FOR many refugees and immigrants, the food of their homeland becomes a meaningful way of connecting with their culture. That has actually been true for me since I left Iran in 1980. For us Persians, rice is a staple a part of our weight loss program, and it is ready in a really particular way. The modern invention of a polo paz, or rice-cooker (it must be a Persian one) helps; and mine has pride of place in our kitchen. Other rice steamers can be found, however it’s only the Persian ones that produce a crispy layer at the bottom of the rice, generally known as tah deeg, literally translated as “bottom of the pan”. In essence, tah deeg is formed of the burnt grains of rice that form a shell across the rice cake. In more elaborate cooking, slices of potato or flat bread replace the underside layer of rice, but the outcomes are the identical: a burnt, crisp base which is a prized delicacy of any Persian dining table. Tah deeg is frequently in limited supply; so adults will politely offer it around, while any children present are more likely to wrangle over who gets the ultimate piece.
I still love Persian food, with its aromas of home and reminders of the centrality of hospitality. But tah deeg, most of all, has assumed an almost spiritual significance for me. Something that must be discarded as burned and unfit for purpose becomes the centrepiece; something that seems unworthy becomes favoured and beloved. So often, in life and in ministry, I see those that are burnt and hurt by the fires of life discarded and discounted by many, and yet beautiful, precious, and prized.
SHORTLY after I moved to Chelmsford diocese, I got here across a painting of Mary the Undoer of Knots by the German artist Schmidtner, from about 1700.
While I didn’t warm in any respect to the Baroque style, I discovered the concept beautiful and powerful. So I used to be delighted when Sister Gabriella, from the Orthodox Monastery in Essex, presented me with an icon of Mary the Undoer of Knots, written by her, within the Eastern Orthodox style. It now hangs within the small chapel at Bishopscourt, and each morning I contemplate its meaning as I sit for a period of silence, gazing on the image of Mary patiently untying knots, assisted by the kid Jesus on her lap. The work of a bishop within the Church of England — especially in recent days — can, at times, appear to be an awesome tangle of knots. And in Chelmsford we’ve had our fair proportion of complexities. And yet. . .
My mother was a rare woman, with depths of religion and spirituality which, I’m increasingly discovering, will need to have come from a spot of trusting and stillness. I remember, as a toddler, her skill and patience when it got here to untying the knottiest of knots in my shoelaces, hair ribbons, or necklaces. I learned from her what I attempt to apply to my life and ministry. Large tangles could be approached just one knot at a time, and there are likely at all times to be loose threads that may never be tidied away completely. So, each morning, Mother Mary involves me, aiding my untying, urging me on, one knot at a time.
TWENTY years ago, I spent Holy Week in hospital on the bedside of Simeon Omid. The younger of our newly born twins, at in the future old, was rushed to intensive care, where he spent ten days before being discharged with an unknown prognosis. I keep the tiny name-tag from around his wrist as a reminder of those uncertain days.
All three of our youngsters (our eldest now 25, and the twins 20) were born a month apart but on the identical liturgical date: the Wednesday before Palm Sunday. I at all times consider them coming into the world as Jesus entered into his own journey towards each the pain of the cross and the enjoyment of risen life. It is what I pray for every of them: that they’ll know themselves loved, and be motivated to grow in faith and embrace life in all its fullness.
The bracelet — a throwaway item of medical care — jogs my memory of the vulnerability of youngsters and the fragility of all life. Unlike so many moms who must face loss and pain, I actually have so far been blessed to observe my children grow into flourishing, independent adults. The memory of Simeon’s pain, though, and of the uncertainty that he delivered to us that Holy Week stays with me still. Indeed, all my children have given me the gift of learning to trust more deeply in the needs of God. I actually have found that it’s by fully accepting each of them as a gift, and entrusting them to God’s merciful keeping, that I, too, am freed to proceed growing into the person God has called me to be.
Dr Guli Francis-Dehqani is the Bishop of Chelmsford.
