Repentance in progress

A young man rises from his seat, a message on his lips.

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the bus’ he begins ‘I want to tell you about Jesus Christ’

Two boys in front of me snigger as he stands in the aisle.

I want to encourage him, to let him know I’m listening. I want to raise my hand and bless him. But I don’t. I sit still, appreciating his courage, listening to his message, welcoming his expression of faith.

He tells us of how he often used to go to nightclubs, to drink and sleep around, until he found Jesus. Then, he repented and changed his ways. ‘It’s easy,’ he says, ‘all you need to do is repent.’

At the next stop he gets of the bus and makes his way along the pavement. He is calm, ordinary looking and unruffled by his recent ministry.

I spend the rest of my journey thinking about repentance. Is it really that easy to repent? What does it even mean to repent? Is being sorry enough?

I am reminded of a habit my Dad has of detecting a superficial apology within me. I may have been mean to him, so I apologise. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, to which he replies ‘no you’re not.’ I always protest against his claim. But now I realise that my ways don’t change, my apology is not reflected in my actions, and when he tells me I am not in earnest he is merely pointing out this fact.

As a Quaker brought up in Britain Yearly Meeting, I am not clear what my understanding of sin is. I am realising, however, that often simply being sorry for the past is not enough, that show of humility must be reflected in the actions of the future. For the young preacher on the bus repentance may be easy, for me it is a work in progress.

City pressures

Cities confuse me. When confronted with so many different ways of being, dressing, interacting and living, I begin to lose track of what sits comfortably with me. I find myself walking the streets wishing I had the confidence to wear that skirt or that colour, wishing I owned boots as smart as those, wishing…wishing…wishing I was something that I am not. I begin to feel lacklustre, plain and discontented. I begin to get my values in a twist. I find myself drawn out of myself, scattered and longing to be many different people.

As a Quaker I have a commitment to simplicity. I am constantly evaluating whether I truly need to buy this or own that. I am no saint, and I often decide I don’t need something, then find myself walking out the shop having caved under the weight of capitalist consumerism once more…

Britain Yearly Meeting’s faith and practice includes the following paragraph:

“The testimony of outward simplicity began as a protest against the extravagance and snobbery which marked English society in the 1600s. In whatever forms this protest is maintained today, it must still be seen as a testimony against involvement with things which tend to dilute our energies and scatter our thoughts, reducing us to lives of triviality and mediocrity”

Quaker faith and practice 20:27

So as I move around the city, listening to the expectations of this culture telling me how to dress, how to behave, how to live in a cosmopolitan environment, I am asked to re-evaluate how I protest against the “extravagance and snobbery” of modern consumer fashions. I am prompted to question how much my outward expression truly affects my sense of self, and wonder whether a disengagement from the surrounding culture might, in fact, enable me to engage with life, and with my faith, on a deeper, more fulfilling level.