You Hate Nothing That You Have Made

The events of the past few days have literally and figuratively shaken our world. We are in an age where we, even since the days of the last great Tsunami in 2004, can watch a disaster unfold - moment by moment, inch by inch. I doubt that any of us will forget watching an unremitting, unstoppable wall of blackened filthy water consume all things in its path. Modern technology can put us in the middle of a catastrophe in a way that we have never experienced, though allowing us the opportunity then to turn off or log off. 

As Christians, we are in our season of Lent. This is, I think, a unique season where we have a consistent Collect prayer throughout. It is prayed in addition to the collects for the day on the various Sundays, but it remains the spiritual heartbeat in the Church of England liturgical Lent. Its words are as follow:

Almighty and everlasting God, you hate nothing you have made and forgive the sins of all who are penitent: Create and make in us new and contrite hearts, that we, worthily lamenting our sins and acknowledging our wretchedness, may obtain of you, the God of all mercy, perfect remission and forgiveness; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

It is a beautiful prayer, perhaps laden with the uncomfortable language of the Middle Ages, but none the less potent. I was struck last week by the tragic event that unfolded in Japan, while set against the backdrop of this prayer that forms another of my own focuses. The notion that God hates nothing that God has made is somehow benign in 'normal' time, but takes on an entirely different character in the wake of the earthquake whose aftershocks still shake as I write this. 

I was asked twice, quite reasonably, on Friday how God could allow such a thing to happen and for so many countless (and as yet uncounted) thousands to lose their lives. I have prayed about this at times in my own life, and in those times where our world seemed to be struck by yet another celestial thunderbolt. It became clear to me that God no more lets this happen to a living planet than I, as a parent, let my children fall and hurt themselves - yet it happens. Our planet is alive - it was made that way. For its life and ours, there needs to be certain 'behaviours' that our Earth experiences. It needs to move through space and it needs to 'breathe'. For these to not happen would mean that we could not and would not exist. These things I understand. These behaviours are the means by which our world is beautiful, that for many of us, a spring day can give way to a beautiful summer and a fruitful autumn. If Earth were a turgid rock, frozen and still, we would not be and we would be no more than a larger version of our moon - and yes, endlessly safe. Such a living planet demands all the shades of colour that life imply - the good and the bad. 

I have no doubt at all that our loving God grieves every lost life in every natural disaster. I grieve the injuries that my children sustain but I cannot immobilise them into an inert and eternally safe environment. I would kill them in one way or another by wanting to keep them safe from any harm or the costs of living life fully. I pray for the people of Japan as well as those people in the places where life is thrown into chaos by the life our planet needs to live. what I cannot do, though, is blame God. God is not to blame, although I understand the need to wave our fists at heaven at times. In my frailty as a human being, if I can love my children enough and be a source of comfort when they feel pain, I have such hope that in the face of a global injury where so many have lost their lives and families are left in tatters, that God can be a source of light and hope for us all as he grieves with us. God hates nothing that God has made, and with such love, everything is not lost. 


The essence of my sermon preached yesterday (as distinct from the one that I had prepared and didn't preach)

Through the eyes of children

As a child of the Seventies, I was very much coming to terms with being in the world at about the time that Bob Geldof called the world to action over the famine in Ethiopia. I just remember Live Aid, the Christmas record with all those popsters from my teenage past, The ITV Telethon, and subsequently Children in Need etc etc. The call to action to correct an ill in the world is as familiar to me as my own nose, and I have discovered that I was immunised to the horror that unfolded on my TV screen with such regularity (my nose is fairly horrific too, but that is another post for later). Even Hurrican Katrine in all its consuming horror and pain felt somehow routine, I am sad to say.

Until Haiti.

Until my two-year old daughter saw the news images of dust-covered children crying. Until she asked me why the baby girl was crying. Until she asked me where her mummy was. Until she asked me why she didn't have any toys. Until she wanted to know why her house had fallen down and broken her bedroom. I hope, for as long as I live, that I never have to explain an earthquake and its effects to a two-year old. They know enough to know when they are being fobbed off. They know enough to know that something bad has happened. To explain 'because she has lost her toys', 'why', 'because her house fell over', 'why', 'because sometimes the floor shakes', 'why', 'because there are big rocks in the floor and some of them fell over', 'so where is her mummy', 'I dont know baby', 'is she still in the house?', 'I thing she might be, yes', 'can she go to the doctor, daddy?', 'no, baby', 'why', 'because the hospital is broken', 'can I give her a cuggle daddy', 'she would like a cuggle, love' - and my heart aches.

I now know what got Bob Geldof. I get it. My immunisation has worn off because I was forced to a view a tragedy through the lens of innocence. Rebekah returned to the same questions all day. She doesn't understand death, but she recognised and empathised with real pain, the pain of one she saw who was of the same age. 

How do I begin to pray for Haiti? My heart and mind isn't big enough, my will strong enough or my prayerfulness sufficient. I can do little else for that dusty little girl than throw money into a hole and hope that somehow, she will gain from my meagre offering. I, like my baby girl, think about that child often. 

May God bless her, and all those caught up in such an accute tragedy.