Category: We make the road by walking

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.

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.

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?