All posts by Ted Witham

JOINING in a time of distancing

by CHARLES RINGMA TSSF
We are all only too aware that the current covid-pandemic has brought about many changes, great distress, and real suffering. These have been more significant in countries where the pandemic has had a greater impact. Thus, we do need to be careful that we don’t over-generalise.

But we are not only aware, but also deeply disturbed, by the conflicting responses to the pandemic that we have seen in various countries. Tensions have been rife. This has been most clearly seen in the push on the part of the authorities for lock-down, social distancing, and covid-testing, and the protests of people who insist that they should be free to live and do as they like, and not have their “freedoms” restricted.

And somewhere in all of this, there lurks a tension that has to do with cooperation on a massive scale on the one hand, and on the other, the important role that social distancing is meant to play in keeping us as safe as possible. Thus, we have here a dialectic: joining and distancing or that of joining and separating.

One way of putting this is to say that we are to join together in the art of separating. However, this may be nicely said, but is fraught with all sorts of problems. The most obvious is that participating in the “dance” of joining and distancing, we undermine one or the other of these dimensions.

The most painful is that the more we practice social distancing the more we undermine joining and the bonds of social relationships that are so important to human well-being and flourishing.

We are all deeply touched by the elderly in aged-care facilities who died without family members being there to comfort them; weddings and funerals with many not being able to attend; and religious services where faith communities can longer gather in the usual way.

What all of this means is that there is pain and loss in living this tension.

But this current crisis, can also be used to reflect on past realities and future possibilities with regard to the tension of joining and separating. Let’s explore this and see what may surface.

The first, is that our pre-covid joining was fraught with some problems. The main, I would argue, was that our joining was marked with the fault-line of a rampant individualism that left our sense of joining in an acute state of precarity. We joined in marriages, joined companies, joined clubs, political parties, and religious groups, only to abandon them again when problems arose or at a mere whim or fancy. Keep our options open was more the mantra, rather than the challenge of making deep commitments.

The second and related issue in our pre-covid world, has been that our joining has led to exclusivity. I belong to this group and therefore have nothing to do with that group! We have seen this most clearly in matters of race, religion, politics and gender.

Just in the light of these two factors alone, and I not seeking to be exhaustive here, we may conclude that our sense of joining has been rather marred and fractured. To put that in other words, many of our societies have been both wonderfully diverse, but also deeply divided and fragmented. A sense of joining that has led to both solidarity and a commitment to the common good, or to the “common-weal,” has been sadly lacking.

And to see this from the other side – that of social separation – we see people living with both the pain and anger of not-belonging, victimization, and social exclusion.

All of this is not a wonderful picture, let alone a mosaic!

But what of the future? Can the present realities of joining and distancing anticipate a new way of being in a post-covid world? Many would say, not. We are most likely, they would claim, that we will revert to the old realities. They may well be right.

But let us dream. Is it possible that in learning in our present circumstances to cooperate is social distancing, can we learn to cooperate in other areas of social life that are pressing in on us. Can we join together in the challenges of responding to climate change? Can we join together in responding better to poverty and social fragmentation? Can the realities of distancing and fragmentation lead to new ways of mutual listening, relationship-building, joining, and cooperation.

Yes. It is possible! What would you suggest? How do you see future possibilities?

Charles Ringma, tssf.

Beggars I Have Met

by Pirrial Clift tssf

St Francis’ famous encounter with a leprous beggar was transformative. My dear friend and onetime parish priest Val Rogers said the only way the rich will get into heaven is if the poor come out and lead us in by the hand. If this is true, I imagine St Francis will be carried jubilantly through the pearly gates on the shoulders of a great crowd of poor people.

Val’s words are sobering, especially when I consider beggars I have not dealt kindly with. That woman on my Moscow hotel steps in ’98 at 1 am, persistent and shrill in her pleas for help for her 3 children. Another woman walking beside me, repeatedly demanding assistance in Derby St. Newcastle…. I gave nothing to either of them, but they are permanently ingrained in my memory. Sometimes I am caught unawares – my coping mechanisms don’t seem to be in place – and I just want to close the beggar out. This happened again in Beijing as I left St Joseph’s Church. A man pushed forwards and thrust his two stumps – where once there had been forearms and hands – right in my face: I recoiled in horror and walked away. Just walked away.

In St Mark’s Square Venice I gave a woman something, and was immediately confronted by another woman, beautifully dressed and groomed. She scolded me for my gift. They’re employed by the Mafia, she said. They’re all rogues and Gypsies. They’re frauds and liars: you are wasting your money, she said. I pondered this afterwards; what motivated a wealthy woman to accost a complete stranger with warnings about wasting money on beggars? In the Square people were enjoying enormous gelatos – they could be said to be wasting money on those gelati, but my ‘friend’ saw no need to reprimand them. In Istanbul a shopkeeper left her shop unattended to cross the street and utter similar warnings after I gave to a ragged Syrian boy whose shoes barely hung together, flapping as he walked away.

Of course there are tricksters and frauds amongst beggars, as there are amongst every social group; one memorable example was the woman with the horribly twisted and deformed leg outside St Peter’s in Rome. I just happened to be around when she folded up her fake leg and popped it in a bag, stretching out the whole limb she’d had tucked under her skirt before rising from the dirt and walking away. C’est la vie I said ruefully to myself, thinking of the money I and others had parted with. Still, she’d certainly worked hard for it, sitting there in the hot sun all day with one leg cramped up beneath her!

The thing is, I can’t tell the genuinely needy person from the others. After being duped and conned a few times at the Rectory door I surrendered to cynicism. The next fellow who knocked received a cool welcome, although I scrounged up some food and brought it out. That poor man stood right where he was and ate and ate – he was so hungry. Since then I find it better to obey the Lord’s command to give to everyone who asks of you; at least when I have my wits about me.

Ten weeks in Canterbury, UK brought me into contact with beggars regularly, on St Peter’s St, which was lined with stalls, buskers and beggars. I loved the buskers: some were accomplished musicians, others scratched out doleful melodies on un-tuned instruments or sang tonelessly with one eye on their hat, upturned in hopes of a few coins. How can I forget the girl who appeared to have got dressed in the dark out of the rag bag, with her hair stuck out in all directions and her baby in a pusher, singing ‘I’m getting married in the morning….’ on one note?

It seemed de rigueur to have a hat of some kind to collect money; a beanie, a sunhat; any piece of headgear. My favourite beggar had an old cap. He made no effort to entertain the passer-by, just sat in the same place night after night huddled against the wall, his head drooping disconsolately, shoulders hunched.

One night when I dropped a few coins they missed his cap. I stood appalled as he scrabbled in the dirt to pick them up, a hot feeling of shame flooding me. What was I doing, throwing money at him like scraps to a dog? I am so sorry, I said. That’s alright, he responded as he tucked his coins away. Thank you, and God bless you. Oh my! Here was I, the priest, being blessed by the beggar. I had not offered him a blessing, but he was blessing me. Like the drunk and Mother Teresa in Noel Rowe’s poem And so he says to her, our roles had reversed, the beggar was ministering to me. He taught me a lasting lesson about our common humanity. I resolved never to drop money like that again; and whenever it is possible to put the money into the person’s hand, and look them in the eye, offering God’s blessing. And maybe there’s time for a few words about the weather or the state of the nation.

Outside the Forbidden City in Beijing a long line of beggars sat in the baking sun without shade all day. It was like running the gauntlet of human suffering. Ancient ones clothed in rags, barely able to stand; someone accompanying an adult suffering Downs Syndrome doing pathetic little tricks for a bit of change; people with all manner of deformities. One young man haunts me; his horrific burn scars, and that missing arm that seems to have been ripped out of its socket – dear God! How can it be that he must beg for his food? What’s to become of him?

Another sight never to be forgotten was a tiny girl of about 5 sitting quite alone against a long stretch of the old city wall in Istanbul, a scrap of cardboard on the pavement asking for donations. Probably a Syrian refugee like many we encountered, the first being another lonely child – a boy of about 13 huddled into a corner of a building, crouched there, head low, a picture of abject misery. How long would it be before these children fell into the hands of predators? We passed them in the comfort of modern transport, in the safety and security that is ours by chance.

As Luther famously said, we are all beggars before God. Everything we have is given to us; the very breath in our lungs, our Sister Mother Earth with her fruits and grains and her tender and sometimes rugged beauty which opens our spirits to the presence of God. Our innate talents, we call ‘gifts’ – teaching perhaps, or painting, or organising – who but God is the Giver? Everything good in us, every rising hope or wave of generosity is God’s work in us; each spark of Life, be it temporal or eternal. If God turned away from us, we would cease to exist. Personally, I am always begging God for something.

St Francis said the only thing that is ours are our sins. Everything else is for sharing. Beggars are often on my mind. So many meetings – was one of them Christ? Did I turn away from him?

Dresden – reflections of a Christian historian

Dresden – by John Davis tssf

On Sunday 16th August 1970 I caught a train from Prague to Dresden. I had a compelling connection to a place I had never seen. ‘My city’ I called it in my travel diary. The visit had been four years in the making, against quite considerable odds. Anyone who knows me reasonably well will have sooner or later heard me talk about Dresden, with an evident depth of feeling and commitment. This expanded reflection is a COVID-19 lockdown project from the last few days that might go a way to explaining just a bit more. It is offered with love and respect to the people of Dresden, both today and yesterday.

‘Dresden’ needs to be seen in the context of my broader conviction as an historian that attempting to wrestle deeply with what happened in and to Germany in the first half of the 20th century offers opportunity for a careful case study in the human condition. Taking that idea further, ‘my city’ has to a significant extent been especially formative for me, for my struggle to come to grips with the problem of good and evil and in particular the confronting truth that good people can be complicit in bad things. The struggle too to acknowledge that ‘we’ are part of our past and finally that compassion for the helpless and the vulnerable is a heartland virtue. To a very considerable degree these issues have remained with me all my life both as an historian and as a priest. Perhaps that goes some way towards explaining why I keep returning to this intellectual, geographical and indeed spiritual space, that I feel compelled to write about it now, fifty years later.

The origins of this intellectual and emotional searching go back to a University of Adelaide history honours stream tutorial in 1966: Military history with a special focus on Nazi Germany and the Second World War. That was only 21 years on from the end of that upheaval. Our lecturer and tutor had himself been with the British Army, including the liberation of the Belsen concentration camp near Hamburg. So the wartime generation was all around us, now in their 40s and 50s. Until then I don’t think I had heard about the bombing of Dresden or the broader moral issue around the bombing offensive. It was a total revelation. I can remember being quite unreasonably angry with my poor father as representative of that generation. The closest he got to Dresden was in the medical corps in Tobruk. He did what he had to do in his generation. I was in the process of working out what I had to do in mine.

The destruction of Dresden was of course just one series of events in amongst all the tumult that was the Second World War but somehow for me it became a developing focus, a clarifying prism. ‘Dresden’ became shorthand for all those pivotal questions that I could engage with, that I had to engage with. That conviction has never left me.
It was all of this that confronted and shaped the eighteen year old me in that history tutorial group. It was hard enough trying to put it all together at that age without the fact that my number had come up that year in the conscription ballot. In Australia in the late 1960s war and the conduct of war was not an abstract or distant issue. It wasn’t for me either.

Within the broader context of my study of military history and my own personal struggles, it was however this particular set of events, this breaking understanding, this whole confronting complexity of issues, this example of appalling human suffering and the willful destruction of our common cultural heritage that was for me so revealing of the demeaning ugliness of war.

At least for me, the obvious fact that the regime and the system we were at war with in WWII was itself one of the clearest manifestations of evil imaginable did not take away our own moral obligations or remove the ongoing implications of our own acknowledgement of a shared humanity, as we ourselves went through our decision making processes for our actual conduct of that war. That question is not merely specific to those decisions and actions in early 1945. Ultimately it is to do with values. Values that endure.

It occurs to me that throughout this narrative there are so many ordinary people, attempting to go about doing ordinary things in times of the utmost stress or danger. Most of them have no names – they are mostly categories of people like refugees or young children or old people or young mothers with prams, or rescue workers, or indeed young frightened airmen far from home. They are also the many people I talked to over the years about these things. People in the opera house, people at the City Museum, people on trains, people in churches, former air crew, the young me or indeed my young father. All these ordinary people populate these pages or are very close by. Many are dead but they are here in their thousands. There is a certain solid human dignity often to be found in the facing of overwhelming odds which is also often other-regarding. There is honouring to be done for those who suffer terribly at the hands of others. There is the question of truth telling and justice. There is reflection to be done about how things might be. This story is for all of them.

During and following that history tutorial year I had read everything I could find about the devastating British and American bombing raids on the pretty much untouched jewel that was Dresden just before the end of WWII. For a couple of centuries it had been an absolute must on any Grand Tour of Europe. It was a centre of learning and high culture with all the layered nuances of a large regional city going back to mediaeval times but with a particular flowering from the 18th century on. Elegant 19th and early 20th century residential areas featured treelined streets and fine squares. There was pride in the history and achievement of the prosperous capital of Saxony. Its relatively remote location near the Czech border had seemed to add to the sense of invulnerability. This was the chosen target.

As it happens, the air raids started at 10.13pm overnight on Shrove Tuesday and then again through Ash Wednesday. The steadily advancing Russian Red Army was already well into Saxony, only 80 km away at the time, with all that meant. Indeed advance units were just a couple of hours away. The city was overflowing with refugees from the east, perhaps just then as many as a million at any one time coming and going quickly, because the entire ethnic German population of the eastern provinces was on the move. At the actual time of the raid there was a long distance express night train for Munich filled and ready to depart, about to take people westwards at the only relatively safe time. That night the Allies had total air supremacy. Dresden had no air defence or anti-aircraft positions. It was not considered to be a likely target. The Allies certainly knew that.

The fate and the careful loving rebuilding of just two buildings in the centre of the Altstadt that I have had close contact with will offer a small illustration of what has unfolded for me and indeed for Dresden herself over these 50 years since my first visit. Looking at just two buildings out of tens of thousands is one way of approaching the enormity of it all. One of them was to all intents and purposes the symbol of the city and the dominating feature of its skyline while the other, in a strange thing to say about a palace, is more domestic. Buildings that were loved and cherished. Buildings again to be loved and honoured now.

The first of the two is the distinctive bell-shaped domed Frauenkirche, built in the early 18th century. It was one of the largest and grandest Lutheran baroque churches in Europe, later immortalised by Canaletto. The second is the Taschenbergerpalais – a smaller palace next to the royal palace and the Catholic cathedral – built on neoclassical baroque lines at around the same time.

As it happened in February 1945 each of these buildings was well within the two broad points of the triangular street plan template of the city that the 245 bomber first raid RAF planes had instructions to drop all their bombs into. This was in order to achieve the maximum devastating effect and the planned resultant immense firestorm. A second wave of 550 bombers, more than twice the size of the first, was three hours behind them with the same orders. The broad top of the area to be bombed stretched across the entire width of the old city taking in some government buildings on the north bank of the Elbe. The third pin point of the wedge was just to the north of but not including the main station. About 2km x 2km x 3km. Just about every structure within that whole large area was to be destroyed, including those two particular buildings I want to come back to. It was the cultural, religious, historical, administrative and commercial heart of the city.

Such concentrated area bombing of course resulted in the deaths of tens of thousands of the people who were unfortunate enough to be in that central part of the old city that evening. If they did not die directly from the bombing or the resultant huge fires, very many died of asphyxiation. If the first raid did not get them, the second did. There was just no oxygen left to breathe.

The British Air Force specialised in night raids. Of the two that took place on first night, the second was the much more devastating though the city was already totally ablaze. The Americans preferred daylight and around midday the next day their initial huge raid took on the task. Huddled survivors on the banks of the Elbe found the city again under attack. Before that, rescue workers flooding into the city in the morning from all over the region had found many hundreds of bodies in that packed night train at the station. Hundreds more were silently sitting around the edge of the large emergency water storages in the market squares. The water had in some cases boiled dry. Here and there was a gap, where a body had fallen forward: like gaps in the mouth from a lost tooth described one eyewitness. All dead. Funeral pyres were later to add their smoke to that from the still smouldering fires in the surrounding ruined buildings. There was simply no alternative with casualties on that scale. Yet another follow up American raid took place the day after as well. Over 1200 heavy bombers in all, over the three days. The final area of utter devastation was very much greater than the initial target zone by the end of all this. It encompassed the whole inner city and all the adjacent residential areas stretching for many kilometres in every direction, though particularly eastwards because of the wind. The city simply burnt.

There remains no evidence that the war was at all shortened by such a particular policy of area bombing. This is at the heart of both the controversy at the time and during these now many decades that have passed since. Once air warfare stopped being a very imprecise blunt instrument (which happened quickly as the war continued) did area bombing actually achieve anything strategic other than terrible needless destruction and mass suffering? In the very last weeks of the war was there perhaps simply a quiet satisfaction of dishing it back to a hated enemy when Western land armies were still a long way away and an increasingly powerful Russian ally was about to occupy the capital (or indeed a completely intact Dresden), taking the spoils of war? Is that being too cynical? After all, huge raids including a firestorm had flattened Hamburg as early as July 1943 to no discernible effect (apart from on the people of Hamburg). The war then had a long way to go. But then there was Magdeburg just a month before in January 1945. Did that do anything other than disadvantage the Americans who would take it within a couple of months? Of course Berlin itself had been constantly bombed for years, including large swathes of residential areas. In April much of Potsdam was destroyed, even as the Russians were in the outer suburbs of the adjacent capital. The air war went on. This particular type of air war went on. The British Bomber Command was at the centre of it. Churchill himself was specifically and directly urging it on. I have the letter.

Strategic bombing, such as on particular key infrastructure or industrial targets, like ports, bridges, airfields, transport or the supply chain, is a totally different matter. That can bring a city to its knees quickly and it was completely technically possible at the end of the war. A further American raid on Dresden in April did exactly that, achieving very effectively what the February raids had not. What then was the justification or the motivation to follow one highly contested policy over the other?

Germany fought to the absolute bitter end (which came on May 8th) because the alternative was said to be simply too horrible to contemplate. The relentless steady advance of the Russians already terrifyingly in control of half the country was resisted ultimately block by city block. But the broad intentional long distance ‘carpet bombing’ destruction by the Allies of whole cities with enormous numbers of civilian casualties meant that they too like the Russians could with some justification also be characterised as monsters. We too, actually. The mutuality of war.

In 1970 after many deferments I very narrowly avoided finally being conscripted into the army to fight in the war in Vietnam, a war that for many of us had its own huge share of moral ambiguities. Shortly afterwards I left the country to take up a graduate history doctoral scholarship in Canada, which was how I got out. But first to Europe and to Germany on the smell of an oily rag carrying all that I had in a rucksack.

Which gets me to Sunday 16th August 1970. There were time constraints. It was certainly off the beaten track then to travel and indeed to travel alone ‘behind the iron curtain’. So this particular adventure journey between a fairly shabby Vienna and a beleaguered (West) Berlin was a testing of the waters for me and that midday arrival at the pretty much fully rebuilt Dresden main station was my first brief time there. Only 24 hours. I would come back again and again over the years.

That first day I remember walking from the main station into the shock of lots of open space and very ordinary modern buildings, constructed on a new grid street plan so very different to what had gone before: totally unsympathetic in contrast say to what was done in Cologne using the former street plan. Outside the station at first sight there seemed to be hardly anything at all pre war left. I knew plenty about what and who had occupied those empty spaces, about what had been so deliberately and intentionally destroyed in the ‘Florence on the Elbe’ and in what manner. It was deeply shocking.

In my wide-eyed walk from the station towards the Elbe river that day I somehow found myself at what the street sign said was the Postplatz, on the corner where the main post office and central telephone exchange were located on February 13th 1945. I knew that odd snippet of information because for some reason the passages about it in one of the first books in English on the bombing ( David Irving’s controversial ‘The Destruction of Dresden’) had stayed in my mind, along with the terrible fate of those, mostly young women, who worked there that night of the firestorm. No one in that very central area of where the bombs were dropped stood a chance. It was the same story at the Army headquarters a few hundred metres away. Heavy concussive bombs, then incendiaries and then the firestorm.

An air raid firestorm is a particular phenomenon that does not happen all the time. It is much more than very extensive fires. The few examples largely came later in the war. It had to be worked on. But when the combined conditions are in place the result is truly horrific. The firestorm generates its own hurricane force winds that drag everything that moves into the inferno and anyone attempting to cross a street was simply sucked away. Destruction is general and complete.

That was the fate of all those at the main post office and telephone exchange that evening. Twenty five years later what I found next to the somewhat incongruous cobble stone street at that corner was half a metre or so of the base of the solid dark stone walls of a large building and inside those remnant walls waving summer grass, browned off by the August sun. Empty space. Somehow that was a place where those murmuring voices of ordinary people seemed close. A place to pause.

Then I walked further. Not too far away was the Altmarkt – a very large square – with nothing old around it. The Frauenkirche – to Dresden as St Paul’s is to London – was a very substantial heap of stones. The Saxon royal palace and surrounding buildings were burnt out wrecks. The distinctive Zwinger galleries were there but battered, with some folk dancing going on in the huge courtyard. There was bright music speaking powerfully to less complicated more innocent times, as beautiful young women and strapping young men danced in colourfull embroidered local costumes for an appreciative older crowd in the sunshine. The adjacent heavy bulk of the Semper opera house was still burnt out. All these glimpses were like passing vignettes in a Fellini film. They were there and then they were gone. There was so much to take in.

I had to get back to the main bus transfer by the station because believe it or not my camping place voucher on that night was for the grounds of Schloss Moritzburg – a grand abandoned place some 20 kms out of the city, the former royal hunting lodge, so there I needed to go. Wandering visitors to the DDR (East Germany) in 1970 had to have documentation for exactly where they were supposed to be each night. The cheapest option was for a camping place – although as I soon found, provided you had the paperwork, things could actually be quite interestingly flexible.

That night I shared a tent with a very tall New Zealander. The two of us needed to get back to the city. Next morning having missed the early return bus we did the only thing we could – set out on the road back hoping for a ride. We saw a truck coming up over a slight rise and put out our thumbs. It was in fact a Red Army troop transport. The officers all turned their heads away, the soldiers cheerfully laughed. It was a funny moment. Shortly afterwards a ride was offered in a simple DDR Trabant by a student at the Technical University. We managed to squeeze in, rucksacks tent and all. Neither the rich nor the military offer rides.

That afternoon I travelled on to Berlin – East Berlin – to spend a night with a family I had met on the train from Prague two days before. They had no English and my scrappy German had to do. They were so welcoming and friendly, like just about everyone non-official you met in the DDR. So eager to talk and to discuss. Just to be human.

A couple of years later I was back from Canada having completed my Masters and the doctoral course work, to begin researching newly released WWII cabinet documents and various personal papers on an unrelated field in London. I also could not resist checking out files relating to the bombing. That explains the Churchill letter mentioned above.

I was able too to visit Dresden properly. I first met up with some American friends from my Canadian university who were by then studying philosophy and art in (West) Berlin. The deeply broken city was then a remarkable divided but very creative space, full of memories and with much evident war damage. The Wall was brutally obvious. A somewhat wild city of students and widows. I crossed the border at the Friedrichstrasse station and took the train to Dresden via Leipzig from the main eastern station. At that time there were huge magnificent steam trains doing mainline service on the still-named Reichsbahn. I love rail travel.

I took my time on this visit to Dresden going everywhere I could. Walking endlessly, taking trams, listening, searching, sorrowing at the bleak ugliness of so much of the wider rebuilt urban area, taking delight at in every direction finding that sudden divide where the fires had actually stopped, taking in what was left of the museums and galleries, noting the slow tentative beginnings of the renewal that in later years would once again see the word Dresden associated with much more than a war crime. If that sentence was breathless, so was my exploration.

Once every ten years or so after that, I have returned.

Both the Frauenkirche and the Taschenbergerpalais were to be left as heaps of stones for the best part of 50 years after February 1945. When I saw them first 25 years later, that was how they were. The East German authorities had no interest in or resources for doing anything with such structures. It took the fall of the Berlin Wall and German reunification in 1989 to see the start of their reconstruction and rebuilding. Their remarkable renewal alongside that of at least some of the most recognisable and wonderfully whimsical lost or terribly damaged jewels of the Saxon capital is quite a story. A new Taschenbergerpalais opened as a luxury five star grand hotel in 1997. The exterior, the main entrance, the grand staircase and the courtyard fountains were familiar, the rest was necessarily different. The spectacular Frauenkirche rebuilding funded by generous donation from around the world to the original 18th century plans was finally complete in 2007 and since then the immediate built context has returned as well.

On the night of the bombing the Taschenberger was very busy. The former royal residence for the Crown Prince before the revolution in 1918 was during the war the regional headquarters for the Wehrmacht, the German Army. Everyone in the building that night was killed. Not that far way the Frauenkirche like every other church in the doomed city would have been the location of the light-hearted Fasching festivities for Shrove Tuesday, including fancy dress for the children and special tasty treats ahead of the beginning of Lent the next morning. Were church bells allowed to ring at that stage of the war? The huge Frauenkirche bells that might have been ringing that last evening would have joined those from all across the city, echoing off the nearby hills of the Elbe valley along with the equally large bells of the Catholic cathedral just across the road from the palace. The high dome of the Frauenkirche remained standing for a couple of days after the fires. Then the whole thing collapsed.

The bells for me are an important part of this story. In January 1988 I took up a German government scholarship for a Goethe Institut intensive language program at Chiemsee in Bavaria. My excellent kindly and long-suffering teacher (who shook her head at my mangling of the finer points of grammar) told me that as a child in 1945 she and her family had walked hundreds of kilometres through the winter snow across the Bohemian hills of the Sudeten borderlands heading for Bavaria ahead of the invading Russians moving in from Silesia. They had seen the huge plumes of smoke, ash and burnt papers falling from the sky, that had been Dresden.

So the story was never far away. At the end of that course and with my German much improved I again took a train to Dresden this time planning to coincide with February 13th. I did not know what to expect.
On the evening of the anniversary I got a ticket in the very top ring of the traditional horse-shoe shaped opera house for a special performance of Verdi’s Requiem. Three years before on that same date the Semper had finally reopened wonderfully restored 40 years on from the bombing. It was a performance like no other. The place was packed. Two women next to me were talking beforehand to each other about actually being in the city the night of the raid as teenagers. There was obviously an intensity in the air. The occasion and the quality of the offering utterly transcended any potential Verdi operatic excess. At the end, instead of applause and so far as I could see without any direction or prompting, the whole gathering – orchestra, chorus, soloists, conductor, audience, attendants – simply stood silently in their place for what seemed a very long time of heavy silence. That was around 9.45 pm. Afterwards it was completely quiet like leaving church on Holy Thursday, though again the sense of the presence of the many was powerful. We were holding them but they too were holding us.

Outside in the Opera Square there was a light dusting of snow. Alone I walked slowly across by the front of the cathedral towards the nearby Elbe Bridge. There was no one else immediately there. I was just on the first arch of the bridge looking out across the river when at exactly 10.13pm the bells began to toll, first just a few then very many, both near and far. The cathedral bells were the loudest and closest. Across the bridge and from surrounding side streets heavily coated rugged-up people started to appear, carrying lantern type candles, all heading towards and through the narrow streets that led towards the ruins of the Frauenkirche. The bells just continued to toll. I have no memory of any ceremony or speech of any kind, just the silent forming a huge circle of light around that heap of stones. The next morning at mass in the cathedral the bishop preached on the text ‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us’. It was the most powerful and deeply moving sermon I have ever experienced. There were very definitely many more at mass that morning than I could see.

By 1998 the rebuilding of the Frauenkirche was very much under way. Whatever stones that could be put back in place were though the light gold of the new stone hugely predominated. By then the crypt was functioning as a church and the major external walls had reached their full height. The dome and the rest of the superstructure was yet to come.

In 2009 we stayed at the wonderful Taschenbergerpalais hotel, one of the loveliest hotel experiences ever. We had taken a taxi from the station this time. It was January so it was cold. As soon as we had checked in we had to go walking. Rob and I had seen the new skyline of the city as our Berlin train crossed the Elbe railway bridge from the Neustadt. We knew where we had to go – down by the side of the cathedral into the street nearby. Walking onwards and around a small bend suddenly there it was, the beautiful golden bell shaped dome of the Frauenkirche, glistening in the sun. I simply burst into tears.

Later we went to a special lunch time organ recital and an address that explained the special importance of the place. Afterwards I went up to the layman who had given the talk and told him how deeply special it was for me. I told him that as a young student I had wept over these stones and for the suffering of the war. That simple Saxon late middle aged man in his formal suit took my shoulders and kissed me. Perhaps a most gentle act of absolution.

In 2022, after all this current pandemic is over, I am hoping to take one final trip to Dresden. To spend several days there, to do something special in the Frauenkirche and to stay at the Taschenbergerpalais.

John Davis
August 16th, 2020.

Coronavirus and ascetism

Coronavirus and Asceticism

by Charles Ringma tssf

Much of the Christianity in the Western world has been focussed on blessing and much-having. One almost gains the impression that God has been cast as the perennial Father Christmas in the sky.

This one-sided notion of God’s relationship with us, has been somewhat dinted in this time of pandemic.

What most people are now grappling with is not the reality of blessing, but the challenges of pain and struggle in the midst of loss. And much has been lost – jobs, businesses, homes, health and general well-being. More that, our economies have received such a blow that recovery will take many years. And who knows what else will be lost in the aftermath of COVID-19.

Possible deeper losses may include the loss of confidence in our global order, in our governments, and in other social institutions. And some may be entertaining doubts about the church and other religious associations.

In countries that have not been so severely impacted by this pandemic, the refrain is – back to normal as soon as safely possible. And while this is understandable, I hope that this time of abnormality has taught us something so that there will be a new “normal” that we all aspire to and will work towards.

I believe that the hope for a new “normal” is also appropriate for the church. I hope that the present-day church won’t rush back to the old normal. This is important, because the church of the old normal has been too captive to the dominant ethos of contemporary culture, and has functioned too much on a business model for its institutional life. Moreover, the church has hardly exemplified its communal identity in Christ through the Spirit, and has failed to function as a prophetic community in society.

It is hard to predict what a new “normal” may look like for the church, but one lesson that can be drawn from our present circumstances, is learning from the present realities of loss. Rather than seeing loss as an enemy, we may learn to see it as friend. And loss is a companion to emptiness, and emptiness may be the seed-bed for a new receptivity.

Of course, it is right that we have emphasized gain in the Christian life. We have gained much through Christ’s redemptive love, even life itself. And in Christ, we have gained as gift the life-giving Spirit. But we have failed to accent the reality of loss. And loss brings us into the domain of asceticism, which from the Greek, asketikos, means sacrifice for the purpose of training and formation (as in a sport). And by way of application, sacrifice and self-discipline, for the sake of growing in Christlikeness and service.

Asceticism has not always had a good track record in Christian spirituality. At times, ascetic practices have negated the body, made salvation a self-effort, and reflected a distorted view of God. Bradley Holt rightly notes that a faulty asceticism “leads to despising God’s good gifts of creation: our bodies and the world around us.”

However, there have also been laudable perspectives and practices. While in religious orders and the priesthood, the dominant commitments have been poverty, celibacy and obedience, for the laity ascetic practices have traditionally included prayer, fasting and almsgiving.

But all of this can be framed much more basically. Asceticism is far more central to the Christian life than simply fasting. Coming to faith in Christ involves the loss of the old life of human autonomy and self-sufficiency, and embracing the new life in Christ. In coming to Christ, we hand over to him our sin and our goodness, in fact our very selves. This new life involves a life of obedience and openness to the Spirit. Thus, it involves the loss of going our way.

There is also more that we need to surrender. The love of God involves us in a commitment to seeing God’s shalom erupt into our world and the love of neighbour involves us in service to the other. What this means practically, is that we are willing to lay things aside and to sacrifice so that a something much better can swim into view.

In the light of these perspectives, it should be clear that ascetic practices lie at the very heart of Christian spirituality and service.

So, the question for us in this time of COVID-19 when we are already experiencing so much loss, is: what is it that we need to learn in anticipating the new “normal” about living more prayerfully and sacrificially? In other words, do we need to become more ascetic? Do we need to embrace loss in new and productive ways? Is the “desert” as important as the “promised land”? Is “not-having” as important as having?

In taking these questions on board we may need to hear the challenge of St. John Chrysostom: “those who live in the world, even though married, ought to resemble the monks in everything else.” Clearly Chrysostom is making the point that there should not be a huge difference between monks and the laity. “Ordinary” Christians also, need to live in community, practise hospitality, live prudently, live in obedience to the gospel, and live in fidelity. Thus, like the monks, we too need to practice asceticism and in relinquishing the good make may for the greater good in the Kingdom of God.

Charles Ringma, tssf.

Coronavirus & The Noon Day Demon

The Coronavirus and the Monastic “Noonday Demon”

By Charles Ringma tssf

While I don’t know how you have been coping (I was going to say “travelling”- but that is rather inappropriate) with the present “lock-down” due to Covid-19, I do know how this has impacted me, and I do hear that many are experiencing negative emotional/mental impacts.

So, let me share something and make a link with the Monastic “noonday demon.” I won’t be surprised if you think that the latter sounds rather strange!

With the “lock-down” I was first rather happy. Being an introvert, I was happy to be at home and felt I had more time than usual to get on with research and writing, although I did miss going to the library.

However, as time went on several things began to happen. The first, was too much of a focus on the pandemic. And since I come from the Netherlands and have lived and worked in Asia and in Canada, I was constantly looking at what was happening in these countries as well as in Australia. Secondly, I was beginning to feel despondent particularly when certain countries seemed to make such poor responses to the crisis. Thirdly, I have become increasingly concerned as to what will happen in a post-coronavirus world. Will things go back to normal? Or will there be significant changes in our world? And finally, I have been impacted by a sense of boredom. Everyday seems so much like the day before. And tomorrow the day will probably be like today.

And it’s the latter that brings me to Monasticism.

If there is anything that is true about the Monastic community, it is the “sameness” and regularity of each day. As a consequence, monks have had to come to terms with the problem of acedia. Simply put, this Greek term means apathy/boredom/torpor. More deeply, it means “absence of care” and a person “afflicted by acedia refuses to care or is incapable of doing so.” This was called dealing with the “noonday demon,” because the heartbeat of Monastic life is attentiveness to God, one’s inner being, the community, and concern for the wider world. Acedia was seen as a temptation.

In the light of this, I wish to make a simple point – I am having problems with “sameness.” And this is not surprising since life in the modern world is about the opposite. It is about distraction, diversity, travel, and living with multiple options.

When this is no longer possible it is understandable that one may become frustrated and even depressed. Thus, mental health impacts of the coronavirus are very real for this and many other reasons.

If you are feeling the same, you may want to share how you are dealing with the “noonday demon”? What I am trying to do is to embrace a practical asceticism. I don’t need travel, holidays, or a night at the movies in order to be at peace and to live with gratitude. I can be thankful for what this day brings, even it is much the same as yesterday. Moreover, I need avoid seeking distraction in order to feel ok. Distraction cannot possibly meet my needs. And finally, I need to wrestle with my most basic need – why am I not at peace with what God gives me in this “ordinary” day? That is my challenge!

Charles Ringma, tssf.

Teeter-totter spirituality

Matthew 11:28-30

When we moved our young family to the United States, we couldn’t find a ‘see-saw’ anywhere. When eventually we found a playground with a see-saw, we were told it was called a ‘teeter-totter’. On reflection, the American name is more descriptive than ‘see-saw’: ‘teeter-totter’ describes the way two children play on the equipment.

Each child sits at her end of the long plank and balances up and down. Two ends, a plank, and an elevated pivot are all that it takes to make a see-saw.

Jesus describes a spiritual see-saw at the end of this Sunday’s Gospel reading. There are two ends to the see-saw: one end is ‘Come unto me … and rest’. The other end is ‘Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me’ (Matthew 11:28-30).

These are two poles of Christian life. At one end is the delightful world of prayer, of resting in God, of basking in a relationship with the One who utterly accepts us. At the other end, is the world of ministry, of efforts for the Gospel, of actively caring for others.

Spirituality and pastoral care, being loved by God and loving others. The see-saw reminds us that, though there may be two ends, it is one plank. In the end you cannot separate prayer and ministry.

In the Franciscan tradition, we say we serve God in the Three Ways of ‘Prayer, Study and Work’. These are the three activities into which all Christians are invited. ‘Study’ is like the vertical beam of the see-saw which enables us to pivot between Prayer and Ministry. ‘Study’ is learning from Jesus (Matthew 11:29), considering mindfully both our prayer and our work for the Kingdom.

This is the foundation of the Franciscan idea of an active-contemplative spirituality.

What we learn is that prayer and ministry cannot be separated. They are the same plank, the same life. Some Christians are tempted to spend ‘sweet hours of prayer’, retreating to the safety of spirituality, and never venturing out to practise on others the love which God lavishes on us.

Some find it easy to ignore the pesky questions about God and prayer and put all their effort into social activism, caring for the refugee, standing up against racism, feeding the hungry – all fantastic Franciscan activities – and forget that it is not sustainable. We need also to be fed ourselves, and nurtured and healed.

The wisdom of Jesus is that both are needed: ‘Come unto me…’ and ‘Take my yoke upon you.’ The challenge of the end of this Sunday’s Gospel reading is this: how is your balance on the teeter-totter? Do you move ‘up and down’ between prayer and ministry, or are you stuck at one end or the other? What ‘study’ do you need to help integrate spirituality and ministry?

Following the Followers of Saint Francis – Sister Helen Julian’s new book

Helen Julian CSF, Franciscan Footprints: Following Christ in the ways of Francis and Clare,
Bible Reading Fellowship 2020

Paperback, 144 pages.
From $23 online, Kindle edition $11.99

Reviewed by Ted Witham tssf

Franciscan Footprints, like much of Franciscan spirituality, is deceptively simple. In this helpful and engaging book, Sister Helen Julian, Minister General of the Anglican Community of St Francis, tells the story of about 100 Franciscans over the last 800 years – from Saints Francis and Clare in the 12th Century to Padre Pio and Algy Robertson SSF in the 20th Century.

The stories of mainly individuals and some organisations are presented in nine thematic chapters. The first two chapters tell the stories of the original founders, the two Assisi saints (Francis and Clare), and the founders of the Anglican Franciscans, including Sister Rosina Mary CSF, who founded the Community of Saint Francis in 1905.

The titles of further chapters, ‘Thinkers and Writers’, ‘Mystics and Spiritual Writers’, ‘Social Care, Social Justice’, ‘Martyrs’, ‘Missionaries and Preachers’, ‘Pastors’ and ‘Simply Living’, display the breadth of the Franciscan way of life. Placing each of her characters into these themes allows Sister Helen to ‘follow the followers’ and explore the many paths along which Franciscans follow Jesus.

The Franciscan intellectual tradition is represented strongly by the 13th Century Bonaventure and the 21st Century Sister Ilia Delio.

Many of these Franciscans are new to me. Felix of Cantalice (born 1515) was a ploughman who became a lay Franciscan friar. He begged for the friars in Rome for many years, and was known as Brother Deo Gratias, because he exclaimed, ‘Thanks be to God’ (Deo Gratias) for every gift. He sang simple songs in the street and was beloved of children and the poor. His story is told under ‘Simply Living’: his life was seemingly uneventful, but by faithfully being who he was attracted many.

It was good to see the United Nations NGO Franciscans International in its context as an expression of the Franciscan family’s social care and social justice.

I commend Franciscan Footprints warmly. It is a good book to share within the Franciscan family and beyond.

At his death, Saint Francis said, ‘I have done what is mine to do. May Christ teach you what is yours.’ Helen Julian’s book will help both long-term Franciscans and the curious to learn what Christ is teaching them what their life might be. The characters in her book have made their Franciscan footprints. Readers will find much in this book to help them make their own Franciscan Footprints.

We all like sheep are gone astray

John 10:1-10

One of the tragedies of our times is the war on animals, the war we have been waging for two or three centuries, seizing their territory and subjecting them to ever more inhumane conditions.

Human activity was one of the causes of this year’s bush-fires in the Eastern States which took away from koalas much of their habitat. Iconic species such as the Bengali tiger and the white rhinoceros are on the brink of extinction. Presumably the thylacine (the Tasmanian tiger) and the dodo would still be thriving in Tasmania and Mauritius if human beings had not ravaged their living space.

Only a few wild animals thrive under the relentless expansion of human activity. Mobs of kangaroos near my town relish in the green pasture and endless water supplies human beings have created.

We clobber our domestic animals too. In the past decades, more and more cattle have been squeezed into feed-lots, unable to exercise and terrified by their imprisonment. Battery hens are confined to less than a square metre and never see the sky or scratch in the fresh air.

We use horses and dogs for sport. Not only do they strain to entertain us, but our society allows some of their keepers to inflict on them excruciating pain when they are away from public view.

Our treatment of animals shames us human beings. We are given no licence by Scripture to dominate the environment and crush our fellow-creatures. There is no Biblical excuse for setting ourselves up as gods destroying whatever we will.

We consider ourselves superior to other creatures, but the evidence shows that we do not make a good shepherd. We are cruel and despotic in our treatment of the environment.

In today’s Gospel, John teaches us two things about animals and salvation. The first is that Jesus is the good shepherd. No creature, including us human beings, can put ourselves above other creatures. Jesus is our shepherd, caring for us, and he is the shepherd of all creation, restoring all things, not only the human world.

Secondly, we are called to be part of the community of creatures, living together with animals and ecosystems as our brothers and sisters. This is the great vision of Saint Francis of Assisi: to live in harmony with all life as part of the community of creation.

The Good Shepherd proclaims to us that God will draw into a community all his creation and that we will live in harmony with death adders and scorpions, both of them wild animals Jesus ‘was with in the wilderness’ (Mark 1:13a), as we will with cats, horses, and especially dogs, the animals who have co-evolved with us and who are our familiars.

There are many signs of new life. Most farmers I know are concerned about any animal cruelty and do all in their power to care for their animals. WWF and other organisations keep on reminding us of the plight of the non-human world and establish programs to restore habitat and rescue species. More and more middle-class people express real care for pets. Our Jack Russell Lottie is our little sister, a member of our family. There are new ways of feeding the hungry that do not exploit animals, so I have hope that lifting the poor out of poverty will be done ethically.

– Ted Witham tssf

[‘We have like sheep gone astray.’ (Isaiah 53:6). Quoted in I Peter 2:25, and in the Introduction to Evening Prayer in the 1662 Book of Common Prayer]

The unexpected visit

Timothy Narraway tssf writes:

O God who doesn’t slumber
Nor Sleep,
You came to me in
the watches of the night
in the still small hours,
in darkness,
Before dawn was even a thought
In the black.
There rose on my bed to see
You there at the open door
In the guise of Francis
Dressed in robes of poverty

Beckoning me to come into the garden beyond
You are there. There in
The open door
The door which cannot be shut
Because You have opened it;
A door which speaks of a world beyond
Beyond imagination; in stillness;
A world waiting to be sung into existence
Endless horizons waiting to be explored
With the heart of a Troubadour.

The invitation
“Come and walk (with Me) in the garden”
Not a journey alone, but a journey together
A journey whose invitation delights the heart,
Burning as if on the Emmaus road.
Longing for the undiscovered.

The garden
The sacred grove
Dancing in the Garden of God

With Fire.

Penitence as a Way of Life

Dear Brothers and Sisters of Penance,

Greetings from the Misty Mountain, from Pirrial Clift tssf

I have a friend who lives interstate: we have long chats on the phone about books we are reading and our understandings of ‘Life, the Universe, and Everything’. Recently we spoke of penitence, that hoary, hairy hobgoblin that made life utter misery for many Christians living in the shadow of a fierce and frosty God. My speaking of penitence from a perspective influenced by St. Francis and other friendly Saints intrigued her, and she asked me to write my thoughts down. I offer them here for your consideration as the strangest Holy Week the world has experienced in a long time breaks open most poignantly Jesus’ profound identification with human suffering.

Penitence as a way of life.

In a group of pithy sayings written for his Brothers – ‘the Admonitions’ – Francis said: ‘Consider O human being, in what great excellence the Lord God has placed you, for he created and formed you in the image of his beloved Son according to the body and to his likeness according to the Spirit. And all creatures under heaven serve, know and obey their Creator, each according to its own nature, better than you. And even the demons did not crucify him, but you, together with them, have crucified him, and are still crucifying him by delighting in vices and sins.’

Let’s unpack that a little: the way I understand it, Sister Water for example, praises God by being water – pure, humble and precious. Brother lark by being a lark – the flowers by being flowers. Similarly my daughter Nicole, who won first prize in the Mortlake Show with a handmade teddy bear, found the praise came to her, the creator … ‘Oh isn’t it lovely! Isn’t she clever!

Alone amongst God’s created beings, humans are not content with being what we were created to be – human – made in the image and likeness of God, able to love and reason and create. Not content with being made in God’s likeness, we want to BE God. We crave the power that belongs only to God. [Scripture says, for example Ps 62.11 Once God has spoken, twice have I heard this; that power belongs to God. Verse 12 continues ‘and steadfast love belongs to you, O Lord.’ Power over other human beings and other creatures is sought and fought over by humanity, and alas! It is not accompanied by love. Power to put people down, to corrupt, to violate, to harm in many sad and cruel ways.

In St Francis’ time our Sister Mother Earth was still seen on the whole as a force to be reckoned with – the terrors of the wild oceans, maps marked by signs saying ‘Here be dragons’; the decimation of whole populations by the unseen forces of disease -there were many conundrums which modern science has unlocked. If Francis were alive today he would know that human power has been unleashed against our Sister, Mother Earth herself! As a species we abuse and degrade the one who feeds us in our greedy lust for wealth and power. For instance in many places Sister Water is no longer pure, she has been polluted and defiled…

When we see human beings behaving cruelly we say their behaviour is inhumane – it is an aberration, it is not normal. Human beings were created to reflect God’s goodness. St Irenaeus of Lyon, born in Smyrna Turkey in 150 AD – a theologian, and one of the Church Fathers, said “The Glory of God is a human being fully alive.”
Jesus was fully human, fully humane, as his behaviour while he walked on Mother Earth revealed. Fully humane, as he rejected human glory and success and gave himself for others. No skerrick of lust for power over others lurked in his heart; he was all about celebrating humility, healing, giving new life in various ways – and forgiving people’s sin.

Jesus saw sin as offending, wounding, hurting God. Sin was to be wept over, as he wept over Jerusalem I can get that. I know a woman whose son is in jail, she is grieving and weeping. She asked me to pray, but I have no idea what he’s done – it is so painful she cannot speak the words. We are God’s children, though we often forget it. Jesus, like a mother, is grieving and weeping over our sins and lack of love.

The canticle in APBA [p428] written by Anselm begins:

Jesus, as a mother you gather your people to you:
you are gentle with us as a mother with her children.
Often you weep over our sins and our pride,
tenderly you draw us from hatred and judgement….

Sin also harms the sinning one. Wounds to the soul, the spirit. Wounds which hamper the flourishing of relationships between us and others, and God – sometimes we even hate ourselves.
What some holy people have said about repentance.

Julian of Norwich tells a story that goes something like this: A Christian waits beside the Lord, bursting with love; ready to serve. The Lord makes a request and off she runs, eager to please – but she slips and falls. Up she gets and off she goes, but again she falls, hurting herself so that now she must walk. Too soon she stumbles into a hole and when she clambers out, realising that she cannot go on, she limps back to Jesus, covered in bumps and bruises, wounded and bleeding, her head hanging low – she has failed. Jesus gently lifts her up, heals her wounds, embraces her lovingly, kisses her better – then sends her off, happy and free again.

John Mountney, in a book on Julian entitled Sin can be a Glory, argues that sin can work for us rather than against us if after our inevitable falls we immediately and habitually turn back to Jesus for healing.
Repentance is turning around. Turning from what is harmful towards God; looking at Jesus; occupying ourselves with whatever brings us closer to God is the foundational message of Lent, and was Francis’ foundational message.

St Clare, praying day and night for decades before the San Damiano Crucifix, spoke of gazing at Jesus. Her words have been put to music by Breige O’Hare OSC.

Look, look on Jesus, poor and crucified<
look on this holy one who for your love has died,
And remember as you contemplate the sacred mystery
This Jesus who you gaze upon
loves you most tenderly.
Look, look on Jesus see he is calling you.
Run to him and do not fear, for his love is true.
Let your heart desire him and burn with deepest love
Look how he shines on you
the one from heaven above.

Look, look on Jesus, upon the sacred tree
And as you pass along the way, ponder, attend, and see
if there is any sorrow, like the sorrow he endures
and wonder at the amazing love
which is for ever yours.
Look, look on Jesus see he is calling you.
Run to him and do not fear, for his love is true.
Let your heart desire him and burn with deepest love
Look how he shines on you
the one from heaven above.

Jesus the God of love.

Clare of Assisi
St Francis preached repentance wherever he went – as Jesus himself did. Francis was head-over-heels in love with Jesus, and kept him always in his heart, on his lips and before his inner eyes.

St. Teresa of Avila describes our journey toward God in the Interior Castle. To the baptised she says that Jesus is in the very centre of the castle/our soul, and he is shining, shining. We make our way to him through a myriad passages and rooms with stairs randomly leading in and out; up and down… our task is to keep the light in view; if we cannot see him shining faintly in the distance, we are going the wrong way.

It is imperative that we are aware of our sin. Imagining ourselves perfect is a recipe for disaster, every vestige of humility goes down the drain, and humility is the key to holiness. However it is very important to remember our sin is powerless in the face of God’s eternal love and mercy.

For all the wickedness in the world, that humanity can do or think, is no more to the mercy of God than a live coal dropped in the sea. William Langland

St Bonaventure speaks of the burden, the weight of sin. It weighs so heavily that sometimes we struggle under the load. The psalmist laments about this too. Ps 38. 5
The tide of my iniquities has gone over my head,
their weight is a burden too heavy to bear.
My wounds stink and fester because of my sinful folly…

An overburdened person walks with his head hanging down; his focus is on his misery and the weight on his back. If he were only to look up and fix his eyes on the shining Son – Bonaventure explains – he could be free again.

Focusing on the most important thing.

Allowing oneself to become obsessed with one’s sins is not what repentance is about. Especially when the matter is serious the ancient steps of contrition, confession, and restitution remain vital, and any consequences must be borne with as much grace as we can muster. Then it’s time to re-set our course – turn our eyes away from ourselves, and gaze upon the beauty and goodness of Christ. … beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honourable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Phil.4

One way of understanding repentance as a way of life is to imagine being aboard a little boat. You set your compass according to your desired destination and set sail – the great ocean swells and currents, the buffeting winds and rocky outcrops, don’t permit sailing as the crow flies: when the wind drops or you sleep, the boat drifts with the tide. You need to repeatedly correct your course, checking your compass to keep heading in the right direction.

[Search Google Images for Odilon Redon, ‘The Mystical Boat’.]

Those who brood darkly on their sins for too long lose sight of Christ! This unhappy state can lead to a kind of inverted pride, where one comes to believe that ‘my’ sins are so vast that God cannot or will not forgive, putting the lie to the scriptures! Others, who gaze on Christ, returning to him constantly after slipping and falling, will find healing and wholeness.
As Margaret Attwood wrote:

As you travel on through life sister, whatever be your goal,
keep your eye upon the doughnut and not upon the hole.
Which just about sums it up.

pax et bonum,

Pirrial