Today there will be plenty of water coming towards me. It’s what would be my mother’s 68th birthday, but this post isn’t really about that. Not because the date doesn’t matter, but just because it turns out that those people who pat you on the back at funerals are partly right after all: time really does heal. [Why partly? Because some wounds are too deep, too unnatural and too unexpected to avoid long-term damage.]

Today I’ll look downstream. This week my daughter travels to Africa for the first time. She’s nine and I’m excited to be going along for the ride. It’s a long story – one that involves a remarkable family in Uganda who opened up their home to orphans twenty years ago and who went on to set up a primary school for them and others a decade later. A year or so ago the source of their funding started to dry up – call it internal politics, bad fortune or a great opportunity for others to join in the adventure. Whatever was behind it, the fact is that we’re in the privileged position to be able to join in with others to help the school get back on its feet.

And this is the point of this post: I don’t have to look downstream to know where the water comes from. I don’t have to look to the past to know that the legacy and love of others remains in force today. I don’t have to reconstruct hazy images of my mum in action to know that her influence flows with equal parts grace and force through her granddaughter.

So, happy birthday mum. We’re off to get wet.

And as we wedged ourselves into the town-centre church to celebrate the thousands of lives of homeless men and women that had been improved by this ever-growing charity, I prepared to speak on the idea of the ‘unlikely candidate’. It’s precisely what my mum was. She wasn’t well educated about the issues of addiction or well versed in the socio-political influences that lie behind the horror of homelessness. She wasn’t much of a public speaker and she wasn’t all that good at managing conflicting interests within a growing organisation. So, yes, she was an unlikely candidate.

Aren’t we all? I mean, if you really think about it, which of us are in any way qualified to do anything that courses with the life-blood of God’s purpose and power? What gives any of us the right to expect God to use us? Aren’t there others with greater skills – and fewer issues? But grace can beat failure any day of the week. And the days when the weak rise up to serve and to lead are some of the most beautiful that we can ever hope witness.

All of which is a long-winded way of introducing a bit of art. Have a look at this picture by the fourteenth century Italian equivalent of Banksy, AKA Giotto.

This little puppy happens to be known by the title The Mystic Marriage of St. Francis with Holy Poverty and you can find it on the wall of a church in Assisi, Italy.

Now take a proper look – a thirty second one.

You begin to see the story after a while. Poverty stands central to the scene, dressed in rags, looking frail, pale and, frankly, a bit rough. But she’s got wings, which is worth remembering. On her right is Christ, and to his right is Francis of Assisi, to whom Jesus is turning as if at the part of the marriage ceremony where the groom, in his final act as a single man, take his soon-to-be-wife’s hand, places a ring upon her finger and declares his solemn vows of fidelity, devotion and love.

There are plenty of angels on either side of the happy couple, and there are personifications of Hope and Chastity among them (I read that on the internet). A couple of angels fly upwards, carrying with them what look like a church and a nice-looking jacket.

At the bottom of the picture are a pair of seriously annoying kids throwing stones and sticks at the bride, while – bottom left – a young man follows in the footsteps of Francis by giving his jacket to another poor, pale figure in rags. Bottom right there are wealthy citizens who appear to be pretty scornful of the whole thing. Maybe they’re just annoyed because they’ve seen what the caterers have got lined up.

It’s an unlikely bit of art, but it makes a point, doesn’t it? Whatever you know about Francis of Assisi, forget that stuff about him being the patron saint of fluffy bunnies. Ever since his life – and death – people have pointed to Francis as the best example of what it really means to be a Christian. He rejected wealth, status and power so that he could serve others. He helped build the local church (literally) and chose to align himself with society’s outcasts rather than their success stories. He gave up everything for the greater prize of walking in the footsteps of the Son of God.

Giotto was right: in many ways Francis was so committed to a life of integrity and service that he became intimately, permanently, devotedly connected to poverty. He chose it, embraced it and found through it great support, wisdom and strength. And poverty – though it comes in rags and appear pallid – is connected to God. Remember those wings?

Where would you place yourself in this picture? Mocking and hurling missiles with the little ones? Trying to emulate Francis? Pouring scorn as you turn your back? Or are you closer to the action: are you like one of those celestial spectators, adding your voice and your support to those embracing a life less ordinary? Or are you ragged and pale, hoping for help? Or does desperation and need feel like something that stirs you to action?

Perhaps it isn’t as clear as identifying one character to sum us up. Perhaps the answer to all of these is to some extent ‘yes’. Aren’t we all a swirl of cynicism and doubt, of wanting to be a disciple and wanting to get as far away as possible, of observer and observed, of poverty and strength, of needing help and giving it? Aren’t we all the brat, the beggar and the blessed servant?
And aren’t we all unlikely candidates for any of this? Aren’t our attempts at acts of kindness and service unlikely building blocks for the kingdom of God? Aren’t these songs we write and sing unlikely tools? Aren’t there other people out there who can do it better, sing it stronger, live it louder?

We shouldn’t let our hesitation or lack of qualification get in the way of our serving any more than we should allow our ego and pride to take the glory.

Many people have wondered what it was about Francis that made him so good a follower of Jesus. I’ve wondered too, and to be honest when I have found visited Franciscan churches in search of the answer I have only ever left feeling less sure of it all. Perhaps that’s because forming a movement, adopting a uniform and creating a system of hierarchy and structure misses the point that Francis – and Giotto – clearly understood.

None of this is about our qualification, our experience or our expertise. As Francis stands there, badly dressed, a little awkward, a little too small and a little too rotund – Giotto has depicted Jesus leaning away from him, head tipped to one side, arm outstretched. He does not look at Poverty – he knows her well enough already – but he looks at Francis with a quizzical warmth that seems to say… I know there are a thousand reasons why you’d say no to this, but – unqualified and unlikely as you are – will you say yes? Are you in? Will you say yes?

Well, will you?

Nigerian proverb

Well, last night in a small cinema just off Leicester Square, author, speaker and face of Basic (a new series of DVDs by the makers of Nooma) Francis Chan went one better. Instead of offering himself up as the pied piper for us to follow, he planted in the audience something far more precious and sustainable: the sense that with small steps but big hearts, we can be the disciples – and the Church – that Jesus intended.

If you put it down in words it all seems so simple: restoring a healthy fear of God, ditching the baggage we have rammed into our church services, breaking out of the me-first approach to life, opening up our homes, sharing our stuff and scrapping the idea that Christianity is a solo spectator sport. Simple, yes, but when you see it in action – and Francis practises precisely what he preaches – it has the potential to change lives in ways that no political plan could ever match.

This is nothing new. From the early apostles to the desert fathers, from Francis of Assisi to an underground army of Christians today, there have always been people who have made the decision to live the way Jesus told us to. All that Francis is doing is helping to turn up the lights, to show who else is travelling the road, and ask each of us whether we are ready to take the next step for ourselves.

Pity those poor fools who signed up for the Caribbean cruise that failed to alter its course after the Haitian earthquake. There they were this week, living it up with barbecues on golden beaches while the stench of death and suffering drifted by.

I just got an email from a friend at a charity who told me that for three hours today he was making plans for a trip to Haiti next week. I told him that I thought it was good that he’d since had the trip canceled. I wonder if there’s going to be a bit of a backlash against certain charities after the dust has settled. I know I’m feeling a bit cynical about it all.

You see, these times of national disasters are also times of great potential for charities like my friend’s. If they don’t appear to be doing things then their market share is threatened. Marketing is now a part of disaster relief.

Now, I know that so many of the charities do good work, and I know that people taking a cruise is also a reasonable way to spend your time and money. But the confluence of both on the island of Haiti right now makes me sad. In fact, I’m less disappointed with the cruise-ship tourists than I am with the disaster tourists. Ok, perhaps that’s a little strong, but I know that there’s considerable pressure to get some decent footage with logos highly visible.

What’s worse; near-total ignorance or mild exploitation?

I watched ‘The Age of Stupid’the other day and it didn’t quite do for me. It seems like there’s a limit to the amount of clips predicting our imminent destruction that I can happily watch. That limit’s about fourteen, by the way.

If you scream ‘THE BUILDING’S ON FIRE’ continually for ninety-minutes there comes a point when someone’s going to ask where the fire exits are. I only really counted one. It was a clip of George Monbiot talking about the need for massive civil action. Remember the fight against apartheid? The Civil Rights movement? The suffragettes? These are the blueprints that we have for turning back egregious problems. These are the footprints we must follow, marching in crowds of millions, forcing regime change, being ready to die.

And that’s the problem. There may be plenty of people dying as a result of climate change already, but is anyone up for becoming a martyr for the cause? Will anyone lay down their life for 2 degrees? Would any of us go to the grave for the right to have the luxury of our consumerist lifestyles utterly depleted?

No. I didn’t think so. Not yet, at least.

And something up on Soul Survivor’s imag.

And I took great delight in deleting my Twitter account today. I feel free. As a bird. Free to chirp and tweet without the need to wonder who might be listening to my noise.

And no, the full irony of that last sentence has not been lost on me.

C