Peter Sidebotham, Author at Unforced Rhythms

Sidebotham P, Appleton J (2014) From 2014 to 2015 and Beyond: Using Evidence to Promote the Protection of Children Worldwide. Child Abuse Review 23(1): 1-4

January 26, 2015January 26, 2015

Learning to live

Welcome to my new, updated website: Vacare Deo – learning to live in the unforced rhythms of grace.

The past three years have been an incredible journey for me – a journey of upheaval, discovery, challenges and joys. I have struggled, and continue to struggle, with grief at the loss of my wonderful wife, Helen; with questions and yearnings in the face of all the violence, injustice, abuse and hatred in this world; with the clutter and busyness of 21st century life. At the same time, I have felt myself to be enormously blessed – through my amazing children; my fulfilling and inspiring work; the many loving friends who have carried me through these years; and the unexpected joy I have found with my new wife Lois.

Perhaps in all of this we are all the same: we all have our own griefs, our struggles, our joys and blessings.

So I have revamped these pages to be a resource and sounding board for those who, like me, long to live life fully, in the unforced rhythms of grace. If I can share some of the reflections and resources I have found helpful, if they can be even a small blessing to others, and if, in turn, others feel able to add their own thoughts and ideas through comments and posts, then maybe this will achieve something worthwhile.

I will try to add the occasional blog when I feel I have something worth sharing. In the meantime, I invite you to explore the different pages, and to let me know what you think.

May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

traditional Gaelic blessing

January 18, 2015January 24, 2015

Learning to listen

The Lord calls Samuel

The boy Samuel ministered before the Lord under Eli. In those days the word of the Lord was rare; there were not many visions.

²One night Eli, whose eyes were becoming so weak that he could barely see, was lying down in his usual place. ³The lamp of God had not yet gone out, and Samuel was lying down in the house of the Lord, where the ark of God was.⁴Then the Lord called Samuel.

Samuel answered, ‘Here I am.’ ⁵And he ran to Eli and said, ‘Here I am; you called me.’

But Eli said, ‘I did not call; go back and lie down.’ So he went and lay down.

⁶Again the Lord called, ‘Samuel!’ And Samuel got up and went to Eli and said, ‘Here I am; you called me.’

‘My son,’ Eli said, ‘I did not call; go back and lie down.’

⁷Now Samuel did not yet know the Lord: the word of the Lord had not yet been revealed to him.

⁸A third time the Lord called, ‘Samuel!’ And Samuel got up and went to Eli and said, ‘Here I am; you called me.’

Then Eli realised that the Lord was calling the boy. ⁹So Eli told Samuel, ‘Go and lie down, and if he calls you, say, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”’ So Samuel went and lay down in his place.

¹⁰The Lord came and stood there, calling as at the other times, ‘Samuel! Samuel!’

Then Samuel said, ‘Speak, for your servant is listening.’

1 Samuel 3: 1-10 (NIV)

This passage from 1 Samuel is all about learning to listen. We find it hard to listen, to be still: too many things clutter our lives and our minds.

One discipline I have found helpful in learning to listen is the practice of Lectio Divina.

The practice of lectio divina, from the Benedictine tradition, is a well-established approach to engaging directly with God’s Word.[1] There are four stages involved:

Start by slowly reading a passage of the Bible (you could try this now using the first four verses of 1 Samuel 3), then rereading it slowly, sometimes three or four times, until a particular word, phrase, or concept seems to draw your attention.
Spend time repeating and dwelling on that word or phrase, exploring it, seeking the meaning in it for you, for us. Observe the thoughts and feelings that arise in response to the word, and allow these to probe your attitudes, beliefs, and emotions.
In response to that word, talk with God, not being afraid to express your deepest thoughts, feelings, hopes, and fears. You can do this silently or out loud, or use different media, such as journaling, art, music, or movement.
Having expressed yourself, you finally become still, resting in the Holy One’s presence, letting go of your thoughts and feelings, and just being with the God who loves you.

Hold on to what came out of that. You may want to return to it over breakfast/coffee; later on your own or with family or friends; over lunch; writing in your journal.

Direct words from God are rare. But God does speak – it may just be a nudge, something that seems to stick with you, something that grows on you over time. Don’t lose it. It is OK if you didn’t experience anything – it is a start, just learning to be still. God is present; we need to learn to become aware of God’s presence and to hear God’s voice.

We really find it difficult to listen to God.

Perhaps the following experience sounds familiar to you. You decide to spend some time praying. Maybe you’ll stop by the church during the day. Or maybe you have set up a special place in your house with an altar, a picture or a candle. Perhaps you have a favourite outdoor spot, and you are determined to go to one of these places and spend half an hour with God.

The time arrives, you have made a space in your schedule around school or work, and so you go and sit down. Then you remember that you have one more quick call to make. Or maybe you left the stereo on. So you go and take care of that problem. Upon returning to your prayer space, you realise that your clothes are not really comfortable enough, and you are sure that if you just put on those comfy jogging bottoms, everything will be fine. So you go and change.

When you finally return you feel unsettled, and so you think that you should read some scripture before you begin to pray – just to get your mind in the proper place. After spending a few minutes deciding what scripture to read, you find a passage that seems appropriate and read it. Then your mobile phone rings. Even though you have an answering feature, you just can’t quite resist the urge to pick up the phone and see who is there.

After a ten –minute conversation, you feel wound up and distracted. You realise you need to do a lot that day. Looking at the clock, you see that 25 of your 30 minutes have passed. Telling yourself that this was not the right time to pray, you vow to try again later that evening and, turning your attention to the tasks before you, you head off into the rest of your day.

Daniel Wolpert, Creating a life with God, p 24

Here are some suggestions on how to improve our listening:

Acknowledge that we are in God’s presence. In the Old Testament, God’s presence was perceived to be in the temple, with the ark of the covenant. With Jesus, we recognise that God’s presence is with us always. We (communal) become God’s temple. 2 Cor 6:16 – ‘We are the temple of the living God, you see, just as God said: “I will live among them and walk about with them; I will be their God, and they will be my people.”’
Practice intentionally being in God’s presence. Listening takes practice. Being still takes practice. Start small – maybe five minutes a day. Find a place where you can be still. Put yourself in a posture to listen. Be still. You could try focusing on your breathing, or say a single word – e.g. one of the names of God, or the Jesus prayer. Gradually build up the time of your silence: 5 minutes; 10 minutes; 20 minutes.
Develop a rhythm of prayer. You could use the Trinity prayer pattern.
Find some resources to help you: read a book on contemplative prayer; do a retreat in daily life; join one of the quiet days at Offa House; commit to a full residential silent retreat
Learn to distinguish God’s voice. You need to be immersed in God’s word; spending time regularly and intentionally with God. In his book, Soul Survivor, Paul Hawker gives some helpful pointers on how to distinguish thoughts from God; from myself; from non-heavenly spiritual realms.
Celebrate and share what happens.

Learning to listen

Growing up to be a child, chapter 11

So we need to learn afresh how to communicate with God. This has to start with learning to listen in new ways. It seems to me that this new way of listening doesn’t come naturally. Over the years, we have laid down patterns of listening that don’t leave space for hearing God. These patterns have become fixed in our brains and perhaps in our hearts and souls. Too many other things get in the way of our seeing or hearing God. So we need to become again like little children, allowing God to teach us new ways of listening and looking. We need to quieten ourselves and remove other distractions to allow God to speak to us in ways that we can hear.

The pattern of communication I described above relies on pauses. The baby may vocalise or make some expression, but then she stills herself, listens, and watches her mother for a reaction. We often seem to miss this in our prayers, in which we do all the talking but forget to pause and listen, to give God space to respond.

God doesn’t shout to gain our attention. It seems to me that the Holy One communicates gently, in whispers. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks expresses this beautifully in a reflection on Elijah’s encounter with God on Mount Horeb [2]:

God tells Elijah to stand on the mountain, ‘for the Lord is about to pass by.’ Suddenly there is a great and powerful wind that tears the mountains apart and shatters the rocks. But God is not in the wind. Then there is an earthquake. But God is not in the earthquake. Then there is a fire. But God is not in the fire. After the fire comes a still, small voice. God is in that voice.

There are many ways of translating the Hebrew phrase for ‘a still, small voice.’ Some prefer ‘a gentle whisper.’ Others, more accurate to the original, render it ‘the sound of a fine silence.’ My own interpretation is different. What is a ‘still, small voice’? It is a sound you can only hear if you are listening …

God does not impose Himself on His image, mankind. On the contrary, God – like a true parent – creates space for His children to grow. He is always there, but only if we seek Him. His word is always present, but only if we listen. Otherwise we do not hear it at all.

God is the music of all that lives, but there are times when all we hear is noise. The true religious challenge is to ignore the noise and focus on the music. The great command of the Bible, ‘Shema Yisrael,’ does not mean, ‘Hear, O Israel.’ It means ‘Listen.’ Listening, we hear. Searching, we find.[3]

Learning to be still, to be silent and attentive, is a key part of becoming like a child. In a child’s social development, comprehension comes before expression, listening before speaking. So often we tend to rush into God’s presence with a lot of words, babbling away, bombarding the Holy One with our needs and desires, and never giving any space for God to speak to us. If we are to become like little children, we need to turn that round and learn instead to listen. That will take practice and presence.

With that in mind, I want to finish this chapter – a chapter on communication – with a simple prayer from Esther de Waal[4]:

Uncrowd my heart, O God,

until silence speaks

in your still, small voice;

turn me from the hearing of words,

and the making of words,

and the confusion of much speaking,

to listening,

waiting,

stillness,

silence.

[1] A helpful exploration of the meaning and practice of lectio divina can be found in M. Basil Pennington. ‘A Christian way to transformation’. Spirituality Today. 1983; 35(3): 220–229.

[2] 1 Kings 19.

[3] J. Sacks. Celebrating life. London: Continuum, 2000.

[4] E. de Waal. Lost in wonder. Norwich, UK: Canterbury Press, 2003, 42.

May 16, 2014January 21, 2015

A different resurrection story

Is the Creator here, too, in our garden,

walking quietly in the cool of the morning,

putting finishing touches to this magnum opus?

Surely it is an opus Dei.

Profusion of colours brought forth

by the intensity of the radiant sun

which yet is behind me, hidden and distant.

Deep copper plum bursting forth against

the sleek, smooth sky;

Blue undefiled by man-made stain;

Bright green of next door’s lime picked out

by the light,

demanding my attention in the contrast;

and the steadfast poplar,

bright bundles of leaves striving

to fill every space between

each solid, upright trunk.

An ongoing work of creation.

Fountains of white pour forth into the cooler shades;

Starbursts of ivory and gold;

Tiny dabs of blue, pink, red.

Opus operantis.

I am touched by this morning sacrament,

this work of grace.

The cool, hushed air floods in

through my open doors,

touching my face,

causing me to pull my warming blanket

more tightly round;

Bringing with it a symphony of song.

Constantly changing.

Not yesterday’s chorus.

This is today.

A new day.

Beginning.

Can I, too, walk with the Creator

in my morning garden

and help to make this

resurrection day?

April 27, 2014January 21, 2015

The Sabbath is over

Dawn was breaking on the first day of the week; the Sabbath was over.

So Matthew, in a quiet, unassuming way, begins his account of the resurrection.

Their sabbath was over – the three years they had spent with Jesus, following him as their disciples; learning; journeying; resting – a break from their ordinary lives. A time during which they had been close to Jesus, being in his presence.

And then there was their other sabbath – a day of tiredness after the intense turmoil of the previous week. A day of deep, deep grief, of loss, of perplexity and confusion. A day of utter exhaustion – physical, emotional, spiritual. Spent.

What had it all been about? Why? Their hopes crushed; their world shaken. Jesus was dead. God was dead.

The sabbath was over. Had it all been nonsense – a meaningless break from the drudgery of life? What next? Would they simply go back to the humdrum of their ordinary lives? Would everything go back to where it had been before? Nothing changed?

No. The sabbath was over; but that wasn’t the end. A new day was dawning. The first day of the week. A new week. A new beginning. Spring was coming. New life was about to burst forth. Everything had changed, and they were about to discover the wonder of the resurrection. Out of the sabbath – the rest, the stillness, the companionship, the joy; out of that other sabbath – the grief, the exhaustion, the suffering, the tomb; out of all that would come the risen Jesus, his gentle presence with them – touching, healing, leading, bringing hope and joy and infinite love.

So, too, with me. My sabbath is over. My three months in New Zealand – the rest, the refreshment, the time and space to be still and present – with God, in the midst of God’s creation. And the honeymoon – the wonderful surprise of my new relationship with Lois, the joy of being together, the time of holiday. The wedding is finished, the guests have gone.

So, too, my sabbath of grief is over – the winter, the dark night; the grief, the tiredness, the exhaustion. That, too, is over, laid down. Jesus has taken it and laid it in his tomb. Out of the harrowing, the fallow ground, new life is breaking forth.

For us, too, a new day is dawning. A day full of possibilities and hope; of wonder, of excitement, of new joys, of love.

Spring.

A fresh start.

Resurrection.

March 22, 2014January 21, 2015

Five nights in Bangladesh

While the world’s cricket teams battled it out on the fields of Bangladesh in the ICC 20:20 series, I, too, was facing my own battles, wondering what on earth I was doing here for five nights at the end of this incredible sabbatical.

I had been so warmly welcomed by Brigadier General Golam Zakaria and his wife, met off the plane and whisked to the VIP lounge, bypassing the long queues at immigration and customs, and driven to their home through the dusty streets of Dhaka.

Dhaka. Never before had I seen her streets, and yet they were all so devastatingly familiar: the children selling peanuts and roses between the jostling rows of cars, motorbikes, rickshaws and busses at each impatient junction; the luxury hotels and businesses vying for space with the shoddy apartments, one-room factories, and the multitudes whose homes waited patiently, wrapped in tarpaulins at the sides of the roads; the dust, the noise, the chaos, the pollution.

And, alongside all that, the colour, the life, the flavours and smells. I was back in Asia. Yet something in me was unsettled. And my body and spirit chose to rebel.

Unusually for me, it was my gastro-intestinal tract that was the first to strike – staging an all-out violent revolution that left me, 36 hours and three toilet rolls later, feeling washed out and longing for home.

But the bigger battle was coming face to face, once again, with the stark realities of wealth and privilege, poverty, and futility. Why was I, with all my years of visiting Asia, finding this so hard?

I had been treated, on my first full day, to a personal tour of one of the Capital’s finest private hospitals: its cleanliness, efficiency and resources rivalling any in the West. The privileged haven of Bangladesh’s elite few, proudly displaying its grandeur, and, at the same time, offering small charities to many in need.

That evening, after a wonderful meal at the golf club restaurant (the probable source of my alimentary rebellion), I was treated to even more rich fare at the home of the chief executive of the hospital and their linked pharma corporation. In luxurious surroundings, I heard of the wonderful achievements of the hospital and pharmaceuticals, of their plans for further expansion, of their links with prestigious institutions elsewhere, and of their magnanimous acts of charity – like many in this country, using their wealth, both personal and corporate, for the good of their fellow-citizens. Philanthropy is such a strong ethos here, followed with equal diligence to the other pillars of their faith.

And meanwhile, my friend Nasreen’s brother, lay unconscious on the intensive care unit of that same hospital, ventilated with ARDS following a pulmonary embolism, while the whole family gathered in distress, wondering what to do next, having used all their resources to pay for the first eleven days of treatment.

Was it only the pending gastroenteritis that left the sumptuous food tasting bland in my mouth?

But who am I to criticise? I who have been paraded throughout these few days as an eminent professor of paediatrics who works tirelessly on behalf of the poor all around the world; lauded as a great philanthropist; brought out to a small village to run a sham clinic, dishing out placebo vitamins and worm tablets to 62 undernourished, but otherwise healthy village children; asked to give my blessing and advice to the numerous small projects set up by those who genuinely want to serve and help the poor?

Perhaps I could just keep up the pretence; continue to fool others, if not myself, that I really am a great hero, and that everything I do really is making a difference.

But it doesn’t make a difference. Not to the sixty two children I saw on Friday morning, most of whom will never complete school, and have no long term hopes of meaningful employment. Not to the fourteen year old child-bride who served me roti with coconut. Not to the old lady, with no possessions but the sari she stood in as she knocked desperately at the window of our air-conditioned car.

March 15, 2014January 21, 2015

Wellington: the city never sleeps

The hours and I lie awake, listening to the sounds of the city night. Across the way a halyard flaps on a flag pole outside the Parliament. A handful of taxis languidly scour the streets, scooping up their home-bound fares from clubs and bars. In the docks below, clunking cranes lift their heavy boxes, while engines shunt backwards and forwards in the marshalling yards. In the city’s streets and homes, sleep cradles the fortunate ones. For many, though, its welcoming arms are as elusive as the clouds that flit between the moon and me.

A homeless person wanders the unforgiving pavements, wondering where she might lay her head. An alcoholic, red-eyed with drink and insomnia, picks up a discarded bottle, to drain a few more dregs, hoping to numb the lonely pain. In a tiny bedsit, and a comfortable home, a baby cries, disturbing her mother for a bottle or a breast. A concierge sits, bored, in the lobby of an hotel. In an emergency department, bright clinical lights forbid sleep to those waiting as the doctors and nurses pass from cubicle to cubicle, assessing, treating, admitting, discharging, while elsewhere in the hospital, the nurses keep their subdued vigils.

A city clock strikes two.

A few more hours and a Tui will herald the coming, rain-damped dawn. The cleaners and morning shifts will rise to take their places, relieving those who have worked the night. The babies will rouse their weary mums, longing for a few more hours on this would-be day of rest. The airport, harbour, hotels and cafés will pick up their reins, and the rest of the city will reluctantly stumble to its feet.

Where, for them, is the peace and joy I’ve known? Can a Ngatiawa stillness be found in Wellington? Or Coventry? What can I do to offer warmth, and welcome, and rest to those who seek it through the city night?