white people, and he has lived a life which has deeply and repeatedly wronged them in thought and word and deed. So he talks to someone – perhaps this unexpected black friend – and he starts to say sorry. He tells him he is sorry for the many things he’s said and done to this man and to others that were wrong, that were hurtful and offensive and unjust. He tells him not only that but he is sorry for the way that his people – his community, his ancestors – have wronged the black community throughout history. He is sorry for the injustice that has been done by a group of people of which he is a part. Now my question is this, is he right to be sorry? Is he right to feel responsible for the things he’s done? Or would it be better for him to say to himself, ‘Actually, I only thought and did wrong things because my community influenced me. I’m not responsible for my own actions, or the actions of the rest of my people’? Maybe you disagree with me, but I think surely not. Surely he’s right to be sorry for what he and his people have done even if it was not all him from start to finish.

And I think that we are responsible for what we’ve done wrong in pretty much the same way. We’ve hurt people, we’ve hurt the God who so desperately loves us, we’ve done things which break the world we’ve been given and break the hearts of people who are deeply loved. And we are part of a whole human community which has done these things since the very beginning and whose combined wrongs and cruelties are hard to imagine. So each of us are responsible for our actions, as part of the actions of our whole human community.

7)   But there is, of course, hope. From the beginning God has been promising that the sin and pain and death that bleeds out of our decision to not love him and not trust him, will be defeated. That there will be a way to a world without tears, without loneliness, without shame. But as we’ve seen, he can’t populate such a world with free people as we are now. Because if you put free people like we are at the moment into a perfect, painless world, it would not be that way for long. So in order for God to redeem and restore the brokenness of the world, he has to first redeem and restore the rebellion of the hearts of the people who will fill that world. He needs to deal with our untrust, our unlove, our rejection of our Father, so that he can deal decisively with this cracked and groaning world. And he’s doing that in Jesus. As I talked about in this video,  and as the brilliant person who made this other video explains, in Jesus God came to us, reached out to us, took on the suffering that we caused and deserve, and made it possible for us to come back to him. Made it possible for us to love him again and for nothing to ever get between us. And if we have chosen to love him, if we have willingly said yes to his incredible, painful, proposal, then we can look forward to a wedding day where the consequences of our old rejection have been melted down and poured away, when all that was good and beautiful about this world and us in it has been recast into a glorious new mould, and we live in the unimaginably intense love of God, world without end.

I realise that I haven’t got close to answering every possible question – I’m told that this has been a significant enquiry of philosophy for the last 2300 years or so – but I hope that some of this has made some sense. There’s also a huge amount that could and really should be said about the ways in which we and God can bring incredible, beautiful things out of the most horrible suffering – both now in ways that we can make sense of, and in eternity in ways that we can’t quite. And it might be worth suggesting that the classic problem of suffering focuses on God being ‘all loving’ and ‘all powerful’, but if we have a God who is also ‘all knowing’, and we’re not, we have to admit the possibility that he has good reasons for things being the way they are that we can’t see. But this blog is way too long already so I’ll just leave those there as tasters, and warmly invite any questions or follow ups that you might have! I would love to hear from anyone – whether I know you yet or not – and try to answer any specific questions, or recommend books or other people that might do it in more depth and with more research and thought than I can! And if you’ve now got to the end of this massive post and you’re not really sure what the point of this argument is (because I’ve almost forgotten), have a look at the blog just below about Stephen Fry, or this blog about what difference God makes when we’re hurting, or this one about what God can do through suffering. Right, I’ll be quiet now.

Love,

Mike


* A couple of people have pointed out that I don't really talk very much in this blog about things like disease and natural disasters, that have no direct correlation to humans doing wrong things. So I just want to clarify that a little bit. There's a bit in one of the accounts of his life where Jesus and his disciples see a man who was born blind. The disciples ask Jesus whose sin this man is being punished for with his blindness - as in, was it his parents who did something bad so God made their son blind, or did God know this man was going to be a bad person, so made him blind as punishment in advance? And Jesus says, 'No.' He says, neither. He makes it very clear that the disease and natural disasters we see and suffer in this world are not caused by someone's wrongdoing on a direct, micro level. It's not, Person A does bad thing and then Person A gets punished for it with suffering, or Person A does bad thing and then Person B feels the effects of it. The Bible describes this cause and effect as happening on a macro level - a deep, big level - such that human rebellion in general, necessitates suffering in general, including the brokenness of the natural world.