Research* into personality type of Anglican clergy has shown, in studies on both males and females, that on the Myers Briggs Personality Type Indicator test (MBTI) there is a markedly high proportion of clerics who tend towards the 'iNtuitive' pole rather than the 'Sensing'.
Intuition (iN) and sensing (S) are two ends of a spectrum which offers an explanation of how we prefer to take in information. People who prefer 'sensing' will enter a room and notice all the details their senses are taking in, at face value - the peeling wallpaper, the sound of a distant hoover etc; those who prefer intuition will see patterns and abstract connections, e.g. the bookcase reminds them of a time when they browsed an antique book shop in Marlow and that red carpet there which was like wine or blood...
High end iNtuitives are happy with abstract theorising and probably come across as impossible dreamers to everyone else, so in many ways, the research has implications for how clergy teach and explain the gospel. When you're up there in the pulpit imagining for everyone the connection between sanctification and redemption, others are sitting in the congregation noticing all the cobwebs...
Frequently on a walk in the countryside I'll find myself emerging from a reverie about some abstract train of thought involving patterns and concepts, and suddenly look around and notice it's a sunny day, or there are a lot of trees, or the ground is very chalky, or I've taken a wrong turn. Taking in information through my 5 senses is not my default reaction. Even when confronted with a signpost that clearly says 'n'-town to the right, I'll follow my internal intuition which feels like it should be straight on, because that's how I imagined it in my mind, and no amount of being told it was in fact to the right, normally makes any difference (till I admit I'm lost and have to actually look at one of those oh so prosaic maps).
And so we come to Lent. As an attempt at self growth, I'm setting out to focus a bit each day on stuff - on something that caught my attention that day - something I can take in primarily through my senses which will hopefully be alive to a spiritual possibility. What does it look/sound/taste/feel/smell like? It's a spiritual challenge about realignment and a re-engagement with the ordinary things we have and hold. In short, it's an attempt at 'sensing' Lent.
First up: ash. (it became impossible to leave this as a straightforward description, and it turned itself into a poem, so I've probably failed already...)
Ash.
Black, dense, powdery,
sticky now with oil,
product of our burning,
sign of our mourning.
Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust; or laid
in a hole in the ground,
the stuff from which we come,
the stuff to which we go.
Today in a small pot it waits
to be smeared,
finger dirty it will
smudge the skin,
a sooty mark to the forehead
inside which we think
and pray. A cross to recall
identity; a witness to
mortality; a sign of honesty.
* e.g. 'Women Priests in the Church of England: Psychological Type Profile', in Religions 2011, 2.
Lent. That's giving up stuff, right? Sensory deprivation and all that. Denying yourself everything that brings a smile to your face, in the manner of monks. As an extrovert I've never taken naturally to Lent. My challenge this Lent will be to explore ways in which people like me might be able to engage with the fundamentals. How making room for God this Lent might lead to a truer engagement with the things of the Spirit. The last thing I need Lent to be is mean and pinching. Where can God be found? And what happens when you find Him in unusual places?
Take olive oil, that glorious, oozing, unctuous, green liquid so beloved of chefs. You can hardly cook anything without it these days, since the extrovert Jamie Oliver started slugging it around everywhere gleefully. It's almost a religion with him...What's going on there? It also happens to be a wonderful biblical image suggesting the Spirit, consecration, peace and healing.
So last year I was delighted to learn that the priestly preparation for leading an Ash Wednesday service included making up the ash for putting on foreheads by mixing it with olive oil.
There was no obvious ecclesiastical recipe for this, so feeling creative AND holy (am priestly pre-parer of actual ingredients for Lenten worship, just look at me) that afternoon I weighed in with my ash in a little pot, adding the oil joyfully and liberally, as per the enthusiastic Mr Oliver, and pretty soon it looked ready to be 'imposed' upon the foreheads of the penitent.
In the small Victorian church the congregation came forward to kneel at the altar rail. I dipped my finger in and made the first cross: 'Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return. Turn away from sin and be faithful to Christ.' The mark was not as black as one would expect black ash to be.
I did the next one - you could hardly see it. It was rather wet and slippery. Maybe people would go home pleased the ashing hadn't left a dirty black mark on their foreheads. But maybe they'd feel Lenten-ly short changed. It didn't look at all 'ash-y'.
After about number four or five I noticed drips appearing on noses. Translucent black drips were sliding off foreheads and on to noses, even chins. I tried gouging out with my finger more sediment from the ash/oil mixture at the bottom of the pot. It didn't make any difference. There was just too much oil. Sadly there was no alternative liturgy for receiving an oily drop on your nose, instead of a cross on your forehead.
Was this yet more evidence that I just don't 'get' Lent?
I hope not. Here we are a year later, and I am attempting each day to ponder the mystery of God in all the things that give life - experience; friends; love; creation; books; ideas; music; even sadness - all that fascinating stuff extroverts thrive on. Meanwhile, if you're making preparation for ashing people any time soon, go easy on the olive oil.
