Crawl out of the sick bed to comment

There are few things that seem internationally identifiable as being classically Canadian. During my language classes which where were made up of students from around the world, the one thing that seemed universally known about Canada was that we play hockey.

I had forgotten that Canada and Germany were playing against each other in the Olympic hockey match today and was only able to see the last period of the game.  My very devoted hockey daughter called me from the car on the way back from school to tell me the shocking news that Canada was loosing (and spoiler alert) they lost the game.  Yelling at the television set has not helped my sore throat, but it has made me realize that I found more interest in another Olympic sport in which both nations competed and suddenly found themselves tied for the gold medal.  To think that in the age of advanced time measurements up to several zeros behind a decimal point, that two bobsled team got identical race times is extraordinary!

When our children were younger (I guess I was too) my wife got us tickets to see the Biathlon in Whistler while the Olympics were hosted in Vancouver.  The biathlon is my favourite Winter Olympic sport to watch as I am always impressed with the speed, endurance, and then the sudden breath-stopping-control that allows men and women to fire off a .22 round at a tiny target.  While I don’t remember who ended up winning that race, I do remember the atmosphere of the crowd – loud, jubilant.  I also remember the freezing cold and the new winter boats leaking on both of the children and me putting their ice cold feet on my stomach to warm them up.

I imagine that as the years go by it won’t be so much of a painful loss in todays hockey match, rather I will likely remember the loud screaming at the TV by my eldest daughter, and the sight of two bobsled teams standing on an extended platform to all receive a gold medal.  Maybe if I take more German lessons the students will recall two nations standing side by side on the podium.  The house is now a little quieter, and the nation of Canada is probably a little humbler.


Civil Involvement

As an immigrant I do not get to exercise my civic duty in voting in the German electoral system, at least not federally.  As a town citizen I do get to vote in municipal elections.  A few weeks ago I received a letter from the Burgermeister’s office asking me to participate in some of the town planning.  On my invitation I could choose to be in a small group, but that I would need to pick my top three interests from a list of several themes.  I ended up placed in Gemienshaft, Integration, Seicherheit (Society, Integration, and Security).  Truth be told, my invitation letter sat a long time on my desk, and even made its way to the recycling bin before I pulled it out and filled in the forms and then posted the return letter.  I had huge doubts about attending as I believe my German skills are lacking, and I felt particularity vulnerable to any sort of criticism that might occur because I am an immigrant – why should I get a say in the future of this town?  I eventually sent in my invitation as I then began to thinking that part of my own integration means participation (at any level) with the community.  My observations of the day once it finally arrived were punctuated with urges to run from the room feeling incompetent and inadequate.

The event took place in the Kur Park, a scenic park which is usually full of flowers, strutting Peacocks, and long chains of Nordic Walkers.  This morning was damp and cool and no sooner had I entered the doors of the building that I found I was standing under the one area where the roof leaked – cue my desire to leave.  Sitting alone and comfortably anonymous amongst the 60 or so people I sat through the initial explanation of the purpose of the day, the welcome by town officials, and 5 minute presentations by the local town staff on the several areas of focus.  After the first hour I was about ready to leave again as I felt like the only migrant in the room who struggled to make sense of the talking, reading of the slides and making sense of the various graphs of statistical information being beamed onto a large screen, all in 5 minute bursts.

I stuck around for the entire day, and I am glad I did.  I got to ask questions to officials such as – why is society, integration and security all lumped together? It made me feel that, as a foreigner I was somehow a security threat to the German populous.  The day gave me some insight on how society functions and how people think.  Of the several pin boards anyone could write on different colour coded note paper and then pin up the papers onto the boards for all to see.  The colours were Red – for Bad, Yellow – for Idea, and Blue – for Good.  Within about 15 minutes the vast majority of the boards were covered with red cards.  If I was at a Fussball match there would have been plenty of whistling!

Once separated into our smaller subject groups of about 10 people each, we began to look at some ideas, and some positive remarks.  Slowly there became more of a balance of Red, Yellow and Blue cards plastered on the boards.  For most the day we remained in our small groups and narrowed down some practical aims and appropriate tasks despite all of us having to struggle with what constituted and aim and a task.  The moderator of each group was able to help us formulate a vision statement, and our top 5 priorities. There was argument over the grammar of our vision to which I jokingly said that I wholeheartedly agreed with a incomprehensible compound word – hey, at least some people chuckled.  Our information was then presented to the wider group, and then the citizens had the power to place our 7 kleine rote Klebepunkte ( 7 small red stickers) on items we felt were a main priority.

I have to say I was a bit shocked at the end of the day as the small red dots were tallied up and the last point on my groups chart rocketed to the top of the popularity contest.  To give you an idea of the range of the list, the top priority in our group was Die Tafel which is the local food bank for lack of a better comparison.  I thought this was great as it is a place were all sorts of people gather and a wide range of society meets.  A place were strangers may become friends.  It is a place I have thought about volunteering at for a couple hours a week so that I can meet new people and aid my own integration into society.  In short, Die Tafel was a place that covered our topics of Society, Integration and Security.  The last item on our list had to do with security in the form of a Police presence in the town centre – taking on a form of a 24/7 police office.

When the red stickers were counted from the plenary group it came as a surprise that the clear forerunner was 24/7 Police presence in some kind of office in the centre of town.  Somehow people seem to think that this is going to make the place a lot safer – not that I was ever concerned with the level of crime in Bad Krozingen to begin with.

At the end of the day we were all applauded for our participation.  Out of the 1000 people invited, we represented the 60 -70 people who had found some interest to participate.  I realized that there were no visible minorities present.  I realized that for all our brainstorming, visions, aims and tasks, a huge amount of trust is given to a bureaucratic process that is already well established.  For instance, a civic department would be the place to act out our task.  It makes me wonder if we, in fact, thought hard enough on things as it seemed that everything fit nicely into some department or other of the town hall.  I was a bit worried to see that for some there was a big sigh of relief that because the tasks had been named and at times a department head was named alongside the task, that somehow we had done our duty.  It was a bit like being an armchair athlete as no real grassroots movement seemed necessary.  No civic responsibility seemed present to understand that it is the people that make society, the people that help with integration, and the people which leads to a safer and more secure future.  It is not just some state department task, we are all responsible.

At the end of the day I feel exhausted having learned a lot about local government processes.  I also am glad to have met some very talented and dedicated people.  I found the people to be overwhelmingly friendly in my small group so much so that I did not have to eat alone, or stand in a corner wondering what I should say.  I am glad I did not leave the event despite the few times I thought I had nothing to contribute as I hope to have a coffee with a few of these people in the future.  I hope also to continue practicing my German language skills, meet people at Die Tafel and perhaps show others how I try to adapt to life in Germany.  Certainly it is through participation that I find strangers are now neighbours, immigrants are part of the grass-roots of society, and that German society feels a little bit more like home.

The Glass dropped and the Wind rose

According to national news broadcasts Germany has just experienced the worst storm in ten years.  High winds which swept through Netherland in which large shipping containers at harbour ports were seen blowing over like a child toppling a stack of Lego bricks.  In Germany warnings to avoid ‘non-essential’ travel, especially by train, were announced.  Footage of collapsed signs on the Autobahn, and downed trees over rail and road filled the network news.

In all my time living in Canada I don’t remember hearing about people being killed by falling trees.  Given that there are a lot of trees in Canada, the stories of ‘death-by-tree’ were more mythical warnings about ‘widow-makers’ – dead trees that still stand waiting to topple at the slightest breeze – trees that concerned those in the forestry industry rather than the average citizen.  Unfortunately, death by falling tree seems much more probable in Germany.

My immediate geographical surroundings are almost pancake flat, with a barely noticeable, slope towards the Rhein.  Despite being within walking distance of some of the ‘larger’ mountains of the Black Forest, the scenery, especially in the winter months, is flat and wide.  Now that there isn’t a cornstalk in sight and the only thing growing in the numerous fields surrounding our house is ‘feldsalat’ also known in English as Lambs Leaf Lettuce, and the winter barely, or rye grass that leaves fields looking like freshly shorn sheep with a green stubble poking up from the ground.  The dog has his winter coat on, which I suspect is more fat due to his inactivity, so I have started to walk the dog further into the fields.  At times we will go via bicycle; the dog tied to the bike running along side me, while we travel down busy bike paths, or areas close to the busy streets.  Once in the fields, with nobody around, the dog is off leash, and he can easily sprint past me. Stop to water a bush. Rush ahead again to jump on some poor unsuspecting field mouse. We can easily cover 5-7 kilometres on one outing.  The dog would happily do this three more times a day if possible, but that has yet to happen.

Riding by bike with a dog running along the field roads that network their way over the land I notice that I can get a lot closer to the hawks that sit in the fields scanning the horizon, and edges for signs of prey.  There are rarely trees on which to roost, so the birds of prey either hover in air, tirelessly flapping, or they sit on the ground.  When I walk through the fields, the hawks, and other birds, usually take flight when I am a good distance away from them.  Perhaps it is from generations of interactions by which the birds are wary of humans.  However, while riding a bike, the birds remain on the ground for much longer periods before being spooked by my presence.  This reminds me of canoeing and gliding silently up to all sorts of creatures as if you are just part of the natural scenery.

The weather extremes must do something to the bird populations, as wind storms surely push migrating birds off-course.  There is also the temperature differences that must make it difficult for birds.  The severity of temperature fluctuations gives people migraines, and it is not unusual for one day to be 16 C and the next -3 C.  My wardrobe is not large enough to contain four seasons worth of clothes at one time, and it feels as if I am going to open up my box of summer shirts that is stored away under the bed, only to find myself running for a parka the next day with a cold wind that feels like it has come directly from Siberia.  On one of my recent outings with the dog and the bike  – Murphy’s Law – I find myself the furthest from home when all of a sudden the weak low angled rays of and early winter sun have been replaced with horizontal slashing rain and snow. As I pedal my way home faster and faster, I must soon stop as my rear wheel spins in the slimy mud.

The mud is different here.  I grew up with a ground that seemed almost sponge-like, where 58 days of continuous rain did little to make the ground muddy.  Huge cedar trees would suck up the moisture, and most of the water would flow into cascading streams and rivers.  Even in Victoria, mud was rarely as thick as it is here.  Certainly pools of water could form, especially in the rocking outcroppings where grass and sea salted stunted trees grew.  In German fields, the ground is a thick clay like mud, which has the unique ability to be both slimy and sticky at the same time.  It is the mud I imagined when watching old movie footage of Canadian soldiers in war.

A large crater has formed at the front entrance of our house in the last week.  Eight hours of near continuous drilling that vibrates the floors and has shook pictures from the walls is part of the landlords scramble to prevent flooding and mould from spreading in the basement suit.  The workers heads protrude from the ground, and shovel blades heave mud and debris from the hole that will soon have new perimeter drainage pipes.  The workers joke that the dirt contains rubble from World War II, and that they hope they don’t find any unexploded bombs.  I hope so too!

During yesterdays storm, while the weather conditions here were nothing compared to elsewhere in Germany or Europe, it did feel for a moment like some battle raged around us.  The window blinds screamed a high-pitched whistle, the mounds of dirt, brick and debris was piled in a few locations around the house like we were living in a bunker, a tarp rested over the hole in the ground at the foot of the stairs like it was a grave prepared to accept a body, and the ducks waddled their way around the garden like some sentry patrol – only that they seemed very happy with the wet weather and all the drowning worms that wriggled to the surface of the grass.


Contemplative Prayer

I think it needs to be made clear that the views and opinions expressed on my blog are my own views and not that of the congregation I serve, neither the wider Church in which I minister.
I feel the need to write this explanation now my readership grows and people within my own community wonder if the blog is a barometer of my own thoughts and feelings for them. There are no ‘hidden messages’ but if one wishes to read the postings as one might a horoscope than I’m sure there will be some truth found. The blog is neither a barometer nor is it a place to vent about what may, or may not be happening at the time. That would be out of place.
I write a lot. I read a lot. I reflect a lot. There are different blogs and paper journals for a whole variety of notes and thoughts. This blog happens to be about a guy who happens to be a priest and happens to live in Germany. Other blogs are about a guy who enjoys poetry, or a guy who likes short-stories.
So let’s finish with all of that and get on with things.
I have for, many years, practiced Centering Prayer. The key word is practiced.
It is a private thing which sometimes gives life and sometimes feels like just sitting around. I’m not an expert, nor do I feel any good at it. I won’t try and discribe it but link resources here for those interested.
Prayer is both public and private.
Years ago I underwent a mandatory ministry review. It was standardised and I see the importance of doing such reviews periodically in ones life. In my first formal review, one of the reviewers was a man who clearly had not read the instructions on the form. Or maybe he did read them and he made a point in sending me the final copy of his paperwork as well as sending it to my immediate superior and my bishop. The whole form was filled out in detail, even the parts that were left for me to contribute and my reviewer to take notes about my written material and my interview. What upset me the most from this blooper was that it gave someone who was very upset with me (I wanted as nonbiased a report as possible) because I didn’t come to a party to which I never knew I was invited. At the time it felt like someone had taken this opportunity for development and manipulated it into chance to take some revenge.
The portion of the form that I was to fill out about my own personal prayer life and prayer practice was completed by the reviewer. Apparently, and in the impressions of the reviewer, in the secret of my heart and home the opinion was that I was the worst person of prayer, that I was unable to connect with God, and that all I did was sit around staring at the tops of my knees.
How true.
It hurt. It hurt that someone would think that of me. It also hurt because it can be true. The mainline connection to God does have poor reception at times. I say this openly not that I feel this way at all now, but that it does happen. We shame people into thinking they must always be super Christians with a nice personal chat with God at the offer like having the red phone on the desk of some head of state.
At the moment, I am feeling really chuffed about my prayer life and my ongoing relationship with God. If one can admit to such a thing.  I become a squirrel to stash these thoughts away for the winter so I’ve got something to live off of for those barren times which do and will come.
I have come to expect that God comes and goes – well in truth that better describes me – like a thief in the night and a bridegroom early to the party. One practice that sustains me in the highs and lows is centering prayer. And today, praying in the church of St Martin the impact was powerful. Outside the church doors there is the Freiburg Christmas Market that has started and with it: the ‎people, the noise, the joyous chaos and the anxious signs warning of pick-pockets. All these things blend away behind the silent heavy doors of the church as they close. The innerior of the church this time of year has the old wooden doors of the altar opened up to show a biblical story carved out of wood. The contrasts are palatable.
To sit for 20 minutes in silence in that space makes praying come easier. At every level of experience it is like God takes the rough wood as well as the gold foil that represents the person I am, and in such, God is able to create moments of surprise and delight. To fashion these things and to rest and know that all shall be well.  To reflect on the present and the past and see that God guilds all things, like slithers of gold, as the John Bell song says.

Life in Black and White

Someone once wrote that if life were meant to be lived out in black and white, then we would all be piano players.

While it may be a tempting title to write about ones theological perspectives, or even racial views, I won’t venture in that direction.  Instead, when I think about black and white recently it is in the viewing of films and television shows that were before Technicolour.

I suppose on the risk of sounding like a dinosaur, I can remember hours of sitting (too close!) to a tv screen, a black and white tv screen.  A smallish, by todays standards, tv which had a pair of needle-nose pliers that sat nearby that was use to change the channel.  The tv came with ‘rabbit ear’ antenna which one person would have to manipulate to the shouts of encouragement, or dissatisfaction from those in the room who could still see the screen and the quality of the picture. When watching a show alone it might be that out of sheer frustration that you would put up with a slowly moving picture frame as it jumped up vertically over and over again.

Then came a colour tv and the world, at least the small world on tv changed.  It was mind-blowing.  I can remember being absolutely shocked that my favourite tv character had red hair.  It was like reading a book, and then watching the movie.  Somehow the pictures on the screen are never as vivid as the pictures in our imaginations.

We now have satellite television, which means that we have about 300 plus channels of absolute rubbish tv.  A vast array of teleshopping and infomercials.  The bottom of the barrel North American tv shows only slightly dubbed over so that there is always a conflicting noise of some backwood bootlegger twang, with a Bavarian interpretation that seems to miss the nuance of the language.  I become picky in watching any television.  Soccer, (or Fussball) is rarely on tv as they want you to subscribe to a special channel, but the highlights often show men slapping one another, and then both falling down on the pitch rolling in theatrical pain.  The hockey is not much better as it is a sanitized game with little to no contact and the underdog is usually the team without any Canadian playing on it.  Watching a hockey game can be painful as the camera operator struggles to find the puck and a goalie is pulled out with 16 minutes left in the game…why not when you are 7 points behind!  While it is not all as bad as I can sometimes make it out to be, there are many gems to watch.

I’ve found that there are some really interesting older films being shown on the ARTE channel and that I am immediately drawn towards the old Black and White films.  It is fascinating to watch, as there is much more of a dramatic feel in the cinematography.  At least that is what my inexperienced eye tells me. The story lines are also much more ‘real-life’ as opposed to a Hollywood Happy Ending.  I find that leaving the colour out brings out a different way of storytelling and a different drama.  Either that or I am just being sentimental, pining away for an old glass tube screen television set that weighed about as much as three people, and which we would sit too close watching old shows together that we planned to watch and set aside the time to do so.  Now we are likely as a family to be all in our separate rooms, sitting even closer to the screen (of a laptop, iPad, iPod, iPhone) as we stream on-demand Netflix shows, binge-watching at any place, day, or hour.

Meanwhile on the silver screen – having gone to the cinema in town to watch the newest release of the Thor series in blazing colour and 3D glasses, I have to say, I enjoyed it a great deal even with the dubbed over German.  It is entertainment.  Even though, there is a different quality of experience when we, as a family, sat in a tiny movie theatre to watch a rerun of a Charlie Chaplin film in glorious black and white, with the only sound being a twangy piano soundtrack to play enhance the experience of action, sorrow, or adventure; and the flickering hum of a projector.  People munching snacks, slurping drinks, and at the quietest moments, the sound of a theatre full of people breathing.

While I am certainly glad for life in colour, I have become more aware of black & white, the range of greys. The silhouettes, and the drama of 3D.  And of utter silence.



Where does walking get you in Freiburg? Actually, you can go quite a distance if you are determined, or you can go in circles and dig deeper and deeper like a spiritual wandering.

As I travel mostly by train I get to meet such a wide variety of God’s people.  If I was to simply watch over the Anglican flock in Freiburg it would mean visiting people as far away as Basel, and as close as ‘just around the corner’.  I walk through the streets on my way to visit people and I often wave to familiar faces on the Straßenbahn, or stop to greet someone who has just come out of a shop.

There is a great many people with very interesting lives, some of which I have the pleasure of meeting, and others I just scratch the surface of knowing.  Today I was struck by my desire for ‘thick skin’.  Emotionally, thick skin where problems, conflicts, even the daily bumps and bruises seem a bit more tolerable when one has thick skin.  At least that has been my ideal, or my perception.  Just today, a couple of people opened up to me the idea of seeing vulnerability as something of a gift.  One of these people was a young woman who describes the stigma of being ‘sensitive’ and the case for being a sensitive person. Four Thought, Sensitive Souls

On the Straßenbahn ride into the city centre today I sat opposite a young man who by all appearances had thick skin.  He just seemed to be wearing a chip on his shoulder.  On a very full streetcar, nobody seemed prepared to sit across from this young guy…so I did.  His hands, or rather his knuckles, were heavily tattooed with words that intrigued me, they said, “LIVE” and “HOPE”.  I guess I was staring, (it is hard not to when you sit toe to toe) and he seemed like he was needing to test to see how long I would sit near him.  He opened his bag and a thick fragrance of marijuana started to fill the air.  People started to stare, and more backed away as the guy began to grind up large chucks of pot.  “Nicht besorgt?”, said the young guy.  What I took to mean, ‘Not concerned?’.

It is a truly interesting feeling to walk through a town and know the places, to see familiar faces, and also to look beyond the ‘chip on the shoulder’ to see that someone seems to want to express so much across their knuckles, and yet devise ways to guard their heart.  Maybe that is what I do too, with a blog that acts as words across my knuckles, I’m just glad for the chance to walk the city with those who feel vulnerable.

At the end of the day, walking and talking, it is possible to cover a large area of Freiburg. It is not a pilgrimage getting from A to B, but much a kin to digging deeper and deeper in a labyrinth where after much plodding, we find ourselves at the centre with God.  Who, I think might also have the words LIVE and HOPE tattooed across knuckles.




I am still discerning why it is I have not written on the Blog for a while.  Having had a regular discipline of writing it just seemed that after a short family holiday in Ireland that I needed a pause in this pattern of creativity.  I know of many people who like to post a lot of their life and daily events on Facebook or Instagram, and then for their various reasons announce that they have ‘had enough…’ and that they are ‘taking a break’ from Facebook.  It seems that there is some kind of abuse, a rant, or perhaps an overwhelming negative presence that they pick-up on Facebook which they feel some distance is required.  Many felt this way after Trump was elected in the USA and the online commentary seemed to become more and more vitriolic.  I don’t think it is for this reason that I stopped writing.  I was not flooded by ‘trolls’ or personally attacked.  It felt more seasonal, like a field gone fallow.

There were a couple false starts, that to this day, still sit in the draft box of the blog which will likely never see the light of day.  I went through a phase of feeling very guilty that I had not bashed out some writing. I’m still figuring that one out, as guilt is a very strange beast that I share with a great many people.

I suppose I feel that I am entering into a new phase: artists can have their ‘blue phase’, or an ‘expressionistic phase’.  While I am not sure how to name the feeling, or the ‘phase’, it does feel significant.  The things to which I strongly felt attached and committed have shifted.  The closest I can think of for some similar experience is when I first became more attuned to my religious and spiritual life.  In this reflective manner, I often feel that things are repeating themselves, but that I have a bit more distance between the ‘things’, be they emotions, or events.  I have the sense that I have been here before, that it is a well worn path, but that I am a different person able to see the path as repetitive, but able to appreciate new things along it.  Living in Germany I might make the comparison of having driven down the same road many times, but now, instead of zooming along at 200 km/hr the car has broken down and I am walking at a rate of about 5 km/hr.  The route or path is familiar, now there is far more detail to be observed.  In a sense I feel like I am letting go of things and appreciating the gifts that present themselves.

I’m sounding a bit philosophical I suppose.

There are many things on that Autobahn that I just don’t think I need to carry anymore.  As the speeding and achieving give way to the slowing and appreciating the pause in writing and reflecting will likely take a different tone as well.  One of the areas that I think motivated my behaviours that increased my speed, my push, and my resolve to achieve stems from a self-contmept.  It sounds terrible, and it is even difficult to see it typed out on a screen let alone think that others might read it.  Honestly, the focus on the unattainable, the high self-expectations, the need to be different, to be liked, to be defined by my feelings… these all seem to be on the road, yet again, but instead of them fuelling my ‘reason for being’ I just can’t carry them along the road anymore.  I’ve dropped them.  I’m sure that I will see them on the side of the road again, like I do now, but I just don’t think I need to pick them up; and if I do, I don’t think I will have the same attachment to them.

Several times in the last few weeks I have been reminded of a particular part of Thomas Merton’s ‘Seven Storey Mountain’.  In seemingly random conversations this book keeps being mentioned and I am glad for the prompting to recall the read, which for me, was fundamental and foundational.

I should first say in context, the Seven Storey Mountain was one of the first books I read in what I could describe a spiritual journey. Merton’s book sat alongside, the Bible and the Book of Common Prayer.  There is a moment in the book where I thought, “finally someone else understands”.  I cannot quote chapter and verse, but there is a part of the story in which Thomas Merton describes a holy moment as he stands on a busy New York street corner and knows in an instant that everybody, everything, and himself is with God.  It sounds really simple, but for me it was the moment that I felt listened to and understood.  I felt both alive and dead at the same time.  Then it was gone.  I have not felt like chasing this moment so as to repeat it as I know that it has and will be, always with me.  The problem is that I’ve started going too fast, picking up unwanted ‘stuff’ and letting many of the ‘things/emotions/expectations’ that are flung at me, to stick.  Rather than standing on the street corner with some kind of mystical experience I have slowly, gradually, turned myself somehow into a street performer juggling balls which all the passersby and onlookers have thrown another ball out and I have thought it vital to my being to make sure I catch the ball and add it too my act.

I suppose something had to happen as one can only juggle so much before all concentration is lost.

The ‘balls’ are starting to drop and they lay about my feet, and yet again I feel that I have found myself at the street corner, where everybody, everything, is simply in God.  I don’t need to impress God with my juggling, and I don’t need to impress myself.  I really don’t care what people think of me even though I struggle with this constantly, and I suppose I am learning to use these experiences not as tactics of shame and inadequacy, but to acknowledge there presence, to treat myself more gently, and choose to act in ways that are transformative, redemptive and beautiful.

My day to day tasks seem to take on a different light, and I am far less interested in propping up an institutional presence, or persona that speeds along aggressively achieving only so as to hide feelings of shame and inadequacy.

Now I walk a little slower and more intentionally; focused on the here and now, rather than on dwelling on what should been, or could be.


To the Limits

When I was as old as my youngest daughter is now I had limits set that allowed me to journey far and wide unsupervised.

When I was a couple years younger than what my oldest daughter is now, I had a wide circle of city blocks in which I was permitted to journey unsupervised.  The boundaries were marked by various landmarks more than streets.  I could go as far as the Black Cat which was a small shop on a seaside road, basically where the sidewalk ended and the road became too narrow and too twisted to safely walk or travel on by bicycle.  The other landmark was what I would consider the next village where there was a couple of blocks of park separating the next shopping street.  The north and south were marked by natural boundaries like the forest up the mountain, and the ocean to the south.  A vast expanse for a young child, but in reality it was not especially far.  However, it does push the limits of what most modern day ‘helicopter’ parents would allow.

For less then 10 Euros I just put my eldest daughter on the bus to Stuttgart to be met by her grandparents.  On a weekly basis the same daughter travels from school on various trains and street cars.  She is smart, and can, we believe, handle herself in different situations.  It still feels a bit like she has by bus, gone far beyond where I traveled alone at her age.  Then again, I doubt my own parents knew what I was up to between my day long trips out with friends.

Maybe my parents will be surprised about what I write, but I can remember one early October day when my best friend and I took a bus to downtown Vancouver into the heart of Chinatown.  Together we boldly walked into a store selling all sorts of things from housewares to what looked like dried chicken feet in glass bottles in the display window.  We asked for firecrackers which were illegal and we were, after some sideways glances of the shop owner, led to a back room behind a beaded curtain where there were piles and piles of firecrackers wrapped in red waxy paper into what looked like bricks.  We bought all we could afford and invested in one special firecracker listed as a 1/4 stick of dynamite.  (I very much doubt it was a what it said it was, but at least the blast was extraordinary.)  On the return trip I seem to recall an idea that we would disembark in Stanley Park and then walk over the Lions Gate Bridge so that we could spit down  into the sea water far below.

It seems strange to think about these things now that I am a parent and my daughter sends me WhatsApp messages from the bus to Stuttgart.  While it is good to have limits and boundaries, it certainly an interesting social experiment when in Freiburg there has been in the University quarter of town, a lengthy construction project.  The site is now an open public space, but there were delays due to the unearthing of the Old Synagogue.  Now that the area has finally opened and the water fountains have turned on, it is like all of Freiburg has now entered the space that was once blocked by wire fencing and heavy machinery.  A tidal wave of people has flooded into the space.

Nearby to this new public area is a newly renovated café called the Schwarze Katze in which I met some people from around the city.  Given the name ‘The Black Cat Café’ I just had to go and reflect on what was a much smaller and far more distant Black Cate Café of my childhood.  While I was sitting alone in the café I realized I was coming close to reaching my own limits, not in geography, but in a personality that was seated nearby.  A young blonde male student perched cheerfully on the end of a beer bench, and started to chat away to some of the young women that joined the table.  All this would be fine and normal, but for the hat that was on his head – a bright red ‘Make America Great Again’ hat from a Donald Trump rally.  As the conversations at the table became louder, the rhetoric became more apparent.  People began to turn and stare, one passerby seemed so shocked he distractedly fell into the small water channel that borders most of the streets in Freiburg.  The young guy had enough sense to figure that people were not pleased with his attire, nor his words, and he turned the ball cap around on his head.  We had all reached our limit.


The Church as a Tupperware Cupboard

Over the years I have amassed numerous volumes of books on the subject of the church. As large as the self-help section is in any given bookstore, the religious book trends give equal footing to what I might call the self-help-for-the-church section.  While there are certainly some gems on how to be / do / become church; for the large part, anyone who seems to be able to string a sentence together could market a book about doing church better.

Doing church better written by pastors, for pastors, to make them feel that they are never good enough, that the church congregation that they serve is not good enough, that the grass is always greener on the other side of a denominational fence.  All these things lead to some very destructive thoughts about ourselves and the church.

Besides the piles of books on the church, another thing that seems to pile up in our household (and I am sure yours too) is the kitchen space devoted to food storage containers.  Be it Tupperware, Lock’n Lock boxes, IKEA Förtrolig, or old margarine containers; there is a drawer, or shelf, located in the kitchen where we keep all these lids and containers.

Sometimes I think that the church is represented in that shelf of containers.  While seeking harmony feels like the most pleasurable thing to imagine in the church, it is often frustratingly absent much of the time.  The church is a lot like that drawer of tupperware for a few reasons.

  1. We start off well intended, but soon find it a mess.51UiNsrVRhL._SL250_
  2. We really want to savour the moment, but it usually comes back days later as a fuzzy mess.
  3. We have all the right stuff, but sometimes things don’t click.

We start off well intended but soon find it a mess: Let’s say it is a new school year and you’ve gone out an bought a set of storage containers. Our hopes and dreams of having a nice orderly school career are almost religiously symbolized in the new displayed and neatly stacked set of storage containers.  However, with in a week (and often times sooner) you find that lids are missing, that the base of another set has shown up and it even has a sticker with some other persons name on it. I pretty sure that these storage containers reproduce all on their own when they are left in the cupboard in the dark.  In fact, storage containers are the opposite of socks.  Socks disappear in the wash, whereas containers multiply in the cupboard – so much so that the neatly organized system becomes a hodgepodge of lids and bases which now need to be crammed into a small shelf so that the door of the cupboard barely closes anymore.

We really want to savour the moment but it usually comes back days later as a fuzzy mess: “Wow, that supper/lunch/desert/food brought by guests/ was tasty! Let’s keep some for later, maybe for lunch tomorrow.”  You’ve said these words, only to find that either the food never makes it from the refrigerator to the container and after some time gets gently sorted to the back of the shelf with several bottles of half used salad dressing only to be discovered next time you give the fridge a good cleaning.  OR, that yummy food goes into a container and is packed away for school/work/picnic and maybe you realize when you open up your storage box that the food doesn’t look as it did before, or that the only thing cold the next morning that really has any taste is a cheese pizza as you look at your now limp salad that you enjoyed so much the night before.  The food get’s tucked away, unfinished in the bottom of the school bag, office briefcase, or on the floor of the car where after some months and seasons of sliding back and forth it has become lodged under the seat and we blame the dog for any strange smells whenever a guest rides in the car with us.

We have all the right stuff but sometimes things don’t click. You know the feeling of being on your hands and knees as you search for all the parts of your container system.  Why is it that it is always the bottom shelf that these things go? You have all the parts: you have food, you have a base, you have a lid.  Sometimes you can only find a huge base that is far bigger than the amount of food you need.  Blue berries, and that cheese sandwich will bounce around for hours before lunch until you have your own (unwanted) smoothy.  Or your box and the lid are a different size or shape.  How many people knew that margarine containers are not universally shaped, but can be loosely (and ineffectively) held together with a rubber band? Then there is the real challenge that you think you have all the right parts, but they somehow don’t magically click together.  That pudding desert has managed to find the crack in the seal and is partially pooled at the bottom of your bag, and you may wonder how you are going to put it all back together again in a nice presentation so that it can sit on the table amongst all the other items of food that were brought for the shared lunch.

What then do we make of this when we compare it to the church given that so many want to write books that make us believe that we can be better, do it more wisely, or be more effective.

In a multicultural setting we may have in theory the desire for harmony, but what we must be willing to live with is much more chaotic.  We start off well intended but soon find it a mess.  We need to learn to live with the mess.  Money, sexuality, politics, and religion are all issues we want to find harmony in discussing or sharing, but culturally we come from diverse understandings so we should be prepared to find it a bit unclear.  We may start off with a simple church activity only to find that like the multiplying tupperware, we are now dealing with different issues and perspectives.  We may even be surprised that some unknown item has appeared and we don’t really feel that prepared to begin discussing it, or how to answer.

We really want to savour the moment but it usually comes back days later as a fuzzy mess.  It is nearly impossible to copy a method or system of being church and reproduce it to everyones delight.  The church self-help book market is great at making you believe that if you just follow these 3, 7, 10, easy steps then you too will be the pastor of a mega-church. Yes, it might be great, like that Tiramasue cake, but when we take it home with us and open it up the next night the colours look a bit off, and it seems the coffee has started to separate from the rest of the cake.  Maybe we are surprised when what looked (or tasted) great, has grown into something else mysteriously.

We have all the right stuff but sometimes things don’t click.  Here I think that there is the biggest area to frustrate as it seems like we have all we need, we are so close, but it doesn’t go like planned.  If we take the parts of any kind of church event we have high hopes for having it all work out, but in reality, we may have all the right parts, but something has failed to ‘click’.  People go to great amounts of effort to dream up, and provide that pudding that will be out for others to share.  Some blame may get passed around as to what part didn’t live up to expectations – that lid should have held together, and it didn’t!  Each of the parts of the package have been designed with the best of intentions, but when we mix a Lock’n Lock with an IKEA Förtrolig the design (and cultural) differences make it more challenging to ultimately what was desired in the first place – to share in the enjoyment.

In the end of it all, the whole desire was that something good was made and there is an equal desire to share it, or have it continue.  Sometimes, however, our expectations are not met and we don’t have that harmony.  In these kinds of moments it is like God trying to tell us something.  Maybe it is not so much about the system, the containers, the organization, the desire to preserve, the desire to have it all come together; but that we have something truly good to share.  We enjoy our enjoyment.  Forcing things to harmonize can be a frustrating experience, but if we take a look at what God has given us and let things work out, maybe as God intends, and despite ourselves, we find that there is a lot of good stuff to celebrate.

Well intended.  Savour the moment.  God provides the right stuff.


via Daily Prompt: Harmonize


To Loiter with Intent

I cannot remember who it was that gave me this piece of advice as I started off in my journey of priestly ministry, but I have a suspicion that it was the bishop who ordained me to the priesthood.

No matter who it was, it has been advice that has stuck with me, and as such, has presented many unique opportunities to reach beyond the walls of the parish church.  A friend recently asked me why I write this blog.  I had to think about this, as I believe, my initial intentions for the blog have changed and developed overtime – an excellent time to reflect.

Many in the english speaking world will be familiar with George Herbert, a Church of England priest famous for just about everything under the sun, from poetry, The Country Parson, the look, feel and presence of an Anglican clergyman.  George is a favourite image of what a great many people hold as the stereotypical Church of England vicar.  I’ve had a rough go with the image that George portrays, and that stereotype, but I do admire his writing abilities.  Perhaps, the gentle idyllic reflections were what I initially hoped to capture for the blogging audience.

The world, and the purpose of my blog, are ever changing things, so much so that I do find it difficult to set time aside for any creative input.  Schedules, demands of an active parish, the loneliness of being geographically distant from neighbouring Anglican clergy, and even, the busy family demands, are completely foreign to the life of George Herbert, who in a sense, rented out the parish to other clergy so that he had the time to write and bumble along.

In 2009 I picked up a copy of a book with the exciting title: If you meet George Herbert on the road, kill him, by Justin Lewis-Anthony.  The book proved to be a worthwhile read in that it helped to disprove the myth of the man, George Herbert, and of the myth of the  clergy role which many still hold on to and envision as the gold standard for all other forms of ministry.  If you want a taste of what the book is like, the Guardian article written by Lewis-Anthony summarizes it all very nicely. 9780826424204

As much as I have a dislike for the attitude set by many inside and outside the church with this fascination with George Herbert, I must say that some of what I feel to be my most creative ministry experiences are when I just bumble along as I imagine good old George having done.

Which brings me back to loitering with intent.  Occasionally…well, frequently…I found myself preparing sermons in different neighbourhood pubs.  Maybe the pint of beer helped with the creativity of the sermon writing process.  I’d almost always sit at the bar because it was uncomfortable.  Uncomfortable in that you really didn’t want to stay too long like you would if you had that nice seat at a table that was tucked away close to the wood fire on a cold winter day.  Uncomfortable also because it is usually the lonely people, or the ones with issues and great needs that sat at the bar.  So loiter with intent meant that in my clergy shirt, with a notepad and an open bible I would sit with one hand on the pint glass, and the other clutching a pen as I made my initial notes on the upcoming Sunday’s bible readings.

The man in black clericals at the end of the bar was to many people like a shiny fishing lure to the trout.  “I just gotta ask…”, or “My friends and I were curious…”, were the typical ‘pick-up lines’ of what would turn out to be some curious, and lonely people.

The best people, as I may have mentioned before in another post, were the bartenders themselves.  While there isn’t (to my knowledge) a book that is the bartenders equivalent to the clergy’s George Herbert; it is the standard belief that as people fill themselves with alcohol, they will eventually pour themselves out to the bartender.  So loitering with intent meant to avoid the easy joking conversation of a small clutch of tourists, or hardcore drinkers, that were at one end of the bar, and sit alone and wait for the bartender to unload the problems of the world in the sacred moment with the highly polished wood bar top, and brass taps separating us like the dutifully polished screen of the confessional in a Roman Catholic church.

In many ways, bumbling does not reproduce fantastic results in a culture – a church culture – that wishes to see the pews fill-up with new members.  However, the ministry always felt creative, vital and in some ways, maybe a little bit like a golden piece of poetry in amongst the commonness of ordinary life.

Looking back over time at what has been creative ministry, and in the case of this blog, some creative writing, it is on one-hand, an outlet, and on the other hand, a way that I, and others, may reflect on what I do, and how God is present – be it in Canada, or in Germany; be it in a church, or at the end of the bar.  While I highly doubt that my writing, either the content or the style, will ever be compared to George Herbert’s poetic prose, at least like the Country Parson I’ve got the name that fits the role.


via Daily Prompt: Bumble