BBQ, the Lord's Table and Zidane

What could these three possibly have in common? This past weekend brought a splendid variety of feasts. On Saturday we hosted a ‘the Brower/Fach clan are back in London’ BBQ. The last time we had such a feast was at Lev’s baptism, close to the time when we were saying farewell to our London friends. At the end of it we both realized that neither of us got much time to catch up with anyone (what with tending the BBQ and running back and forth to the flat to get this and that whilst at the same time making sure one certain toddler didn’t get lost in the bushes). But while such events are never an ideal time for meaningful visiting, they do remind us of what a great (and wonderfully eclectic) group of friends we have.

Sunday found us, for the third time, in one of our local parish churches – St Bride’s Church Fleet Street. Interestingly enough, it is the church for the city’s journalists (being on Fleet Street and all). And it has a magnificent choir. The music is indeed heavenly (at least to our ears). It seems to fit us well. It is – for good or ill – very English. This Sunday the church celebrated Trafalgar Day and many from the Royal Naval Association, Merchant Navy and Royal British Legion were present. The scripture lessons were read by none other than the Second Sea Lord & Commander-in-Chief of the Naval Home Command, the Former General Secretary of the RNA, and the Secretary of the No. 1 Area of the RNA. So very English indeed. It was a fitting day to sing the hymn, ‘Eternal Father, Strong to Save’ with its recurring couplet: ‘O hear us when we cry to thee for those in peril on the sea.’

But it wasn’t so much the pomp and circumstance that struck me (Lev, admittedly, was enthralled by the men and women in uniform and particularly the colourful flags they marched in with). I was particularly moved by the feast at the Lord’s Table. Reactions to liturgy widely vary. For some it is monotonous to say the same words week by week. For others, including myself, the liturgy provides a rhythm of stability. Within this, however, I am always pleasantly surprised by the way different parts of the liturgy stand out for me at different times. It doesn’t always happen. But this Sunday it did and the part that stood out was the theme of forgiveness and mercy.

Certain events had been on my mind: the trial of the man who snuck into a stranger’s home, abducted a little girl while she was having a bath, sexually abused her and left her naked in a nearby alley; the anniversary of the Aberfan disaster where the local schoolhouse was crushed when a coal tip gave way sending an avalanche of coal sludge down the hillside – 144 people were killed, most of them children; and, more recently, the murder of the schoolchildren in the Amish community of Nickel Mines. These events are not made more horrific when you have a child of your own, but they do seem to hit the gut harder.

The reaction of the Amish community has left me with mixed emotions. The love and healing they have offered the wife and family of the murderer of their children is astonishing. I find it bewildering and somewhat unbelievable. But what is more bewildering is that I – an adherent of a faith whose message is steeped in forgiveness – find this response so very foreign – not just to ‘the world’, but to me.

I believe it is possible, by the grace of God, to forgive. But as I uttered the familiar words of the Lord’s Prayer, ‘…and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,’ I was in serious doubt of my ability to do so in similar circumstances. What does ‘by the grace of God’ mean, then? Could it be that when I feast on the bread and wine of the Lord’s table each week I, in offering up my empty hands, am offering up my inability? Is my constant need to ‘feed on him’ a recognition of the reality that I will never have the resources? Yet I do believe that there are people – this particular Amish community is an example – who feast in such a way that while they, too, do not possess these resources on their own, they truly embody the forgiveness Christ offers. I haven’t been tested to this extent, but my suspicion is that I’m not there yet. For me, the post-communion hymn, ‘Praise, My Soul, the King of Heaven’, was poignant – especially the lines, ‘Who like me his praise should sing?’ and ‘Well our feeble frame he knows’.

On a much lighter note, I went – for the second time in my life – to the cinema alone. Our local cinema is showing ‘Zidane’. As one reviewer said, watching it is like being a parent at the school nativity play with the camcorder focused solely on Mary (your child!). Zidane is a don, the don. Not to mention a gorgeous hunk of a man. But could I – a football fan, but not an avid one – watch an entire match with the camera focused solely on him? At first it was a bit odd, but I soon realised that I had been taken in and was mesmerized. An indulgent feast indeed.