XII - Disruption

Aravalli Hills outside Udaipur from the Monsoon Palace. 

If you want perspective in Scripture, you climb a mountain.

Disruption is theological. Disruption is a form of grace. It’s easier to say it the other way around: that grace is a form of disruption. That’s also true. When Paul hears the voice of Jesus to turn from the Church’s persecutor to its chief architect, he is struck blind. Like Samson, he must lose his sight before he can achieve his (less violent) vocation. When Zechariah hears the Word of God he is struck mute. He must lose his voice before he can bear witness to the truth. In St John’s Gospel a man is born blind in order to reveal Christ as the light of the world. The cross is the revelation of strength in weakness, of wisdom in foolishness. The Gospel, drawing on threads throughout Scripture, reveals the kingdom of God only when things are turned upside down.

In no way I am speaking here of the experience of disability, of which others are more qualified and on which much has been written, but Scripture warns us that grace only follows disruption – especially the disruption of our senses and common ways of thinking. It follows that disruption is always pregnant with the possibility of grace, which is, after all, always present.

Oberon sleeps on a bed. At 4am he was on a different bed but in tact.

I noticed this evening that I’ve stopped sighing. Sighing drives Rhiannon mad, but is, I think, just an attempt to reset myself and create a moment to think. Breathe! Breathe! Travelling has brought both more simplicity and more complication, but the problems are usually immediate or within days – not long arcs of planning, not the conflict of different personalities and groups. Travelling is full of vulnerability – it can be an agony of frustration as Rhiannon has found with the Indian national railway website, or the heart-stopping moment on the train when you look down and your child’s bed is empty, only to find he’s moved to the bed beneath and later can’t even remember why. But everyday has a freshness to it – somewhere new and if you elect to not do anything that would probably be fine. You have to eat. You have to sleep. You have to prevent the three-year-old escaping.

Udaipur is the prettiest of cities we’ve visited. You can walk through shops, cafes and temples more easily with less trash and visible poverty. It’s the India you imagine before you arrive – palaces floating on water and high in the mountains, rooftop restaurants, havelis and hanging lights glimmering off the water span by narrow bridges crowded with tuc-tucs. It’s noisy, especially at night. Nothing is familiar but we are becoming more familiar with unfamiliarity – Indian unfamiliarity at least, and everywhere we go Apollo at least is adept at getting people to give him food. He had a pancake from our host family before we noticed he was awake. He walked out of breakfast with a bottle of Sprite. Of us all he has proved the most versatile and adaptable. Perhaps children are closest to God because, for them, all life is new and they are unsurprised by its wonder.

Here, for us all, life is in disruption. Normally easy things, like flushing toilets or finding your children something they’ll eat can be complicated. When everything is different you notice everything, which is partly why it’s all so tiring. Everyone notices you so there is no anonymity. You have to engage with people every five seconds, and choose to be rude and impassive or smile and engage. But even rudeness would be exhausting in the face of continuous friendly curiosity. I bought a pair of sunglasses today for less than three pounds (I am not very good at keeping hold of them), and the man selling them invited me and my family to his house so our children could play cricket together. Disruption forces change and therein lies grace: either you seek the kingdom of God or harden your heart. That doesn’t mean you say yes to everything – it’s just that the possibility of widening your heart is there on special offer. 

The disruption is also there in breaking apart our life in Putney. Rhiannon has her own questions to examine but I’m beginning to think through the vision of the Church. Through different media, the pain currently experienced in the Church of England with regard to the Church’s inclusion of LGBTQIA+ Christians is being drawn out like nails dragged across a blackboard. But being away I have time to reflect on the role of a priest and a church in a community. Through study and fifteen years ministry I have developed a vision of what a priest is and what a church is. This vision can decay or petrify if left unexamined. Even more likely is a reversion of all activity to administration. Under pressure, most people will revert to answering emails, adjusting the website and keeping the show running. The parish I’m sure is running perfectly well in my absence (or no one is telling me!), which begs the question: when I return how can I remain unnecessary so as to cause not a reversion, but an expansion? Not that we as a church necessarily need to be doing more, but how can our returning bring something fresh, and how can I support all those who have stepped up in their calling in my absence? And how will this disruption in my life and ministry transform my calling? How will it help me follow Christ and serve his Church?

The Maharana Pratap Memorial in Udaipur