To celebrate Easter, some of us met for communion and breakfast this morning. As part of the service, we created the following liturgy together;

resurrection turns brokenness into healing and wholeness
resurrection turns war into peace
resurrection turns illness into health
resurrection turns random into meaningful
resurrection turns injustice and suffering into justice and joy
resurrection turns rejection into acceptance
resurrection turns hate and fear into love
resurrection turns incompleteness into completeness.

when jesus comes again people will no longer feel the need to hurt each other
when jesus comes again we won't be constrained by hips and gall stones and colitis and cancer and AIDS
when jesus comes again people will treat each other like god is in everyone
when jesus comes again we will all be alert in the morning
when jesus comes again people will know themselves as they really are, not depressed, but able to change
when jesus comes again people will look up and know god.

According to Radio 4 (and they should know) Good Friday is the most holy day on the Christian church’s calendar.

That got me thinking: what makes any day holy has a lot to do with how much I invest in that day. I know sometimes the sly Spirit of God can take me by surprise when following routine sacraments, but these can just as easily be empty routines as much as close encounters with my Father in heaven.

When I was a teenager – a new Christian – holy week was a busy one for me: Wednesday evening bible study; Maundy Thursday communion; Good Friday morning communion and meditation; Sunday services; and, last but not least, the Easter Monday ramble. I was seen to be investing my time into the right activities and got a lot ‘glory points’ from my peers.

30 years on I spend less hours of the week in church, take communion less often and am seen observing sacraments by fewer of my fellow Christians. That said, I think I invested more of myself when praying while walking the dog on Friday morning than I did throwing back a glass of alcohol free wine at the age of 15.

If I take time out, on any day, in any place, to invest a portion of myself in communing with God, then I think the holiness of that moment, of that place, will suffice for me. Similarly, Holy Communion with friends round a dining room table is of equal value to me than any priest-led sacrament. This is probably due to its immediacy and intimacy.

Don’t get me wrong, organised church worship is precious to me – but it isn’t always there when I need it. Take Holy Saturday for example – this day when Christ’s disciples were in hiding, bemused by the events of the last few days. I can relate to those emotions and investing in a communion with God is as important for me today as it was yesterday or tomorrow.

Perhaps you’d like to join me and light your own metaphorical (or actual) Paschal candle – an expectant vigil in readiness for the celebration of Easter Sunday, stating by faith:

“Christ is risen from the dead;
trampling down death by death;
and upon those in tombs; bestowing life.”

“May the light of Christ, rising in glory,
banish all darkness from our hearts and minds.
The lit candle is now a symbol of Christ,
risen as the light of the world, and come into the midst of the people.”

You can do this when walking the dog, when comforting your child, when washing up. It could be the most holy moment of the weekend.

We first visited Shooting Star Children’s Hospice on Good Friday last year, just after our baby daughter, Lydia, had been diagnosed with a life-limiting condition. Since then, we have stayed on a regular basis for respite care and, one day in the not too distant future, it may be the place where she dies, or at least where we will take her body in between her death and the funeral.

The hospice is an incredible place where the beauty of life and the reality of death exist side by side. Going there always feels both life-giving and daunting, as we watch and wait with our girl, not knowing how many days or weeks or months we may have left with her.

At the hospice, the miracle of life feels tangible. It’s a light and airy building, the colours seem brighter and the joy deeper. Perhaps it’s unsurprising that the preciousness of life is more striking in a context where its fragility is all too real. I am tossed around within this mystery every time I walk down the main corridor. Along this corridor you can find the main rooms of fun: the multi-sensory room with its lights and bubbles and ball pool, the arts and crafts room with all things creative, and the warm-as-a-bath hydrotherapy pool. In the midst of all this is the entrance to the ‘Tranquil Suite’ where families can stay with their children after they’ve died. Every time I walk past this door I wonder how long it will be before we’ll be going in there, how it will feel, what she will look like.

Some days I struggle to walk past this door, I want to go in and wreak havoc in a space which is meant to be tranquil, where the flowers are neatly tended, the cushions nicely plumped and the fine china cups and saucers await to comfort the next grief-stricken family. And I know I am not ready for what is to come.

On other days, I am glad to walk past this door, glad because it reminds me of the preciousness of today, because it puts things into perspective, draws me to slow down, to breathe more deeply, to marvel at living in the middle of this confusing dance between life and death.

So the door feels like a gift, a quiet but vital reminder of the reality of death in the midst of life, there to provoke the whole gamut of emotion which accompanies the journey of grief and from which we run at our peril.

A year on, another Good Friday, and we’re invited to sit again with Mary as she watches and waits through the torment of Jesus’ death and she’s left cradling her dead son in her arms. How did this embrace feels? And who was holding who? Often, when holding Lydia, I have a sense that while it’s me that physically holds her floppy and fitting body, it is really she who holds me, who is the strong one, who is walking on this journey with all the trust and faith which I lack, who wraps me in love and assures me that all will be well, and I aspire to be more like her. I wonder if it will still feel like that one day holding Lydia’s body in the tranquil suite? Today, as we take Jesus’ body down from the cross, and cradle him in our arms, I wonder if we might allow him to hold us, to comfort us, to be for us whatever we need him to be, even just for a moment, to be held....

And you held me – by Janet Morley

and you held me and there were no words
and there was no time and you held me
and there was only wanting and
being held and being filled with wanting
and I was nothing but letting go
and being held
and there were no words and there
needed to be no words
and there was no terror only stillness
and I was wanting nothing and
it was fullness and it was like aching for God
and it was touch and warmth and
darkness and no time and no words and we flowed
and I flowed and I was not empty
and I was given up to the dark and
in the darkness I was not lost
and the wanting was like fullness and I could
hardly hold it and I was held and
you were dark and warm and without time and
without words and you held me

(photo: Jonny Baker)

I have led a Lent course over the last few weeks on desert spirituality. It meant that my Lent has been incredibly busy with preparation on top of work; I've felt like a complete hypocrite standing in front of people and encouraging them to embrace solitude and silence when I have had so little myself.

Solitude is a choice to withdraw from the world to spend time with God. It’s about getting rid of all distractions and all the things that make us feel comfortable and secure. It’s more than finding privacy or personal space, or having rest and relaxation. Solitude is being honest and open with God about who we are, and whose we are - it’s the place where we discover who God really is. It’s the place where we have to admit to our own sin and brokenness. It's the place where we are transformed.

There was a brother in a monastery who had a rather turbulent temperament; he often became angry. So he said to himself, ‘I will go and live in my own. If I have nothing to do with anyone else, I shall live in peace and my passions shall be soothed.’ Off he went to live in solitude in a cave. One day when he had filled his jug with water he put it on the ground and it tipped over. So he picked it up and filled it again – and again it tipped over. He filled it a third time, put it down and over it went again. He was furious; he grabbed the jug and smashed it. Then he came to his senses and realised that he had been tricked by the devil. He said, ‘since I have been defeated, even in solitude, I’d better go back to the monastery. Conflict is to be met everywhere, but so is patience and so is the help of God. So he got up and went back to where he came from.

That monk discovered in solitude that his bad temper was not caused by other people who were being unreasonable – it was deep within him. So solitude is the place where we face our own brokenness, but it’s also the place where we dwell in the gentle healing presence of Jesus and where we are transformed to be like him. As well as being aware of our brokenness, we become more aware of the nature of God and of his transforming power.

I am sure that comparing an individual's transformation to giving birth to a child is not original, but it's a useful metaphor for me, nonetheless. I imagine that most of us go through numerous transformations during our lives (multiple births or re-births!) It has been my experience that the conception, the initial planting of the seed that leads to new life, is thrilling, joyful, and well, yes, sexy. Bringing that new life, fully formed, out into the light for all to see is generally very hard work, painful, and is preceded by a period of utter darkness. (Why is it that babies tend to be born in the wee hours of the morning??)

Which brings me to the help-mates, those who stand by us, and coach us through the darkness. Like the obstetrician or mid-wife during a physical pregnancy, those who guide us on our spiritual journeys seem larger than life during the gestation period...I have been known to develop a great attachment for those who have helped me through spiritual growth spurts much as many women "fall in love" with their doctors during a pregnancy. (I know, there's a psychological term for that!) Of course, I don't stop caring for those help-mates, once a transformation has occurred, but the intensity of our relationship is never quite the same.

Though I tend to favor growing through my relationships with others (finding the Christ in others, if you will), my ultimate help-mate is God. Presenting myself before God is the surest and straightest path to new life. This is helpful to remember, especially, when those we love disappoint us, or are not accessible. In the end, it is God in us, working in us...silently, softly, unobtrusively, and then, when we think we can go no further, bringing us out into light we could never begin to imagine within our own small dark minds.

May you have many opportunities to be transformed by God this Holy Week...and through all the years and Easters to come.

the in-flight movie on the way back from moscow was 'enchanted', in which a disney fairytale princess finds herself transformed by the wicked queen into a real human being in new york "where there are no happy endings". she is desperate to go back to her cartoon world to marry her prince, but when he turns up in the real world to rescue her she finds that she prefers what she has become [and the lawyer who helped her] to the fairytale. which put me in mind of another in-flight movie, 'the devil wears prada', where the heroine's life is transformed by the wicked editor-queen in a way that most would desire - "everyone wants what we have," says the editor as they step out of a limousine in paris. at which point our cinderella flees, leaving only a mobile phone behind, and returns to her dowdy old life.

two fairytale transformations, then, one accepted even though apparently 'down', one rejected even though apparently 'up'. life changes us, and god changes us. sometimes we seek it, sometimes it's against our will. do we accept or reject what we are becoming, and on what grounds? how much choice do we have? i believe we have an inner compass from god, which tells us where the true path is, where our true self in god is, even when we are dragged away from what we thought were our hopes and dreams, even when we are dragged away by god. but it's hard to tell maturity from damage, sometimes. i have to keep giving myself back to god, have to trust and say to god "who do you think i am?"

and now i have to post this by midnight, or turn into a pumpkin :)