 ‘Sometimes I arrive just when God’s ready to have someone click the shutter.’ (Ansel Adams) I was completely blown away this Easter weekend by a presentation by world-renowned Peter Caton: a ‘documentary photographer with a social conscience’. I found it incredibly inspiring to see a follower of Jesus using his gifts and talents so powerfully on behalf of the poor and most vulnerable people in the world. This was faith in action, love in action, hope in action. As Peter shared brief glimpses of his experiences over the years, ranging from gruelling days spent in crocodile and mosquito-infested waters in South Sudan to precarious hours in harrowingly dangerous refugee camps in Somalia, I felt myself gripped by his resilience and courage. I was moved and impressed by Peter’s personal ethics and humility too. He has no interest in parading himself before the world’s media. Instead, his goal is to raise awareness of the plight of those living, surviving, sometimes thriving in some of the most challenging of circumstances imaginable, to engender action. He always asks permission first, explains exactly how photos will be used, and avoids insensitive or intrusive images of distress. He builds authentic, caring relationships and takes his striking pictures from low-down, looking up at his subjects to preserve and reinforce a sense of human dignity. Peter calls each person by their name. Respect.
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 ‘Let’s set the world afire.’ (Francis Xavier) If you’re unfamiliar with Ash Wednesday, it’s a Christian ritual that marks the beginning of a season of preparing ourselves spiritually as we approach Easter. In some traditions, it’s marked by receiving a symbol of a cross of ash on the forehead: a sign of our own weakness and our need for God. It’s a time to face up to, in ourselves and in the world, what Francis Spufford calls the ‘human propensity to f*** things up’. Lent, the period that leads from Ash Wednesday to Easter, is an opportunity to do just that. It challenges us to speak truth to ourselves about our part in the mess; to look at God as if in a mirror and to see ourselves and the world through his eyes. It calls us to look beneath our daily distractions to Someone infinitely more important. On this theme, I loved reading Meghan Ashley’s reflections (below). With real honesty and a touch of light-hearted humour, she expresses the spirit of Ash Wednesday beautifully: ‘I STILL get excited to see what type of cross the priest gave me and if he gave me a good one. Last year, I got a really light one that looked like a smudge. I went to work, and a coworker informed me that I had something on my head. MAJOR FACE PALM. Why couldn’t I just get a good cross to match my coordinating outfit?! I was prepped and ready for a good one!! Ughhh. However, I learned a good lesson that day. The lesson totally makes me realize that I’m a little distracted by the facade and should focus on the crazy, mind-blowing meaning… right?! My ashes remind me to grieve my division from God because of my sinning. That is BIG stuff. Grande. We have such beautiful rich traditions and spirituality, that it’s so easy to take it at 'face' value.’ And today, more than ever, I remind myself: ‘In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.’ (George Orwell)  ‘It isn’t death that frightens us. No, what shocks us is life, and the possibility of life. It is life that terrifies us, and life that makes us speechless.’ (James Koester) Three weeks. Three countries. Three birthdays. One funeral for a man I never knew. I’ve walked through a Nazi concentration camp with its dark history still pressing in like a weight. I’ve knelt at the grave of a special woman I did once know, many years ago, who died too young. I’ve prayed with Ukrainian refugees: their voices silent, who spoke only with tears. I’ve watched an assassination attempt unfold live on TV: chaos, history in motion. In the midst, kindness has found me. Close friends have held me. Strangers have welcomed me. Life goes on. I’ve wandered in snow-covered mountains, stared at ice-lit lakes and let nature remind me: beauty and pain coexist. Henri Nouwen’s Prodigal, the story of a return, has been pulling me closer to God. This journey hasn’t just been about crossing borders – it has also been within. Twists, turns, highs, lows. No map, no script. Just the road ahead. And I keep walking.  ‘There are no permanent friends or enemies in international relations, only permanent interests.’ (Henry Kissinger) The third anniversary of Russia’s attack on Ukraine came and went this week with some hints of progress towards an end to the war. A possible deal or sorts, amidst shifting blame, and against the backdrop of disturbing rumours of hidden geopolitical manoeuvrings behind the scenes. It felt hard not to see Ukraine as trapped in the middle – a David now caught between two Goliaths as one friend put it – seemingly powerless at the hands of bigger, crushing and grabbing forces. In the middle of the mess, we saw the UK straddling two horses – with its Prime Minister in thin disguise asserting himself as the new leader of Europe (another land grab, of sorts, while his German and French counterparts were floundering in political chaos); whilst also sacrificing the poor in the world to the insatiable god of war in a bid to win approval of the world’s new President. I felt sick as I watched the news, seeing a leader sell his nation's soul for political expediency. I wondered what I might do if I were in his position of power and responsibility. I hope better, and I fear worse. I was brought back down to earth on Wednesday evening at a weekly ‘Prayers for Peace’ event in a cold church building in Germany. A group of ten German people – with I as a visiting Engländer – stood in prayerful solidarity with a group of twenty shy-looking Ukrainian women and children. Each held a candle and some cried with tears of pain and hope. I felt like crying too.  'We are not to simply bandage the wounds of victims beneath the wheels of injustice, we are to drive a spoke into the wheel itself.' (Dietrich Bonhoeffer) At a time when much of the democratic West is shifting politically to the right, I had a very harrowing experience today – visiting Konzentrationslager Flossenbürg, a former Nazi concentration camp in southern Germany. Despite dedicating much of my adult life to trying to prevent the conditions that allow such destructive ideologies to take hold, nothing could have prepared me for the overwhelming weight of such a place. Standing before the memorial stones, each marked with a different flag, I read the staggering numbers – lists of people from various countries who were shot, hanged and burned within its barbed wire walls. I felt again an indescribable horror at the sheer brutality of the Nazi regime. A hard question haunted me: ‘How on earth did things get this bad?’ And equally disturbingly, ‘How is it that we, as humans, are capable of such evil?’ Because this isn’t just history and it isn’t just about them. It’s about us and now. This evening, back in my room, I turned on the TV news. More headlines about the growing success of the AfD in Germany – then Starmer appeasing MAGA Trump by increasing UK weapons spending, whilst deftly slashing the foreign aid budget. (He clearly misunderstood Robin Hood as a child). Rising nationalism. 'Us first' ethnocentrism. Crackdowns on free speech. Preparations for war. Does any of this sound familiar?  ‘Life is the continuing intervention of the inexplicable.’ (Erwin Chargaff) I caught a glimpse of it in my rear view mirror. I remember it vividly. A white Luton box van. I was riding a Honda 550K3 motorcycle, equipped with large white fairing and panniers that made it highly visible. Heading up Highgate Hill in London – a dead straight and steep road where, incidentally, Karl Marx is buried – the van approached. I was doing (confession) 40mph in a 30mph speed limit when, suddenly, the Luton slammed into me from behind with massive impact. The rear of the bike pierced the front of the van and I was thrown violently over the handlebars, landing some distance away. It took 5 police officers to dislodge the twisted bike from the wreck. This memory came to mind this morning when reading Henri Nouwen’s book, ‘The Return of the Prodigal Son’. He mentioned in the Prologue that, in 1983, he did an exhausting trip in the United States, calling on Christian communities to do anything they possibly could to prevent violence and war in Central America. By strange coincidence, at around that same time that I was travelling around the UK with exactly that same goal in mind, although not restricted to faith-based groups. I was engaged in political and human rights activism – and that's when this episode happened. I had just featured in the front cover photo of a campaign magazine, at the lead of a demonstration. The crash: was it a hit? The romantic would-be hero part of me would like to think so – but we'll never know for sure. The police measured the skid marks on the road and estimated the Luton had hit me at c70mph. They found it incredible that such a vehicle could reach that speed on that hill and, furthermore, impossible to imagine that the driver hadn't seen me. To add to the mystery, the driver had given a false name and address. The whole incident was regarded as ‘suspicious and inexplicable.’ I sustained serious back injuries and it took a year to be able to stand again, yet the outcome of this experience opened up a whole new chapter in my life. That’s another story.  ‘If you seek me with all your heart, I will be found by you’, says the Lord, ‘and if you seek yourself you will find yourself – but to your own undoing.’ (Thomas à Kempis) Valentines Day seems like an appropriate occasion to write on the theme of love. While the origins of the event have become misty over time, St Valentine was murdered, by most accounts, because he refused to give up his faith in Jesus, in God who is love. This example of self-sacrifice, like that of Jesus before him, is a hard act to follow. I’ve decided to reflect on a prayer attributed to St Francis, another remarkable example of self-sacrificial love, which draws on Jesus’ and St Paul’s teachings in the Bible, and to use it as my own prayer for today: ‘Make me a channel of your peace. Where there is hatred, let me bring your love. Where there is injury, your pardon Lord. Where there is doubt, true faith in You. Where there is despair in life, let me bring hope. Where there is darkness, only light. Where there is sadness, ever joy. Oh Master, grant that I may never seek so much to be consoled, as to console. To be understood, as to understand. To be loved, as to love with all my soul. It is in pardoning that we are pardoned. It is in giving to all that we receive and in dying that we are born to eternal life.’ 
‘When we know people whose lives are being destroyed and there seems to be no way of reaching them; when people are in impossible situations and there are no words to help them…hold them at the centre of prayer, where the divine Christ dwells, and expose them to the rays of his love.’ (Iain Matthew) Friedensgebet (‘prayers for peace’) felt even more earnest this evening than last time I was here. As we entered the church, each person lit a candle and placed it on a silver cross before a figure of the crucified Christ. It felt like holding the suffering of the world before one who knows what it is to endure pain. The candle I lit barely flickered at first, as if struggling to spark itself into even the tiniest glimmer of a flame. Hope, too, can sometimes feel like that. Those present reflected on certain parallels in German society today with those that preceded the rise of the Nazis so many years ago now. That was an unspeakably dark period in German history which, at times like this, still surfaces, smoulders and burns in the people’s collective psyche. I could feel their sense of concern and anguish about the forthcoming general election. Would Germany learn from its history, or would it find itself condemned to repeat it? As we prayed, I recalled Iain Matthew’s soulful spiritual wisdom: ‘Feel the way to the wound that is in us, to the place of our need. Go there, take it, name it; hold it before Christ. Feel our way to the wounds of this world, to those people or situations in dire need of healing. Go there, take them, name them; and hold them before him. Go there, not to dictate to Christ what the answer should be or what he should do about it; but to hold the wound before him.’ Yes.  ‘We can create together new ways of speaking and acting. We must not remain forever bound by history.’ (Kenneth Gergen) This was a new experience for me. A guided group retreat at a Benedictine monastery in the North of England last week. 3 days of reflections on people’s encounters with Jesus in the gospels, led by a deeply thoughtful and inspiring priest, interspersed with periodic times in a beautiful stone chapel for singing and prayer. I couldn’t sing to save my life, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard such heavenly-sounding voices and echoing harmonies as of those around me. I’m used to silent retreats where I spend time alone in total solitude (or occasionally with other people) before God without speaking a word out loud, so this was and felt very different. At one point, a fellow visitor asked me, ‘Are you a Roman Catholic?’ I wasn’t sure how to answer this question. I don’t tend to think in such categories or to focus on denominational differences. I’m more interested in being and walking with others who are, quite simply, followers of Jesus. So, thinking out loud, struggling clumsily for words, I replied: ‘I first encountered Jesus through Roman Catholic friends and later trained as a Baptist minister. I often find writings by Roman Catholic mystics helpful in my walk with God. I guess that makes me a Roman Baptist, or a Baptist Catholic?’ ‘What does that mean?’, she asked, looking bemused. ‘A blend of Baptist theology and Catholic spirituality.’ ‘Does that even exist?’ she asked, puzzled. ‘It does now.’ When have you found yourself grappling with labels? How have you found ways to navigate through them?  'We don't get to choose how we come into this world - but God gives the freedom to choose how we live in it.' (Frances Cabrini) The end of a year and start of a new one marks a transition point in the calendar and, at times, in our own lives too. It’s an opportunity to look back, re-evaluate, learn and make choices before casting our eyes forward to take next steps in a future direction. I find the best way I can do this is by taking time away from day-to-day distractions in silence, to sit before God and before myself, as if looking into a mirror long and hard to face whatever may surface into awareness. This kind of reflective examination sometimes helps me to avoid falling into repeating patterns of thought and action, often based more on habitual routines than on conscious decisions. Part of the challenge we may encounter is self-deception; made more difficult by subconscious projection (that is, framing others in ways that distort reality) and introjection (that is, framing ourselves in ways that distort reality). The subconscious part means we do it without being aware that we’re doing it. It’s a kind of fooling ourselves about fooling ourselves – a double bind, if you like. There’s a risk, on the one hand, that we believe what we want to believe – which is a way of defending ourselves from anxiety, confusion or stress – or, on the other, we believe what we fear most – which is a sign, driver and consequence of anxiety. And both without knowing it. So how can we get past this? I try a number of strategies. On the foundational hope, purpose and ethics front, I reflect prayerfully on the Bible and on other spiritual resources. On the professional development front, including to address my own hidden assumptions and risks of avoidance, I employ a talented coach who’s high in stimulus and in challenge. On the fresh thinking front, I network, read articles and write blogs to share and invite insights and ideas with and from others. On the international front, I work cross-culturally and, on occasion, visit other places and cultures. Taken as a whole, these approaches help me to stay, as well as I can, at the edge of my calling. |
Nick WrightI'm a psychological coach, trainer and OD consultant. Curious to discover how can I help you? Get in touch! 
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